Kitabı oku: «Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)», sayfa 17
“Even so. I see no earthly reason for hoarding. I do not find that squandering money is any very high enjoyment; I am certain scraping and saving it would afford me still less pleasure.”
“But there are always casualties demanding extraordinary expense, – a contested election, for instance.”
“I ‘ll not try it, – I don’t intend to enter Parliament.”
“When you marry – ”
“Perhaps I shall not do that either.”
“Well, sums lost at play, – the turf has pressed on many a strong pocket.”
“Play has no fascination for me; I can give it up: I may almost say I have done so.”
“Not without paying a heavy penalty, however,” said Kennyfeck, whose animation showed that he had at last approached the territory he was so long in search of.
“How do you mean?” said Cashel, blushing deeply, as he began to fear that by some accident his secret visit to the money-lender had reached Kennyfeck’s ears.
“Your drafts on Latrobe, sir, whose account I have received to-day, are very heavy.”
“Oh, is that all?” said Cashel, carelessly.
“All! all!” repeated Kennyfeck; then, suddenly correcting himself, he added, “I am almost certain, sir, that your generous habits have over-mastered your prudence. Are you aware of having drawn fifty thousand pounds?”
“No, I really was not,” replied Cashel, smiling more at the attorney’s look of consternation than anything else. “I fancied about half as much. Pray tell me some of the items. No, no! not from book; that looks too formal, – just from memory.”
“Well, there are horses without number, – one bought with all his engagements for the Oaks, which amount to a forfeiture of four thousand pounds.”
“I remember that, – a piece of Linton’s blundering; but he lost more heavily himself, poor fellow, our steed Lanz-knecht having turned out a dead failure.”
“Then there is something about a villa at Cowes, which I am certain you never saw.”
“No; but I have a drawing of it somewhere – a pretty thing under a cliff, with a beautiful bay of deep water, and good anchorage. Linton knows all about it.”
“Twelve thousand pounds is a large sum to give without ever seeing the purchase.”
“So it is; but go on.”
“I cannot remember one-half; but there is plate and jewels; sums advanced for building; subscriptions to everything and everybody; a heavy amount transmitted to the Havannah.”
“Very true; and that reminds me of a letter which I received at the very moment I was leaving home. Have I your leave to finish the reading? It is from an old and valued comrade.”
“Of course, – don’t think of me for an instant,” said Kennyfeck, scarcely able to repress an open acknowledgment of his amazement at the coolness which could turn from so interesting a topic to the, doubtless commonplace, narrative of some Mexican sailor.
Cashel was, meanwhile, searching every pocket for the letter, which he well remembered, after reading in the carriage, to have crushed in his hand as he ascended the stairs. “I have dropped this letter,” said he, in a voice of great agitation. “May I ask if your servants have found it?”
The bell was rung, and the butler at once interrogated. He had seen nothing, neither had the footman. They both remembered, however that Mr. Phillis had accompanied his master to the foot of the stairs to receive some directions, and then left him to return with the carriage.
“So, then, Phillis must have found it,” said Cashel, rising hastily; and, without a word of apology or excuse, he bade his host a hurried good evening, and left the room.
“Won’t you have the carriage? Will you not stay for a cup of tea?” cried Mr. Kennyfeck, hastening after him. But the hall-door had already banged heavily behind him, and he was gone. When Cashel reached his house, it was to endure increased anxiety; for Mr. Phillis had gone out, and, like a true gentleman’s gentleman, none of the other servants knew anything of his haunts, or when he would return. Leaving Cashel, then, to the tortures of a suspense which his fervid nature made almost intolerable, we shall return for a brief space to the house he had just quitted, and to the drawing-room, where, in momentary expectation of his appearance, the ladies sat, maintaining that species of “staccato” conversation which can afford interruption with least inconvenience. It is our duty to add, that we bring the reader back here less with any direct object as to what is actually going forward, than to make him better acquainted with the new arrival.
Had Miss O’Hara been the mere quiet, easy-going, simple-minded elderly maiden she seemed to Cashel’s eyes, the step on our part had not been needed; she might, like some other characters of our tale, have been suffered to glide by as ghosts or stage-supernumeraries do, unquestioned and undetained; but she possessed qualities of a kind to demand somewhat more consideration. Aunt Fanny, to give her the title by which she was best known, was, in reality, a person of the keenest insight into others, – reading people at sight, and endowed with a species of intuitive perception of all the possible motives which lead to any action. Residing totally in a small town in the west of Ireland, she rarely visited the capital, and was now, in fact, brought up “special” by her sister, Mrs. Kennyfeck, who desired to have her advice and counsel on the prospect of securing Cashel for one or other of her daughters. It was so far a wise step, that in such a conjuncture no higher opinion could have been obtained.
“It was like getting a private hint from the Chancellor about a cause in equity.” This was Mr. Kennyfeck’s own illustration.
Aunt Fanny was then there in the guise of a domestic detective, to watch proceedings and report on them, – a function which simplifies the due conduct of a case, be it in love or law, beyond anything.
“How agreeable your papa must be this evening, my dear!” said Mrs. Kennyfeck, as with a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece she recognized that it was near ten.
“I ‘m sure he is deep in one of his interminable law arguments, which always makes Mr. Cashel so sleepy and so stupid, that he never recovers for the rest of the evening.”
“He ought to find the drawing-room all the pleasanter for the contrast,” remarked Miss O’Hara, dryly. “I like to see young men – mind me well, young men, it does n’t do with old ones – thoroughly bored before they come among the ladies. The sudden change to the tea, and the wax-lights, and the bright eyes, are trying stimulants. Let them, however, be what they call ‘pleasant’ below-stair, and they are sure to come up flushed and excited, well satisfied with the host’s claret, and only anxious to order the carriage. What o’clock is it now?”
“A quarter-past ten, aunt.”
“Too late; full three-quarters too late,” ejaculated she, with the tone of an oracle. “There is nothing your father could have to say should have detained him till now. Play that little Mexican thing again, my dear; and, Livy, love, leave the door a little open; don’t you find the heat of this room intolerable?”
The young ladies obeyed, and meanwhile Aunt Fanny, drawing her chair closer to her sister’s, said, in a low tone, —
“Well, explain the matter more clearly. Did he give her the diamonds?”
“No; that is the strangest of all,” responded Mrs. Kennyfeck. “He just told Leonard to send them home, and we never heard more about them.”
Aunt Fanny shook her head.
“You know, he asked Olivia, as they were going downstairs, what she thought of them; and she replied, ‘They ‘re beautiful.’”
“How did she say it, though; was it like a mere casual remark, or did she make it with feeling?”
“With feeling,” echoed Mrs. Kennyfeck, pursing up her lips.
“Well?”
“Well! he just said, ‘I’ll take them,’ and there was an end of it.”
Aunt Fanny seemed to reflect, and, after some time, said, —
“Now, as to the horse, when did he make her a present of that?”
“It was to Caroline he gave the horse; sure I told you already.”
“Very true, so you did; a bad feature of the case, too! She ought to have declined it somehow.”
“So she would,” broke in Mrs. Kennyfeck; “but, you perceive, it was very doubtful, at the time, which of the girls he preferred.”
“And you tell me this Mr. Linton has such influence over him.”
“The most absolute. It is only a few weeks since they became acquainted, and now they are inseparable.”
“What is he like, – Linton himself?”
Mrs. Kennyfeck gave a most significant signal, by closing up her lips, and slowly nodding her head, – a gesture that seemed well understood.
“Does Kennyfeck know nothing of his affairs; has he no private history of the man, which might be useful to us?”
“Don’t think of that, my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Kennyfeck, knowingly; “but here they come at last.” This was said with reference to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, which gradually approached, and at last Mr. Kennyfeck made his appearance in the drawing-room.
“Where is Mr. Cashel, – is he gone?” asked Mrs. Kennyfeck, in an accent of unusual anxiety.
“He went away above an hour ago. He wanted to see a letter, or to write one, or to look for one he had lost, – I forget which.”
“I’m certain you do!” observed Mrs. Kennyfeck, with an expression of unequivocal contempt. “I am perfectly certain we need not look to you for either information or assistance.”
Poor Mr. Kennyfeck was dumfoundered. The very words were riddles to him, and he turned to each person about him in silent entreaty for explanation; but none came.
“What had you been conversing about?” asked Aunt Fanny, in that encouraging tone lawyers sometimes use to draw out a reluctant or bashful witness.
“Of his money affairs, Miss O’Hara; and I am grieved to say that the subject had so little interest for him, that he started up and left me on suddenly remembering something about a letter.”
“Which something you have totally forgotten,” remarked Mrs. Kennyfeck, tartly.
“And yet it would be a most important fact for us,” observed Aunt Fanny, with judicial solemnity; “a letter, whether to read or to write, of such pressing necessity, implies much.”
“Come, Livy, dear,” said Miss Kennyfeck, rising from the pianoforte, and addressing her sister, who sat reading on the sofa, “my canzonette and your beautiful attitude are so much sweetness thrown away. He’s gone without even a thought of either! There, there, don’t look so innocently vacant, – you understand me perfectly.”
A very gentle smile was all the younger sister’s reply as she left the room.
“Depend upon it, my dear,” said Miss O’Hara to Mrs. Kennyfeck, “that young man had made some unhappy connection; that’s the secret of this letter, and when they get into a scrape of the kind it puts marriage out of their heads altogether. It was the same with Captain Morris,” – here she whispered still lower, the only audible words being, “without my ever suspecting, – one evening – a low creature – never set eyes upon – ah, man, man!” And with this exclamation aloud, Aunt Fanny took her candle and retired.
About a minute after, however, she re-entered the drawing-room, and advancing close to her sister, said, with all the solemnity of deep thought, —
“Peter is no good in this case, my dear; send him home at once. That man will ‘blaze’ for the asking.” And with a nod of immense significance she finally withdrew.
CHAPTER XX. HOW ENRIQUE’S LETTER WAS LOST AND FOUND
“Arcades ambo!”
Blackguards both!
In the window of a very pretty cottage-room overlooking the Liffey, and that romantic drive so well known to Dub-liners as the “low road” to Lucan, sat Tom Linton. He was enjoying a cigar and a glass of weak negus, as a man may enjoy such luxuries seated in the easiest of chairs, looking out upon one of the sweetest of woodland landscapes, and feeling the while that the whole was “his own.” If conscientious scruples had been any part of that gentleman’s life philosophy, he might have suffered some misgivings, seeing that the cottage itself, its furniture, the plate, the very horses in the stable and the grooms about it, had been won at the hazard-table, and from one whose beggary ended in suicide. But Linton did not dwell on such things, and if they did for an instant cross his mind, he dismissed them at once with a contemptuous pity for the man who could not build up a fortune by the arts with which he had lost one. He had not begun the world himself with much principle, and all his experiences went to prove that even less would suffice, and that for the purposes of the station he occupied, and the society he frequented, it was only necessary that he should not transgress in his dealings with men of a certain rank and condition; so that while every transaction with people of class and fashion should be strictly on “the square,” he was at perfect liberty to practise any number of sharp things with all beneath them. It was the old axiom of knight-errantry adapted to our own century, which made every weapon fair used against the plebeian!
From a pleasant revery over some late successes and some future ones in anticipation, he was aroused by a gentle tap at the door.
“Come in,” said he; “I think I guess who it is, – Phillis, eh?”
“Yes, sir, you’re quite correct,” said that individual, advancing from the misty twilight of the room, which was only partly lighted by a single alabaster lamp. “I thought I’d find you at home, sir, and I knew this letter might interest you. He dropped it when going up the stairs at Kennyfeck’s, and could scarcely have read it through.”
“Sit down, George – sit down, man – what will you take? I see you ‘ve had a fast drive; if that was your car I heard on the road, your pace was tremendous. What shall it be – claret – sherry – brandy-and-water?”
“If you please, sir, sherry. I have lost all palate for Bordeaux since I came to Mr. Cashel. We get abominable wine from Cullan.”
“So I remarked myself; but this must be looked to. Come, try that; it’s some of Gordon’s, and he would not send a bad bottle to me.”
“I ‘m very certain of that, sir. It is excellent.”
“Now then for the epistle.” So saying, he lighted a taper and prepared to read.. “Jamaica, – oh, a shipmate’s letter!”
“A curious one, too, sir, as you ‘ll say when you read it.”
Linton, without reply, began to read, nor did he break silence till he finished, when, laying down the paper, he said, “And this very fellow who writes this he actually spoke of inviting to Ireland, – to stay some time at his house, – to be introduced, in fact, to his acquaintances as a personal friend.”
“It’s very sad, sir,” sighed Phillis. “I have long been of opinion that I must leave him. The appointments, it is true, are good; perquisites, too, very handsome; but the future, Mr. Linton, – what a future it will be!”
“It need not be a very near one, at all events,” said Linton, smiling; “you’ve read this?”
“Just threw an eye over it, sir!”
“Well, you see that your excellent master has been little better than a pirate or a slaver.”
“Very shocking, indeed, sir!”
“Of course this must not go abroad, George.”
“It would ruin me utterly, sir.”
“To be sure it would. No nobleman, nor any gentleman of rank or fashion, could think of engaging your services after such an appointment. Happily, George, you may not require such, if you only mind your hits. Your master can afford to make your fortune, and never know himself the poorer. Come, how go on matters latterly at No. 50?”
“Pretty much as usual, sir; two dinner-parties last week.”
“I know all about them, though I affected to be engaged and did n’t dine there. What I want is to hear of these Kennyfecks, – do they come much after him?”
“Only once, sir, when they came to see the house and stopped to luncheon.”
“Well, was he particular in his attentions to either of the daughters?”
“Very attentive, indeed, sir, to the younger. She dropped her handkerchief in the gallery, and ran back for it, and so did he, sir.”
“You followed, of course?”
“I did, sir, and she was blushing very much as I came in, and I heard her say something about ‘forgiving him,’ and then they left the room.”
“And what of Kennyfeck, – has he had any conversations with him on business?”
“None, sir; I have strictly followed your orders, and never admitted him.”
“Lord Charles Frobisher was a large winner t’other night?” said Linton, after a pause.
“Yes, sir, so I heard them say at supper, and Mr. Cashel first gave a check and then changed his mind, and I saw him hand over a heavy sum in notes.”
“Indeed!” muttered Linton to himself; “and my worthy friend Charley did not confess this to me. Have you taken care that the people don’t send in their bills and accounts, as I mentioned?”
“Yes, sir; with few exceptions, nothing of the kind comes.”
“What brought that Mr. Clare Jones so frequently of late?”
“He came twice in Mr. Downie Meek’s carriage, sir, but sat all the while outside, while Mr. Meek was with my master; the third day, however, he was sent for to come in, and spent nearly an hour in the study.”
“Well, what took place?”
“I could only hear part of the conversation, sir, as I feared I might be sent for. The subject was a seat in Parliament, which Mr. Cashel owns, and that Mr. Meek is desirous of procuring for Jones.”
“Ha! ha! my little Judas! is that your game? Go on, George, this interests me.”
“I have little more to tell, sir, for Mr. Meek always speaks so low, and my master scarcely said anything.”
“And Jones?”
“He merely remarked on the identity of his political principles with those of the present Government.”
“Of course; the fellow began as a Radical, and then turned Tory, and now is a Whig. Blue and yellow when mixed always make green. But how did it end?”
“As well as I could perceive, sir, without any promise. My master was to deliberate and send his answer.”
“Let neither have access to him till you hear from me again, – mark that.”
“You shall be obeyed, sir.”
“Did Lord Kilgoff call?”
“Twice, sir; but my master was out. I followed your directions, however, and said that her Ladyship was with him, and he seemed much provoked at not finding him at home.”
“Well, how did he take it, – did he make any remark?”
“A half smile, sir; nothing more.”
“But said nothing?”
“Not a word, sir.”
Linton arose and walked the room in deep meditation; at last he said, —
“You had better let him have those letters we held back the last two days, to-day. He’ll not think deeply over his losses on the Derby while dwelling on this missing letter.”
“I don’t suspect his losses, sir, will cause much uneasiness on any score; money occupies very little of his thoughts.”
“True; but here the sum is a very heavy one. I made the book myself, and stood to win thirty thousand pounds; but, no matter, – it can’t be helped now, – better luck another time. Now, another point. It strikes me of late that he seems bored somewhat by the kind of life he is leading, and that these carouses at the messes are becoming just as distasteful to him as the heavy dinner-parties with the Dean and the rest of them. Is that your opinion?”
“Perfectly, sir. He even said as much to me t’other evening, when he came back from a late supper. He is always wishing for the yacht to come over, – speaks every now and then of taking a run over to London and Paris; in fact, sir, he is bored here. There is no disguising it.”
“I feared as much, George; I suspected, many a day ago, he would not be long satisfied with the provincial boards. But this must not be; once away from Dublin, he is lost to us forever. I know, and so do you know, the hands he would fall into in town. Better let him get back to his old prairie haunts, for a while, than that.”
“Not so very unlikely, sir. He sits poring over maps and charts for hours together, and scans the new coast survey like a man bent on exploring the scenes for himself. It is hard to say what is best to do with him.”
“I’ll tell you what he must not be permitted to do with himself: he must not leave Ireland; he must not marry; he must not enter Parliament; and, for the moment, to employ his thoughts and banish ennui, we ‘ll get up the house-warming at Tubbermore. I mean to set off thither to-morrow.”
“Without Mr. Cashel, sir?”
“Of course; be it your care that matters are well looked to in my absence, and as Kennyfeck’s house is safer than the barracks, he may dine there as often as he pleases. Keep a watch on Jones, – not that I think he ‘ll be very dangerous; see after Lord Charles, whether he may try to profit by my absence; and, above all, write me a bulletin each day.”
Mr. Phillis promised a strict obedience to orders, and rose to retire, pleading the necessity of his being at home when his master returned.
“What of this letter, sir? Shall I contrive to place it in his pocket, and discover it as he is undressing? He never suspects anything or anybody.”
“No, George, – I ‘ll keep it; it may turn out useful to us one of these days; there’s no knowing when or how. I ‘m curious, too, to see how he will act with reference to it, – whether he will venture on any confidence towards me. I suspect not; he never alludes to his bygones. The only terror his mind is capable of would seem the fear of fashionable contempt. If he ever lose this, he’s lost to us forever.” This was said rather in soliloquy than addressed to Phillis, who did not appear to catch the meaning of the remark. “You’ll leave this note on his table, and take care he sees it. It is to remind him of an appointment here to-morrow with Hoare, the money-lender, at eleven o’clock punctually.”
Phillis took the note, and after a very respectful leave-taking, withdrew.
“Yes,” said Linton, musing, as he leaned against the window, “all goes fairly so far. Mr. Phillis may live to see himself once more a merchant tailor in Cheapside, and Tom Linton, under the buckler of his M.P., defy duns and bums, and be again a denizen of the only city worth living in.”
He then reseated himself in an easy-chair, and prepared to con over the letter, to which he had only given a passing attention. The narrative of Enrique, full of exciting details and hair-breadth ‘scapes, was, however, far less an object of interest to Linton than the consideration how far a character like this might be made use of for the purpose of threat and intimidation over Cashel.
His reflections ran somewhat thus: “The day may come – is, perhaps, even now nigh – when Cashel shall reject my influence and ascendency. There never has been anything which could even counterfeit friendship between us, – close intimacy has been all. To maintain that hold over him so necessary to my fortunes, I must be in a position to menace. Roland himself has opened the way to this by his own reserve. The very concealment he has practised implies fear; – otherwise, why, in all the openness of our familiar intercourse, never have mentioned Enrique’s name; still more, never once alluded to this Maritaña? It is clear enough with what shame he looks back on the past. Let mine be the task to increase that feeling, and build up the fear of the world’s ridicule, till he shall be the slave of every whisper that syllables his name! The higher his path in society, the greater the depth to which disclosures may consign him; and what disclosures so certainly ruinous as to connect him with the lawless marauders of the Spanish main, – the slaver and the pirate? His dear friend, a felon, taken in open fight by a British cruiser! Maritaña, too, may serve us; her name as mistress – or, if need be, as wife – will effectually oppose any matrimonial speculations here. So far this letter has been a rare piece of fortune!”
For some moments he walked the room with excited and animated looks, the alternating shades of pleasure and its opposite flitting rapidly across his strong features. At last he broke out in words: “Ay, Cashel, I am as suddenly enriched as yourself, – but with a different heritage. Yours was Gold; mine, Revenge! And there are many to whom I could pay the old debt home. There’s Forster, with his story of Ascot, and his black-ball at Graham’s! – a double debt, with years of heavy interest upon it; there’s Howard, too, that closed his book at Tattersall’s, after tearing out the leaf that had my name! Frobisher himself daring his petty insolence at every turn! – all these cry for acquittance, and shall have it There are few men of my own standing, that with moneyed means at my command, I could not ruin! and, ungallant as the boast may be, some fair ladies, too! How I have longed for the day, how I have schemed and plotted for it! and now it comes almost unlooked for.
“Another month or two of this wasteful extravagance, and Cashel will be deeply, seriously embarrassed. Kennyfeck will suggest retrenchment and economy; that shall be met with an insidious doubt of the good man’s honesty. And how easy to impeach it! The schemes of his wife and daughter will aid the accusation. Roland shall, meanwhile, learn the discomfort of being ‘hard up.’ The importunity – nay, the insolence – of duns shall assail him at every post and every hour. From this there is but one bold, short step, – and take it he must, – make me his agent. That done, all the rest is easy. Embarrassment and injurious reports will soon drive him from the country, and from an estate he shall never revisit as his own! So far, – the first act of the drama! The second discovers Tom Linton the owner of Tubbermore, and the host of Lord and Lady Kilgoff, who have condescendingly agreed to pass the Easter recess with him. Mr. Linton has made a very splendid maiden speech, which, however, puzzles the ministers and the ‘Times;’ and, if he were not a man perfectly indifferent to place, would expose him to the imputation of courting it.
“And Laura all this while!” said he, in a voice whose accents trembled with intense feeling, “can she forgive the past? Will old memories revive old affections, or will they rot into hatred? Well,” cried he, sternly, “whichever way they turn, I ‘m prepared.”
There was a tone of triumphant meaning in his last words that seemed to thrill through his frame, and as he threw himself back upon his seat, and gazed out upon the starry sky, his features wore the look of proud and insolent defiance. “So is it,” said he, after a pause; “one must be alone – friendless, and alone – in life, to dare the world so fearlessly.” He filled a goblet of sherry, and as he drank it off, cried, “Courage! Tom Linton against ‘the field!’”
