Kitabı oku: «Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)», sayfa 16

“Faix, I ‘d go up to him bouldly, if ye mane that!” cried the other, who misconceived the eulogy passed upon his candor.

“I know it, – well I know it,” said Linton, encouraging a humor he had thus casually evoked; for in the bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks of the other, it was plain to see what was passing within him.

“Do ye want it done? Tell me that, – be fair and above boord with me, – do you want it done?”

Linton was silent; but a slight, an almost imperceptible motion of his brows made the reply.

“And now what’s it worth?” resumed Tom.

“To you,” said Linton, speaking slowly, “it is worth much – everything. It is all the difference between poverty, suffering, and a jail, and a life of ease and comfort either here or in America. Your little farm, that you hold at present by the will, or rather the caprice, of your landlord, becomes your own forever; when I say forever, I mean what is just as good, since the estate will be thrown back into Chancery; and it is neither your children nor mine will see the end of that.”

“That’s no answer to me,” said Keane, fixing his cold, steady stare on Linton’s face. “I want to know – and I won’t ax it again – what is it worth to you?”

“To me!– to me!” said Linton, starting. “How could it be worth anything to me?”

“You know that best yourself,” said Tom, sulkily.

“I am neither the heir to his estates, nor one of his remote kindred. If I see a fine property going to ruin, and the tenantry treated like galley-slaves, I may, it is true, grieve over it; I may also perceive what a change – a total and happy change – a mere accident might work; for, after all, just think of the casualties that every day brings forth – ”

“I have n’t time for these thoughts now,” muttered Tom.

“Always to the point, – always thinking of the direct question!” said Linton, smiling.

“‘T is n’t yer honer’s failin’, anyhow,” said Tom, laughing sardonically.

“You shall not say that of me, Tom,” said Linton, affecting to relish the jocularity; “I’ll be as prompt and ready as yourself. I’ll wager you ten sovereigns in gold – there they are – that I can keep a secret as well as you can.”

As he spoke, he threw down the glittering pieces upon the step on which they sat.

The peasant’s eyes were bent upon the money with a fierce and angry expression, less betokening desire than actual hate. As he looked at them, his cheek grew red, and then pale, and red once more; his broad chest rose and fell like a swelling wave, and his bony fingers clasped each other in a rigid grasp.

“There are twenty more where these came from,” said Linton, significantly.

“That’s a high price, – devil a lie in it!” muttered Tom, thoughtfully.

Linton spoke not, but seemed to let the charm work.

“A high price, but the ‘dhrop’ in Limerick is higher,” said Tom, with a grin.

“Perhaps it may be,” rejoined Linton, carelessly; “though I don’t perceive how the fact can have any interest for you or me.”

“Be gorra, ye ‘re a cowld man, anyhow,” said Keane, his savage nature struck with admiring wonder at the unmoved serenity of Linton’s manner.

“I’m a determined one,” said Linton, who saw the necessity of impressing his companion; “and with such alone would I wish to act.”

“And where would you be, after it was all over, sir?”

“Here, where I am at present, assisting the magistrates to scour the country, – searching every cabin at Drumoologan, – draining ditches to discover the weapon, and arresting every man that killed a pig and got blood on his corduroys for the last fortnight.”

“And where would I be?” asked Keane.

“Here too; exactly where you sit this moment, quietly waiting till the outcry was over. Nor need that make you impatient. I have said already there is neither wife, nor sister, nor brother, nor child to take up the pursuit. There are forty people in the great house yonder, and there would n’t be four of them left two hours after it was known, nor one out of the four that would give himself the trouble of asking how it happened.”

“An’ them’s gentlemen!,” said Keane, closing his lips and shaking his head sententiously.

Linton arose; he did not over-fancy the turn of reflection Tom’s remark implied: it looked too like the expression of a general condemnation of his class – at the very moment, too, when he was desirous of impressing him with the fullest trust and confidence in his own honor.

“I believe it’s safer to have nothin’ to do with it,” muttered Keane.

“As you please, friend,” replied Linton; “I never squeeze any man’s conscience. You know best what your own life is.”

“Hard enough, that’s what it is,” said the other, bitterly.

“You can also make a guess what it will be in future, when you leave this.”

A deep groan was all that he gave for answer.

“For all that I know, you may have many friends who ‘ll not see your wife and children begging along the roads, or sitting in a hole scooped out of a clay ditch, without food or fire, waiting for the fever to finish what famine has begun. You have n’t far to seek for what I mean; about two hundred yards from that gate yonder there ‘s a group exactly like it.”

“Ye ‘re a terrible man, that’s the truth,” said Tom, as he wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead. “Be gorra, I never seed your like afore!”

“I told you that I was a determined man,” said Linton, sternly; “and I’m sorry to see that’s not what I should say of you.” He moved a step or two as he spoke, and then turning carelessly back, added, “Leave that money for me at ‘The house’ this evening; I don’t wish to carry gold about me on the roads here.” And with this negligent remark he departed.

Linton sauntered carelessly away; nothing in his negligent air and carriage to show that he was not lounging to kill the weary hours of a winter’s day. No sooner, however, had he turned an angle of the road than he entered the wood, and with cautious steps retraced his way, till he stood within a few paces of where Keane yet sat, still and motionless.

His worn hat was pressed down upon his brows, his hands were firmly clasped, and his head bent so as to conceal his features; and in this attitude he remained as rigidly impassive as though he were seized with a catalepsy. A few heavy drops of rain fell, and then a low growling roar of thunder followed, but he heeded not these signs of coming storm. The loud cawing of the rooks as they hastened homeward filled the air, but he never once lifted his head to watch them! Another crash of thunder was heard, and suddenly the rain burst forth in torrents. Swooping along in heavy drifts, it blackened the very atmosphere, and rushed in rivulets down the gravel walk; but still he sat, while the pelting storm penetrated his frail garments and soaked them through. Nor was it till the water lay in pools at his feet that he seemed conscious of the hurricane. Then rising suddenly, he shook himself roughly, and entered the house.

Linton’s eyes were earnestly fixed upon the stone – he crept nearer to observe it. The money was gone.

CHAPTER XXIII. LINTON IS BAFFLED – HIS RAGE AT THE DISCOVERY

The mask is falling fast. – Harold.

The day of the great masquerade arrived; and, from an early hour, the whole household was astir in preparing for the occasion. The courtyard was thronged with carriages of various sorts. Confectioners from London, table-deckers from Paris, were there, accompanied by all the insignia of their callings. Great lumbering packing-cases were strewn about; while rich stuffs, rare exotics, and costly delicacies littered the stone benches, and even lay upon the pavement, in all the profusion of haste and recklessness. To see the rare and rich articles which were heaped on every side, almost suggested the notion that it was some gorgeous mansion which was put to pillage. There was that, too, in the lounging insolence of the servants, as they went, that favored the illusion. The wanton waste exhibited everywhere was the very triumph of that vulgar and vindictive spirit which prompts the followers of a spendthrift master to speed the current of his ruin. Such would seem to be the invariable influence that boundless profusion exercises on the mind; and it is thus that affluence, unchastened by taste, unruled by principle, is always a corrupter!

A light travelling-carriage, with a few articles of travelling use attached, stood in the midst of this confusion; and shortly after day-dawn two gentlemen issued from the house, and taking their seats, drove hastily forth, and at full speed passed down the avenue towards the high-road.

These were Cashel and Mr. Kennyfeck, who had made an appointment to meet Mr. Hoare at Killaloe, and proceed with him to Drumcoologan, on which portion of the estate it was proposed to raise a considerable sum by mortgage.

Some observation of Mr. Kennyfeck upon the wasteful exhibition of the scene in the courtyard, was met by a sharp and angry reply from Cashel; and these were both overheard as they issued forth, – vague words, spoken thoughtlessly at the time, but to be remembered afterwards with a heavier significance than the speakers could have anticipated! As they hastened along, little was said on either side; the trifling irritation of the first moment created a reserve, which deepened into actual coldness, as each following out his own thoughts took no heed of his companion’s.

Kennyfeck’s mind was full of sad and gloomy forebodings. The reckless outlay he had witnessed for weeks back was more than a princely fortune could sustain. The troops of useless servants, the riotous disorder of the household, the unchecked, unbridled waste on every side, demanded supplies to raise which they were already reduced to loans at usurious interest. What was to come of such a career, save immediate and irretrievable ruin?

As for Cashel, his reveries were even darker still. The whirlwind current of events seemed to carry him onward without any power of resistance. He saw his fortune wasted, his character assailed, his heart-offered proposal rejected – all at once, and as if by the influence of some evil destiny. Vigorous resolutions for the future warred with fears lest that they were made too late, and he sat with closed eyes and compressed lips, silent and sunk in meditation.

Leaving them, therefore, to pursue a journey on which their companionship could scarcely afford much pleasure to the reader, let us turn to one who, whatever his other defects, rarely threw away the moments of his life on unavailing regrets: this was Mr. Linton. If he was greatly disappointed by the information he gleaned when overhearing the conversation between Cashel and the doctor, he did not suffer his anger either to turn him from his path, or distract him from his settled purpose.

“To-day for ambition!” said he, “to-morrow revenge!”

Too well accustomed to obstacles to be easily thwarted, he recognized life as a struggle wherein the combatant should never put off his armor.

“She must and shall accept me as her husband; on that I am determined. A great game, and a glorious stake, shall not be foiled for a silly girl’s humor. Were she less high-flown in her notions, and with more of the ‘world’ about her, I might satisfy her scruples, that, of her affections – her heart, as she would call it – there is no question here. Je suis bon prince, – I never coerce my liege’s loyalty. As to the old man, his dotage takes the form of intrepidity, so that it might be unsafe to use menace with him. The occasion must suggest the proper tactic.”

And with this shrewd resolve he set forth to pay his visit at the cottage. If in his step and air, as he went, none could have read the lover’s ardor, there was that in his proud carriage and glancing eye that bespoke a spirit revelling in its own sense of triumph.

While Mr. Linton is thus pursuing his way, let us use the privilege of our craft by anticipating him, and taking a peep at that cottage interior in which he is so soon to figure. Old Mr. Corrigan had arisen from his bed weary and tired: a night of sleepless care weighed heavily on him; and he sat at his untasted breakfast with all the outward signs of a sick man.

Mary Leicester, too, was pale and sad-looking; and although she tried to wear her wonted smile, and speak with her accustomed tones, the heavy eyelids and the half-checked sighs that broke from her at times betrayed how sad was the spirit from which they came.

“I have been dreaming of that old nunnery at Bruges all night, Mary,” said her grandfather, after a long and unbroken silence; “and you cannot think what a hold it has taken of my waking thoughts. I fancied that I was sitting in the little parlor, waiting to see you, and that, at last, a dark-veiled figure appeared at the grille, and beckoned me to approach. I hastened to do so, my heart fluttering with I know not what mixture of hope and fear, – the hope it might be you, and then the fear, stronger than even hope, that I should read sadness in that sweet face – sorrow, Mary – regret for leaving that world you never were to see more.”

“And was it me, dearest papa?”

“No, Mary,” said he, with a lower and more meaning tone, “it was another, one whom I never saw before. She came to tell me that – that” – he faltered, and wiping a tear from his eyes, made an effort to seem calm – “that I had lost you, darling! lost by a separation darker and more terrible than even the iron bars of a nunnery can make. And although I bethought me that you had but gone there, whither I myself was hastening, I felt sorrow-struck by the tidings. I had clung so long to the hope of leaving you behind me here, to enjoy that world of which all your affectionate care has denied you enjoyment – to know how, amidst its troubles and reverses, there are healing springs of love that recompense its heaviest inflictions – I cherished this wish so long, so ardently, that I could not face the conviction which told me it should never be.”

“Dearest papa, remember this was but a dream; bethink you, for an instant, that it was all unreal; that I am beside you, my hand in yours, my head upon your shoulder; that we are not parted, nor ever shall be.”

The tone of deep fervor in which she spoke drew tears from the old man’s eyes, and he turned away to hide them.

“It was but a dream, as you say, Mary; but do not my waking thoughts conjure up a future to the full as gloomy? A few months, at furthest, a year or so more – less sanguine prophets would perhaps say weeks – and where shall I be? and where you, Mary?”

The old man’s grief could no longer be restrained, and it was in a perfect burst of sorrow the last words came forth. She would have spoken, but she knew not from what source to draw consolation. The future, which to his eyes looked dark and lowering, presented an aspect no less gloomy to her own; and her only remedy against its depressing influence was to make her present cares occupy her mind, to the exclusion of every other thought.

“And yet, Mary,” said he, recovering something of his habitual tone, “there is an alternative – one which, if we could accept of it from choice as freely as we might adopt it from convenience, would solve our difficulties at once. My heart misgives me, dearest, as I approach it. I tremble to think how far my selfishness may bias you – how thoughts of me old and worthless as I am, may rise uppermost in your breast and gain the mastery, where other and very different feelings should prevail. I have ever been candid with you, my child, and I have reaped all the benefit of my frankness; let me then tell you all. An offer has been made for your hand, Mary, by one who, while professing the utmost devotion to you, has not forgotten your old grandfather. He asks that he should be one of us, Mary – a new partner in our firm – a new member in the little group around our hearth. He speaks like one who knew the ties that bind us most closely – he talks of our home here as we ourselves might do – he has promised that we shall never leave it, too. Does your heart tell you whom I mean, Mary? If not, if you have not already gone before me in all I have been saying, his visions of happiness are baseless fabrics. Be candid with me, as I have ever been with you. It is a question on which everything of the future hangs; say if you guess of whom I speak.”

Mary Leicester’s cheek grew scarlet; she tried to speak, but could not; but with a look far more eloquent than words, she pressed the old man’s hand to her lips, and was silent.

“I was right then, Mary; you have guessed him. Now, my sweet child, there is one other confession you must make me, or leave me to divine it from that crimson cheek. Have his words found an echo in your heart?”

The old man drew her more closely to his side, and passed his arm around her as he spoke; while she, with heaving bosom and bent-down head, seemed struggling with an agitation she could not master. At last she said, —

“You have often told me, papa, that disproportion of fortune was an insurmountable obstacle to married happiness; that the sense of perfect equality in condition was the first requisite of that self-esteem which must be the basis of an affection free and untrammelled from all unworthy considerations.”

“Yes, dearest; I believe this to be true.”

“Then, surely, the present is not a case in point; for while there is wealth and influence on one side, there are exactly the opposites on the other. If he be in a position to make his choice among the great and titled of the land, my destiny lies among the lowly and humble. What disparity could be greater?”

“When I spoke of equality,” said the old man, “I referred rather to that of birth and lineage than to any other; I meant that social equality by which uniformity of tastes and habits are regulated. There is no mésalliance where good blood runs on both sides.”

This was the tenderest spot in the old man’s nature; the pride of family surviving every successive stroke of fortune, or, rather, rising superior to them all.

“I thought, moreover,” said Mary, “that in his preference of me, there was that suddenness which savored more of caprice than deep conviction. How should I reckon upon its lasting? What evidence have I that he cares for the qualities which will not change in me, and not for those which spring from youth and happiness? – for I am happy, dearest pa; so happy that, with all our trials and difficulties, I often accuse myself of levity – insensibility even – feeling so light-hearted as I do.”

The old man looked at her with rapture, and then pressed his lips upon her forehead.

“From all this, then, I gather, Mary,” said he, smiling archly, “that, certain misgivings apart, the proposition is not peculiarly disagreeable to you?”

“I am sure I have not said so,” said she, confusedly.

“No, dearest; only looked it. But stay, I heard the wicket close – there is some one coming. I expected Tiernay on a matter of business. Leave us together, child; and, till we meet, think over what we ‘ve been saying. Remember, too, that although I would not influence your decision, my heart would be relieved of its heaviest load if this could be.”

Mary Leicester arose hastily and retired, too happy to hide, in the secrecy of her own room, that burst of emotion which oppressed her, and whose utterance she could no longer restrain.

Scarcely had she gone, when Linton crossed the grass-plot, and entered the cottage. A gentle tap at the door of the drawing-room announced him, and he entered. A more acute observer than Mr. Corrigan might have remarked that the deferential humility so characteristic of his manner was changed for an air of more purpose-like determination. He came to carry a point by promptness and boldness; and already his bearing announced the intention.

After a few words of customary greeting, and an inquiry more formal than cordial for Miss Leicester’s health, he assumed an air of solemn purpose, and said, —

“You will not accuse me of undue impatience, my dear Mr. Corrigan, nor think me needlessly pressing, if I tell you that I have come here this morning to learn the answer to my late proposition. Circumstances have occurred at the hall to make my remaining there, even another day, almost impossible. Cashel’s last piece of conduct is of such a nature as to make his acquaintance as derogatory as his friendship.”

“What was it?”

“Simply this. Lord Kilgoff has at length discovered what all the world has known for many a day back; and, in his passionate indignation, the poor old man has been seized with a paralytic attack.”

Mr. Corrigan passed his hand across his brow, as if to clear away some terrible imagination, and sat then pale, silent, and attentive, as Linton went on, —

“The most heartless is yet to come! While this old man lies stretched upon his bed – insensible and dying – this is the time Cashel selects to give a great entertainment, a ball, to above a thousand people. It is almost too much for belief – so I feel it myself. The palsied figure of his victim – his victim, do I say? there are two: that miserable woman, who sits as paralyzed by terror as he is by disease – might move any man from such levity; but Cashel is superior to such timidity; he fancies, I believe, that this ruffian hardihood is manliness, that brutal insensibility means courage, and so he makes his house the scene of an orgy, when his infamy has covered it with shame. I see how this affects you, sir; it is a theme on which I would never have touched did it not concern my own fortunes. For me, the acquaintance of such a man is no longer possible. For the sake of that unhappy woman, whom I knew in better days – to cover, as far as may be, the exposure that sooner or later must follow her fault – I am still here. You will, therefore, forgive my importunity if I ask if Miss Leicester has been informed of my proposal, and with what favor she deigns to regard it.”

“I have told my granddaughter, sir,” said the old man, tremulously, “we have talked together on the subject; and while I am not able to speak positively of her sentiments towards you, it strikes me that they are assuredly not unfavorable. The point is, however, too important to admit a doubt: with your leave, we will confer together once again.”

“Might I not be permitted to address the young lady myself, sir? The case too nearly concerns all my future happiness to make me neglect whatever may conduce to its accomplishment.”

The old man hesitated; he knew not well what reply to make. At length he said, —

“Be it so, Mr. Linton; you shall have this permission. I only ask, that before you do so, we should clearly and distinctly understand each other. We are of the world, and can discuss its topics, man to man. With her, the matter rests on other and very different grounds.”

“Of course; so I understand the permission, sir,” said Linton, courteously, “on the distinct understanding that her acceptance alone is wanting to fill up the measure of my wishes.”

“Is it necessary that I should repeat that I am totally destitute of fortune – that the humble means I possess expire with me, and that I am as poor in influence as in all else?”

“I have sufficient for both, sir, for all that moderate wishes can desire. Pray do not add a word upon the subject.”

“I must be explicit, Mr. Linton, however wearisome to you the theme. You will pardon an old man’s prolixity, in consideration for the motives which prompt it. We have absolutely nothing of our once powerful family, save the name and the escutcheon, – mementos to remind us of our fall! They did, indeed, say, some time back, that our title to the estate afforded strong grounds for litigation – that there were points of considerable importance – ”

“May I interrupt you, sir?” said Linton, laying his hand on Corrigan’s arm. “A subject so full of regrets to you can never be a pleasing topic to me. I am fully as rich as a man like myself could desire; and I trust to personal exertions for whatever I may wish to add in the way of ambition.”

“And with good reason, sir,” said Corrigan, proudly. “There are no failures to those who unite honesty of purpose with fine abilities. I will not add a word. Go – speak to my granddaughter: I tell you frankly my best wishes go with you.”

Linton smiled a look of deep gratitude, and moved towards the door.

“One second more,” cried Corrigan, as the other laid his hand on the lock; “it may soon be, that, as a member of our family, you would have the right to express a will on the subject we have been talking of. I would wish to say, that, as I have abandoned all desire to contest this question, I should equally expect the same line of conduct from you.”

“Can you doubt it, sir – or is it necessary that I should give my promise?”

“I hope and trust not. But having myself given a written pledge, under my own hand and seal, to Mr. Cashel, surrendering all right and title to this estate – ”

“Who gave this?” said Linton, turning suddenly round, and relinquishing his hold upon the lock of the door. “Who gave this?”

“I gave it.”

“To whom?”

“To Mr. Cashel, in the presence of his agent.”

“When?” exclaimed Linton, from whose pale features, now, intense agitation had banished all disguise. “When did you give it?”

“Within a fortnight.”

“And this document – this release, was formal and explicit?”

“Perfectly so. I knew enough of law to make it obligatory. I stated the conditions for which it was given, – certain concessions that Mr. Cashel had lately granted me, respecting this small property.”

Linton sat down, and covered his face with both hands. The trouble of his feelings had carried him far away from all thought of concealment, and of the part which so long he had been playing. Indeed, so insensible was he to every consideration save one, that he forgot Corrigan’s presence – forgot where he was; and in the paroxysm of his baffled purpose, muttered half aloud broken curses upon the insane folly of the old man’s act.

“I am compelled to remind you, sir, that I am a listener,” said Mr. Corrigan, whose face, suffused with a flush of anger, showed that the insulting remarks had been overheard by him.

“And this was done without advice or consultation with any one?” said Linton, not heeding the last remark, nor the look that accompanied it.

“I was free then, sir, to speak my gratitude, as I now am to utter my indignation that you should dare to canvass my acts and question my motives, both of which are above your control.”

Linton stared at him almost vacantly; his own thoughts, and not the old man’s words, had possession of his mind. With a rapidity of computation in which few were his equals, he ran over all the varying chances of success which had accompanied his game, – the pains he had taken to avert all cause of failure; the unwearying attention he had given to every minute point and doubtful issue, – and now, here, at the very last, came the ruin of all his plans, and wreck of all his hopes.

“You have said enough – more than enough, sir – to show me how disinterested were the views in which you sought my granddaughter in marriage,” said Corrigan, haughtily; “nor would it much surprise me, now, were I to discover that he who is so skilful a double-dealer may be no less expert as a calumniator. I will beg you to leave my house this instant.”

“Not so fast, sir,” said Linton, assuming a seat, and at once regaining that insolent composure for which he was noted; “I have not that generous warmth of character which is so conspicuous in you. I have never given Mr. Cashel a release of any obligation I possess upon him. This house is mine, sir – mine by legal transfer and right; and it is you who are the intruder!”

The old man staggered backwards, and leaned against the wall; a clammy perspiration covered his face and forehead, and he seemed sick to the very death. It was some time before he could even utter a word; and then, as with clasped hands and uplifted eyes he spoke, the fervor of his words told that they were heart-spoken. “Thank God for this! but for it, and I had given my child to a scoundrel!”

“Scarcely polite, sir, and, perhaps, scarcely politic,” said Linton, with his treacherous half-smile. “It would be as well to bear in mind how we stand toward each other.”

“As enemies, open and declared,” cried Corrigan, fiercely.

“I should say as creditor and debtor,” said Linton; “but probably we are speaking in synonyms. Now, sir, a truce to this altercation, for which I have neither time nor taste. Tell me frankly, can you obtain repossession of this unlucky document which, in an ill-starred moment, you parted with? If you can, and will do so, I am willing to resume the position I occupied towards you half an hour ago. This is plain speaking, I am aware; but how much better than to bandy mock courtesies, in which neither of us have any faith! We are both men of the world – I, at least, have no shame in saying that I am such. Let us then be frank and business-like.”

“You have at last filled up the measure of your insults, sir,” said Corrigan, fiercely; “you have dared to speak of me as of yourself.”

“It is a compliment I have not paid a great many, notwithstanding,” replied Linton, with a languid insolence of manner that contrasted strongly with the other’s natural warmth; “and there are people in this world would accept it as a flattery; but once more I say, let us abandon this silly squabble. Will you, or will you not, accept my proposal? I am ready to purchase the wreck as she lies upon the rocks, wave-tossed and shattered. Is it not better to give me the chance of floating her, than see her go to pieces before your eyes, and drift piecemeal into the wide ocean?”

“Leave me, sir – leave me! =” was all the old man could utter.

“If I take you at your word,” said Linton, rising, “remember that the last gleam of hope for you departs when I close that door behind me. I warn you that I am little given to relenting.”

“Insolent scoundrel!” cried Corrigan, carried away by indignation.

“Unhandsomely spoken, old gentleman; such words are ill-befitting gray hairs and palsied hands, but I forgive them. I repeat, however, my nature is not over-disposed to forgiveness; an injury with me is like a malady that leaves its mark behind it. The day may come when all your entreaties, aided even by the fair supplications of a more gentle penitent – ”