Kitabı oku: «Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)», sayfa 12

“True, true, dear child. Let us, however, not look on the case with our eyes alone, but see it as others may.. But here comes Tom. – Well, what news, Tom; are there letters?”

“Yes, sir, here’s two; there’s one-and-fourpence to be paid.”

“Let me see them,” cried the old man, impatiently, as he snatched them, and hastily re-entered the house.

“Is Cathleen better to-day?” said the young lady, addressing the peasant.

“Yes, miss, glory be to God, she’s betther. Thanks to yourself and Him. Oh, then, it’s of yer beautiful face she does be dramin’ every night. Says she, ‘It’s Miss Mary, I think, is singing to me, when I hear the birds in my sleep.’”

“Poor child, give her this little book for me, and say I ‘ll come up and see her this evening, if I can. Mrs. Moore will send her the broth; I hope she ‘ll soon be able to eat something. Good-bye, Tom.”

A deep-drawn heavy sigh from within the cottage here made her abruptly conclude the interview and hasten in. The door of her grandfather’s little dressing-room was, however, locked; and after a noiseless effort to turn the handle, she withdrew to the drawing-room to wait in deep anxiety for his coming.

The old man sat with his head supported on both hands, gazing steadfastly at two open letters which lay on the table before him; had they contained a sentence of death, his aspect could scarce have been more sad and sorrow-struck. One was from Mr. Kennyfeck, and ran thus:

Dear Mr. Corrigan, – I have had a brief conversation with Mr. Roland Cashel on the subject of your renewal, and I am grieved to say that he does not seem disposed to accede to your wishes. Entertaining, as he does, the intention to make Tubbermore his chief residence in Ireland, his desire is, I believe, to connect the farm in your holding with the demesne. This will at once explain that it is not a question of demanding a higher rent from you, but simply of carrying out a plan for the enlargement and improvement of the grounds pertaining to the “Hall.”

The matter, is, however, by no means decided upon; nor will it be, in all probability, before you have an opportunity of meeting Mr. Cashel personally. His present intention is to visit your neighborhood next week.

I am, dear sir, truly yours,

M. Kennyfeck. Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., Tubber-beg Cottage.

The second letter was as follows: —

“Simpkins and Green have the honor to forward for acceptance the enclosed bill for two hundred and seventeen pounds, at three months, Mr. Heneage Leicester, of New Orleans, on Mr. Corrigan.

“They are authorized also to state that Mr. Leicester’s affairs have suffered considerably from the consequence of the commercial distress at N. O., and his personal property has been totally lost by the earthquake which took place on the 11th and 12th ultimo. He therefore trusts to Mr. C – ‘s efforts to contribute to his aid by a greater exertion than usual, and will draw upon him for two sums of one hundred, at dates of six and nine months, which he hopes may suit his convenience, and be duly honored. Mr. Leicester continues to hope that he may be able to visit Europe in the spring, where his great anxiety to see his daughter will call him.”

“The ruin is now complete,” said the old man. “I have struggled for years with poverty and privation to ward off this hour; but, like destiny, it will not be averted! Despoiled of fortune; turned from the home where I have lived from my childhood; bereft of all! I could bear up still if she were left to me; but now, he threatens to take her, my child, my hope, my life! And the world will stand by him, and say, ‘He is her father!’ He, that broke the mother’s heart, – my own darling girl! – and now comes to rob me – a poor helpless old man – of all my companionship and my pride. Alas, alas! the pride, perhaps, deserves the chastisement. Poor Mary, how will she ever learn to look on him with a daughter’s affection? – What a life will hers be! and this deception, – how will it, how can it ever be explained? I have always said that he was dead.”

Such, in broken half-sentences, were the words he spoke, while thick-coming sobs almost choked his utterance.

“This cannot be helped,” said he, taking up the pen and writing his name across the bill. “So much I can meet by selling our little furniture here; we shall need it no more, for we have no longer a home. Where to, then?”

He shook his hands in mournful despair, and walked towards the window. Mary was standing outside, in the little flower-garden, assisting the old gardener to fasten some stray tendrils of a japonica between two trees.

“We must try and shelter this window, Ned,” said she, “from the morning sun. It comes in too strongly here in papa’s library. By next summer, I hope to see a thick trellis of leaves across the whole casement.”

“By next summer,” repeated the old man, from within, with a trembling voice; “and who will be here to see it?”

“This little hedge, too, must be overgrown with that creeping plant we got from America, the white liana. I want the beech to be completely hid beneath the blossoms, and they come out in May.”

“In May!” said the poor old man, with an accent of inexpressible sadness, as though the very promise of spring had unfolded a deep vista of years of suffering. “But why care for the home, if she, who made its sunshine, is taken from me? What matters it where I linger on, or how, the last few hours of a life, bereft of its only enjoyment, – she, that in my old age renewed all the memories of my early and my happy days.”

He sat down and covered his face with his hands; and when he withdrew them, the whole character and expression of the countenance had changed: a dull, meaningless look had replaced the mild and cheerful beam of his soft blue eyes; the cheeks were flattened, and the mouth, so ready with its gentle smile, now remained partly open, and slightly drawn to one side. He made an effort to speak, but a thickened guttural utterance rendered the words scarcely intelligible. He approached the window and beckoned with his hand. The next instant, pale with terror, but still composed and seeming calm, Mary was beside him.

“You are not well, dear papa,” she said, with a great effort to appear at ease. “You must lie down – here will do – on this sofa; I ‘ll close the curtain, and send over for Tiernay, – he said he should be back from Limerick this morning.”

A gentle pressure of her hand to his lips, and a faint smile, seemed to assent.

She opened the window, and whispered a few words to the gardener; and then, closing it noiselessly, drew the curtain, and sat down on a low stool beside the sofa where he lay.

So still and motionless did he remain that she thought he slept, – indeed, the long-drawn breathing, and the repose of his attitude, betokened sleep.

Mary did not venture to move, but sat, one hand clasped in his, the other resting on his forehead, still and silent.

The darkened room, the unbroken silence, the figure of him in whom was centred her every thought and hope, lying sick before her, sank with a dreary weight upon her heart; and in the gloom of her sorrow dark foreboding of future evil arose, vague terrors of trials, new and hard to bear! That strange prescience, which never is wanting in great afflictions, and seems itself a Heaven-sent warning to prepare for the coming blow, revealed a time of sore trouble and calamity before her. “Let him be but spared to me,” she cried, in her heart-uttered prayer, “and let me be so fashioned in spirit and temper that I may minister to him through every hour, – cheering, consoling, and encouraging; giving of my youth its gift of hopefulness and trust, and borrowing of his age its serenity and resignation. But oh that I may not be left solitary and alone, unfriended and unsupported!” A gush of tears, the first she shed, here burst forth, and, in the transport of her grief, brought calm to her mind once more.

A low tap at the window, and a voice in whisper aroused her. “It is the doctor, miss, – Dr. Tiernay,” said the gardener.

A motion to admit him was all her reply, and with noiseless step the physician entered and approached the sofa. He felt the pulse, and listened to the respiration of the sick man; and then, withdrawing the curtain so as to let the light fall upon his features, steadily contemplated their expression. As he looked, his own countenance grew graver and sadder; and it was with an air of deep solemnity that he took Mary’s hand and led her from the room.

With a weight like lead upon her heart Mary moved away. “When did it happen?” whispered he, when he had closed the door behind them.

“Happen!” gasped she, in agony; “what do you mean?”

“I meant when – this – occurred,” replied he, faltering; “was he in his usual health this morning?”

“Yes, perfectly, – a little less composed; anxious about his letters; uneasy at the delay, – but no more.”

“You do not know if he received any unpleasant tidings, or heard anything to distress him?”

“He may have done so,” answered she, sadly, “for he locked his door and read over his letters by himself. When I saw him next, he was standing at the window, and beckoning to me.”

A gentle tap at the door here interrupted the colloquy, and the old housekeeper whispered, “The master, miss, wants to spake with the doctor; he’s better now.”

“Oh, let me see him,” cried Mary, springing towards the door. But Dr. Tiernay interposed gently, and said, “No, this might prove dangerous; remain here till I have seen and spoken with him.” Mary assented by a gesture, and sat down without speaking.

“Sit down, Tiernay,” said the sick man, as the doctor came to his bedside, – “sit down, and let me speak while I have strength. Everything is against us, Tiernay. We are not to get the renewal; this young Mr. Cashel wants the cottage, – we must turn out. I’ll have to do so, even before the gale-day; but what matter about me! It ‘s that poor child I ‘m thinking of – ” Here he stopped, and was some minutes before he could resume. “There, – read that; that will tell you all.”

Tiernay took the crumpled letter, which the old man had all this while held firmly in his closed grasp, and read it.

“Well, that ‘s bad news, is n’t it?” said Corrigan. “Not the bill, – I don’t mean that; but he ‘s coming back; do you see the threat? – he’s coming back again.”

“How can he?” said the doctor. “The man committed a forgery. How will he dare to return here and place his neck in a halter?”

“You forget whose evidence alone can convict him, – mine; the name he forged was mine, the sum he took was mine, – nearly all I had in the world; but he has nothing to fear from me, whatever I may have to dread from him.”

“How can he have any terror for you!”

“He can take her away, – not from me, for she ‘ll soon be separated by a stronger hand than his; but I can’t bear to think that she ‘ll be in his power. Tiernay, this is what is cutting into my heart now as I lie here, and leaves me no rest to think of the brief minutes before me. Tell me, is there no way to avoid this? Think of something, my old friend, – take this weight off my dying heart, and my last breath will bless you.”

“Are there any relations, or friends?”

“None, not one; I ‘m the last of the tree, – the one old rotten branch left. I was thinking of a nunnery, Tiernay, one of those convents in France or the Low Countries; but even there, if he found her out, he could legally demand her to be restored to him, – and he would find her, ay, that he would! There never was a thing yet that man could n’t do when he set his heart on it; and the more the obstacles, the greater his wish. I heard him say it with his own lips, that he never had any fancy for my poor Lucy till he overheard her one day saying that ‘she never hated any one till she knew him.’ From that hour, he swore to himself she should be his wife! Heaven knows if the hate was not better bestowed than the love; and yet, she did love him to the last, – ay, even, after cruelty and desertion, ay, after his supposed death; when she heard that he married another, and was living in splendor at Cadiz, ay, – Tiernay! after all that, she told me on her death-bed, she loved him still!”

“I think the nunnery is the best resource,” said the doctor, recalling the sick man from a theme where his emotions were already too powerfully excited.

“I believe it is,” said the old man, with more of energy than before; “and I feel almost as if Providence would give me strength and health to take her there myself, and see her safe before I die. Feel that pulse now: isn’t it stronger?”

“You are better, much better already,” said the doctor; “and now, keep quiet and composed. Don’t speak – if it was possible, I ‘d say, don’t think – for a few hours. The worst is nigh over.”

“I thought so, Tiernay. I felt it was what old Joe Henchy used to call ‘a runaway knock.’” And, with a faint smile, the old man pressed his hand, and said, “Good-bye.”

Scarcely, however, had the doctor reached the door, when he called him back.

“Tiernay,” said he, “it’s of no use telling me to lie still, and keep quiet, and the rest of it. I continue, asleep or awake, to think over what’s coming. There is but one way to give me peace, – give me some hope. I ‘ll tell you now how that is to be done; but, first of all, can you spare three days from home?”

“To be sure I can; a week, if it would serve you. Where am I to go?”

“To Dublin, Tiernay. You ‘ll have to go up there, and see this young man, Cashel, yourself, and speak to him for me. Tell him nothing of our present distress or poverty, but just let him see who it is that he is turning out of the lands where their fathers lived for hundreds of years. Tell him that the Corrigans is the oldest stock in the whole country; that the time was, from the old square tower on Garraguin, you could n’t see a spot of ground that was n’t our own! Tell him,” – and, as he spoke, his flashing eye and heightened color showed how the theme agitated and excited him, – “tell him that if he turns us from hearth and home, it is not as if it was like some poor cotter – ” He paused, his lips trembled, and the big tears burst from his eyes and rolled heavily down his face. “Oh! God forgive me for saying the words!” cried he, in an accent of deep agony. “Why wouldn’t the humblest peasant that ever crouched to his meal of potatoes, beside the little turf fire of his cabin, love his home as well as the best blood in the land? No, no, Mat, it’s little kindness we ‘d deserve on such a plea as that.”

“There, there, don’t agitate yourself. I know what you mean, and what you’d like me to say.”

“You do not,” rejoined the old man, querulously, “for I have n’t said it yet. Nor I can’t think of it now. Ah, Mat,” here his voice softened once more into its habitual key, “that was a cruel thought of me a while ago; and faith, Mr. Cashel might well suspect, if he heard it, that I was n’t one of the old good blood of the Corrigans, that could talk that way of the poor; but so it is. There is n’t a bad trait in a man’s heart that is not the twin-brother of his selfishness. And now I’ll say no more; do the best you can for us, that’s all. I was going to bid you tell him that we have an old claim on the whole estate that some of the lawyers say is good, – that the Crown have taken off the confiscation in the time of my great father, Phil Corrigan; but sure he would n’t mind that, – besides, that’s not the way to ask a favor.”

“You must n’t go on talking this way; see how hot your hand is!”

“Well, maybe it will be cold enough soon! There is another thing, Mat. You must call on Murphy, with the bill of sale of the furniture and the books, and get money to meet these bills. There they are; I indorsed them this morning. Tell Green it’s no use sending me the other bills; I ‘ll not have means to take them up, and it would be only disgracing my name for nothing to write it on them. I ‘ll be longing to see you back again, Mat, and hear your tidings; so God bless you, and send you safe home to us.”

“I ‘ll set off to-night,” said the doctor, rising, and shaking his hand. “Your attack is passed over, and there’s no more danger, if you ‘ll keep quiet.”

“There’s another thing, Mat,” said the sick man, smiling faintly, and with a strange meaning. “Call at 28 Drogheda Street, and ask the people to show you the room Con Corrigan fought the duel in with Colonel Battley. It was only twelve feet long and ten wide, a little place off the drawing-room, and the colonel would n’t even consent that we should stand in the corners. Look and see if the bullet is in the wall still. The old marquis used to have it fresh painted red every year, on the anniversary of the day. Oh, dear, oh, dear, but they were the strange times, then! ay, and pleasant times too.” And with such reflections on the past, he fell off into a dreamy half-consciousness, during which Tiernay stole from the room and left him alone.

Faint and trembling with agitation, Mary Leicester was standing all this while at the door of the sick chamber. “Did I hear aright, Doctor?” said she; “was that his voice that sounded so cheerfully?”

“Yes, my dear Miss Mary, the peril is by; but be cautious. Let him not speak so much, even with you. This is a sweet quiet spot, – Heaven grant he may long enjoy it!”

Mary’s lips muttered some words in audibly, and they parted. She sat down alone, in the little porch under the eave. The day was a delicious one in autumn, calm, mellow, and peaceful; a breeze, too faint to ripple the river, stirred the flowers and shook forth their odor. The cottage, the leafy shade, through which the tempered sunlight fell in fanciful shapes upon the gravel, the many colored blossoms of the rich garden, the clear and tranquil river, the hum of the distant waterfall, – they were all such sights and sounds as breathe of home and home’s happiness; and so had she felt them to be till an unknown fear found entrance into her heart and spread its darkness there. What a terrible sensation comes with a first sorrow!

CHAPTER XIV. MR. LINTON REVEALS HIS DESIGNS

 
With fame and fortune on the cast,
He never rose a winner,
And learned to know himself, at last,
“A miserable sinner.”
 

Bell.

It was about ten days or a fortnight after the great Kennyfeck dinner, when all the gossip about its pretension, dulness, and bad taste had died away, and the worthy guests so bored by the festivity began to wonder “when they would give another,” that a gentleman sat at breakfast in one of those large, dingy-looking, low-ceilinged apartments which are the choice abodes of the viceregal staff in the Castle of Dublin. The tawdry and time-discolored gildings, the worn and faded silk hangings, the portraits of bygone state councillors and commanders-in-chief, grievously riddled by rapier-points and pistol-shots, were not without an emblematic meaning of the past glories of that seat of Government, now so sadly fallen from its once high and palmy state.

Although still a young man, the present occupant of the chamber appeared middle-aged, so much had dissipation and excess done the work of time on his constitution. A jaded, wearied look, a sleepy, indolent expression of the eye, certain hard lines about the angles of the mouth, betokened one who played a high game with life, and rarely arose a winner. Although his whole appearance bespoke birth and blood rather than intellect or ability, there was enough in his high and squarely shaped head, his deep dark eye, and his firm, sharply cut mouth, to augur that incapacity could not be reckoned among the causes of any failures he incurred in his career. He was, in every respect, the beau idéal of that strange solecism in our social code, “the younger son.” His brother, the Duke of Derwent, had eighty thousand a year. He had exactly three hundred. His Grace owned three houses, which might well be called palaces, besides a grouse lodge in the Highlands, a yachting station at Cowes, and a villa at Hyères in France. My Lord was but too happy to be the possessor of the three cobwebbed chambers of a viceregal aide-decamp, and enjoy the pay of his troop without joining his regiment.

Yet these two men were reared exactly alike! As much habituated to every requirement and luxury of wealth as his elder brother, the younger suddenly discovered that, once beyond the shadow of his father’s house, all his worldly resources were something more than what the cook, and something less than the valet, received. He had been taught one valuable lesson, however, which was, that as the State loves a rich aristocracy, it burdens itself with the maintenance of all those who might prove a drain on its resources, and that it is ever careful to provide for the Lord Georges and Lord Charleses of its noble houses. To this provision he believed he had a legal claim, – at all events, he knew it to be a right uncontested by those less highly born.

The system which excludes men from the career of commerce, in compensation opens the billiard-room, the whist-table, and the betting-ring; and many a high capacity has been exercised in such spheres as these, whose resources might have won honor and distinction in very different fields of enterprise. Whether Lord Charles Frobisher knew this, and felt that there was better in him, or whether his successes were below his hopes, certain is it, he was a depressed, dejected man, who lounged through life in a languid indolence, caring for nothing, not even himself.

There was some story of an unfortunate attachment, some love affair with a very beautiful but portionless cousin, who married a marquis, to which many ascribed the prevailing melancholy of his character; but they who remembered him as a schoolboy said he was always shy and reserved, and saw nothing strange in his bearing as a man. The breakfast-table, covered with all that could stimulate appetite, and yet withal untasted, was not a bad emblem of one who, with many a gift to win an upward way, yet lived on in all the tawdry insignificance of a court aide-de-camp. A very weak glass of claret and water, with a piece of dry toast, formed his meal; and even these stood on the corner of a writing-table, at which he sat, rising sometimes to look out of the window, or pace the room with slow, uncertain steps. Before him lay an unfinished letter, which, to judge from the slow progress it made, and the frequent interruptions to its course, seemed to occasion some difficulty in the composition; and yet the same epistle began “My dear Sydney,” and was addressed to his brother. Here it is: —

My dear Sydney, – I suppose, from not hearing from you some weeks back, that my last, which I addressed to the Clarendon, has never reached you, nor is it of any consequence. It would be too late now to ask you about Scott’s horses. Cobham told us how you stood yourself, and that was enough to guide the poor devils here with their ponies and fifties. We all got a squeeze on the “mare.” I hear you won seven thousand besides the stakes. I hope the report may be true. Is Raucus in training for the Spring Meeting, or not? If so, let me have some trifle on him in your own book.

I perceive you voted on Brougham’s amendment against our people; I conclude you were right, but it will make them very stubborn with me about the exchange. N – has already remarked upon what he calls the “intolerable independence of some noble lords.” I wish I knew the clew to your proceeding: are you at liberty to give it? I did not answer the question in your last letter. – Of course I am tired of Ireland; but as the alternatives are a “compound in Calcutta, or the Government House, Quebec,” I may as well remain where I am. I don’t know that a staff-officer, like Madeira, improves by a sea-voyage.

You say nothing of Georgina, so that I hope her chest is better, and that Nice may not be necessary. I believe, if climate were needed, you would find Lisbon, or rather Cintra, better than any part of Italy, and possessed of one great advantage, – few of our rambling countrymen. N – commended your haunch so highly, and took such pains to record his praises, that I suspect he looks for a repetition of the favor. If you are shooting bucks, perhaps you would send him a quarter.

Two sentences, half finished and erased, here showed that the writer experienced a difficulty in continuing. Indeed, his flurried manner as he resumed the letter proved it. At last he went on: —

I hate asking favors, my dear Sydney, but there is one which, if not positively repugnant to you to grant, will much oblige me. There is a young millionnaire here, a Mr. Cashel, wishes to be a member of your Yacht Club; and as I have given a promise to make interest in his behalf with you, it would be conferring a great obligation on me were I to make the request successfully. So far as I can learn, there is no reason against his admission, and, as regards property, many reasons in his favor. If you can do this for me, then, you will render me a considerable service.

Of course I do not intend to fix any acquaintanceship upon you, nor in any other way, save the bean in the ballot-box, and a civil word in proposing, inflict you with what Rigby calls “Protective Duties.” I should have been spaced in giving you this trouble but for Tom Linton, who, with his accustomed good nature at other men’s cost, suggested the step to Cashel, and told him, besides, that my brother was vice-admiral of the yacht fleet.

If Emily wants a match for the chestnut pony, I know of one here perfect in every respect, and to be had very cheap. Let me know about this soon, and also the club matter, as I have promised to visit Cashel at his country-house; and in case of refusal on your part, this would be unpleasant Thanks for your invitation for Christmas, which I cannot accept of.

Hope and Eversham are both on leave, so that I must remain here. N – continues to ask you here; but my advice is, as it has ever been, not to come. The climate detestable, – the houses dull and dirty; no shooting, nor any hunting, – at least with such horses as you are accustomed to ride.

I am glad you took my counsel about the mortgage. There is no property here worth seventeen years’ purchase, in the present aspect of politics. Love to Jane and the girls, and believe me ever yours,

Charles Frobisher.

The task completed, he turned to the morning papers, which, with a mass of tradesmen’s bills, notes, and cards of invitation, littered the table. He had not read long, when a deep-drawn yawn from the further end of the room aroused him, and Frobisher arose and walked towards a sofa, on which was stretched a man somewhat about the middle of life, but whose bright eye and fresh complexion showed little touch of time. His dress, slightly disordered, was a dinner costume, and rather inclined towards over-particularity; at least, the jewelled buttons of his vest and shirt evinced a taste for display that seemed not ill to consort with the easy effrontery of his look.

Taking his watch from his pocket, he held it to his ear, saying, “There is an accomplishment, Charley, I ‘ve never been able to acquire, – to wind my watch at supper-time. What hour is it?”

“Two,” said the other, laconically.

“By Jove! how I must have slept Have you been to bed?”

“Of course. But, I ‘d swear, with less success than you have had on that old sofa. I scarcely closed my eyes for ten minutes together.”

“That downy sleep only comes of a good conscience and a heart at ease with itself,” said the other. “You young gentlemen, who lead bad lives, know very little about the balmy repose of the tranquil mind.”

“Have you forgotten that you were to ride out with Lady Cecilia this morning?” said Frobisher, abruptly.

“Not a bit of it. I even dreamed we were cantering together along the sands, where I was amusing her ladyship with some choice morceaux of scandal from that set in society she professes to hold in such horror that she will not receive them at court, but for whose daily sayings and doings she has the keenest zest.”

“Foster is gone with her,” rejoined Lord Charles, “and I suspect she is just as well pleased. Before this he has told her everything about our late sitting, and the play, and the rest of it!”

“Of course he has; and she is dying to ask Mr. Softly, the young chaplain’s advice, whether rooting us all out would not be a ‘good work.’”

“Since when have you become so squeamish about card-playing, Mr. Linton?”

“I? Not in the least! I ‘m only afraid that some of my friends may turn to be so when they hear of my successes. You know what happened to Wycherley when he got that knack of always turning up a king? Some one asked Buxton what was to be done about it. ‘Is it certain?’ said he. ‘Perfectly certain; we have seen him do it a hundred times!’ ‘Then back him,’ said old Ruxton; ‘that’s my advice to you.’” As he said this he drew a chair towards the table and proceeded to fill out a cup of chocolate. “Where do you get these anchovies, Charley? Burke has got some, but not half the size.”

“They are ordered for the household. Lawson can tell you all about ‘em,” said the other, carelessly. “But, I say, what bets did you book on Laplander?”

“Took him against the field for seven hundred even.”

“A bad bet, then, – I call it a very bad bet.”

“So should I, if I did n’t know Erebus is dead lame.”

“I’ve seen a horse run to win with a contracted heel before now,” said Lord Charles, with a most knowing look.

“So have I; but not on stony ground. No, no, you may depend upon it.”

“I don’t want to depend upon it,” said the other, snappishly. “I shall not venture five pounds on the race. I remember once something of an implicit reliance on a piece of information of the kind.”

“Well! you know how that happened. I gave Hilyard’s valet fifty pounds to get a peep at his master’s betting-book, and the fellow told Hilyard, who immediately made up a book express, and let us all in for a smart sum. I am sure I was the heaviest loser in the affair.”

“So you ought, too. The contrivance was a very rascally one, and deserved its penalty.”