Kitabı oku: «Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)», sayfa 19
“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.
CHAPTER XXVI. AN UNDERSTANDING BETWEEN THE DUPE AND HIS VICTIM
So, then, we meet at last. – Harold.
As the rooms began to fill with company, costumed in every variety that taste, fancy, or absurdity could devise, many were surprised that neither was there a host to bid them welcome, nor was there any lady to perform the accustomed honors of reception. The nature of the entertainment, to a certain extent, took off from the awkwardness of this want. In a masquerade, people either go to assume a part, or to be amused by the representation of others, and are less dependent on the attentions of the master or mistress of the house; so that, however struck at first by the singularity of a fête without the presence of the giver, pleasure, ministered to by its thousand appliances, overcame this feeling, and few ever thought more of him beneath whose roof they were assembled.
The rooms were splendid in their decoration, lighted a giomo, and ornamented with flowers of the very rarest kind. The music consisted of a celebrated orchestra and a regimental band, who played alternately; the guests, several hundred in number, were all attired in fancy costumes, in which every age and nation found its type; while characters from well-known fictions abounded, many of them admirably sustained, and dressed with a pomp and splendor that told the wealth of the wearers.
It was truly a brilliant scene; brilliant as beauty, and the glitter of gems, and waving of plumes, and splendor of dress could make it. The magic impulse of pleasure communicated by the crash of music; the brilliant glare of wax-lights; the throng; the voices; the very atmosphere, tremulous with sounds of joy, – seemed to urge on all there to give themselves up to enjoyment. There was a boundless, lavish air, too, in all the arrangements. Servants in gorgeous liveries served refreshments of the most exquisite kind; little children, dressed as pages, distributed bouquets, bound round with lace of Valenciennes or Brussels, and occasionally fastened by strings of garnets or pearls; a jet d’eau of rose-water cooled the air of the conservatory, and diffused its delicious freshness through the atmosphere. There was something princely in the scale of the hospitality; and from every tongue words of praise and wonder dropped at each moment.
Even Lady Janet, whose enthusiasm seldom rose much above the zero, confessed that it was a magnificent fête, adding, by way of compensation for her eulogy, “and worthy of better company.”
Mrs. White was in ecstasies with everything, even to the cherubs in pink gauze wings, who handed round sherbet, and whom she pronounced quite “classical.” The Kenny-fecks were in the seventh heaven of delight, affecting little airs of authority to the servants, and showing the strangers, by a hundred little devices, that all the magnificence around was no new thing to them. Miss Kennyfeck, as the Queen of Madagascar, was a most beautiful savage; while Olivia appeared as the fair “Gabrielle,” – a sly intimation to Sir Harvey, whose dress, as Henry IV., won universal admiration. Then there were the ordinary number of Turks, Jews, Sailors, Circassians, Greeks, Highland Chiefs, and Indian Jugglers, – “Jim” figuring as a Newmarket “Jock,” to the unbounded delight and wonderment of every “sub” in the room.
If in many quarters the question ran, “Where is Mr. Cashel?” or, “Which is he?” Lady Janet had despatched Sir Andrew, attired as a “Moonshee,” to find out Linton for her. “He is certain to know every one here; tell him to come to me at once,” said she, sitting down near a doorway to watch the company.
While Lady Janet is waiting for him who, better than any other, could explain the mysterious meaning of many a veiled figure, unravel the hidden wickedness of every chance allusion, or expound the secret malice of each calembourg or jest, let us track his wanderings, and follow him as he goes.
Throwing a large cloak over his brilliant dress, Linton made his way by many a by-stair and obscure passage to the back of the theatre, by which the secret approach led to Cashel’s dressing-room. Often as he had trod that way before, never had he done so in the same state of intense excitement. With the loss of the papers, he saw before him not alone the defeat of every hope he nurtured, but discovery, shame, and ruin! He whose whole game in life was to wield power over others, now saw himself in the grasp of some one, to whom he had not the slightest clew. At one moment his suspicions pointed to Cashel himself, then to Tiernay, and lastly to Phillis. Possibly rage has no bitterer moment than that in which an habitual deceiver of others first finds himself in the toils of treachery. There was over his mind, besides, that superstitious terror that to unbelieving intellects stands in place of religion, which told him that luck had turned with him; that fortune, so long favorable, had changed at last; and that, in his own phrase, “the run had set in against him.” Now a half-muttered curse would burst from his lips over the foolhardiness that had made him so dilatory, and not suffered him to reap the harvest when it was ripe; now a deep-breathed vow, that if fate were propitious once again, no matter bow short the interval, he would strike his blow, come what might of it Sometimes he blamed himself for having deserted the safe and easy road to ruin by play, for the ambitious course he had followed; at other times he inveighed against his folly for not carrying off Mary Leicester before Cashel had acquired any intimacy at the cottage. Burning and half-maddened with this conflict of regrets and hopes, he touched the spring, moved back the panel, and entered Cashel’s room.
His first care was to see that the door from the corridor was secured on the inside; his next, to close the shutters and draw the curtains. These done, he lighted the candles on the table, and proceeded to make a systematic search through the entire chamber. “It is my last visit here,” said he to himself; “I must take care to do my work cleanly.” A mass of papers had been that morning left behind him by Cashel, most of them legal documents referring to his transactions with Hoare; but some were memoranda of his intentions respecting Corrigan, and plainly showing that Cashel well remembered he had never completed his assignment to Linton. “If Keane’s hand has not faltered,” muttered he, “Master Roland’s memory will not be taxed in this world at least; but where to discover the deed? that is the question.” In his anxiety on this bead, he ransacked drawers and cabinets with wild and furious haste, strewing their contents around him, or wantonly throwing them on the fire. With false keys for every lock, he opened the most secret depositories, – scarce glancing at letters which at any other time he had devoured with interest. Many were from Lady Kil-goff, warning Cashel against him; his own name, seen passingly, would arrest his attention for a second, but the weightier interest soon intervened, and he would throw the papers from him with contempt. “How shrewd! how very cunning!” muttered he, once or twice, as his glance caught some suspicion, some assumed clew to his own motives, in her well-known handwriting. Baffled by the unsuccessful result of his search, he stood in the midst of the floor, surrounded by open boxes, the contents of which were strewn on every side; rage and disappointment were depicted in his features; and, as his clenched hand struck the table, his whole expression became demoniac. Curses and deep blasphemies fell from his half-moving lips as he stood insensible to everything save the wreck of his long-cherished hope.
Let us turn from him to another, in whose fortunes we are more interested. Roland Cashel, after parting with Enrique, hastened on towards Tubbermore; his thoughts engaged on every topic save that which might be supposed to occupy the mind of a host at such a time. Pleasure assuredly held a weaker hold upon him than the thirst for vengeance, and the ardent longing to throw off the thraldom of that servitude he had endured too long.
It was only by observing the long string of carriages, whose lamps flashed and disappeared at intervals among the trees, that he remembered anything of the fête, and bethought him of that character of entertainer he, at the moment, should have been performing. There seemed to him a terrible inconsistency between his own thoughts and that scene of pleasure, – between the object in pursuit of which so many were hastening with furious speed, and that to which his slower steps were leading him!
“There can be but one amende for such infamous conduct,” muttered he; “he shall pay it with his life’s blood.” And as he spoke, he opened the documents which Enrique had given him, and endeavored to read them; the dusky shadows of the fast-falling night prevented him, and he stood for some minutes lost in thought.
One of the papers, he was aware, bore the forged signature of his name; the other, whose antique form and massive seal bespoke an importance far greater, he tried again and again to decipher, but in vain. As he was thus occupied, he chanced to look up, and suddenly perceived that a stream of light issued from beneath the shutters of his own dressing-room, the door of which he had himself locked at his departure, taking the key along with him. Enrique’s words flashed across his memory at once. It was Linton was there! “At his old work again,” muttered he, in deep anger; “but it shall be for the last time.” A moment of coming peril was all that Cashel needed to elicit the resources of his character. The courage tried in many a danger supplied him with a calm foresight, which the ordinary occasions of life rarely or never called forth. He bethought him that it were best at such a conjuncture to deposit the sealed document in some place of safety ere he went forth upon an enterprise the result of which must be doubtful; for all purposes of confronting Linton it were sufficient to take the forged deed along with him. These were conclusions formed as rapidly as they occurred, and acted upon no less speedily; for, folding up the parchment, he inserted it into a cleft in an aged elm-tree, noting well the spot, and marking all the signs by which he would be able to return to it. His next thought was how to reach his chamber: to enter the house at such a time undiscovered was of course out of the question; he would be seen and recognized at once, and then there would be an end forever of all the secrecy by which he hoped to cover the proceedings with Linton.
It neither suited his inclinations nor his plans that the world should be a party to his vengeance. “Let them discover it when it is over,” said he, “but let them not be able to interfere with its course.” All approach to his dressing-room through the house being thus impracticable, nothing remained but to reach it from without. The chamber was in the second story of the building, at a great height from the ground; but the walls were here covered with thick ivy of ancient growth, and by this Cashel resolved to make the attempt.
The act was not devoid of danger; but there are times when peril is a relief to the mad conflict of thought, and this was such a moment to Cashel. In an instant he made himself ready for the attempt, and with an activity that many a danger had tested, began the ascent. There are occasions when rashness is safety, and now, the headlong intrepidity of Roland’s attempt proved its security, for at each step, as the ivy gave way beneath his grasp or his footing, by an upward spring he reached another spot, which in its turn broke with his weight: every instant the danger increased, for the frail tendrils grew weaker as he ascended, and beneath him the jagged and drooping branches hung down in ruinous disorder. By one bold spring he reached the window-sill, and after a momentary struggle, in which his athletic frame saved him from certain death, he gained a footing upon the stone, and was able to see what was passing within the room.
At a table covered with papers and open letters Linton sat, searching with eager haste for the missing documents; open boxes and presses on every side, rifled of their contents, were seen, some of which lay in disordered masses upon the floor, some in charred heaps within the fender. As the light fell upon his features, Cashel remarked that they were lividly pale, – the very lips were colorless; his hands, too, trembled violently as they moved among the papers, and his mouth continued to be moved by short convulsive twitches. To Roland these signs of suffering conveyed a perfect ecstasy of pleasure. That careworn, haggard face, that tremulous cheek and lustreless eye, were already an instalment of his vengeance.
There was one box which contained many of Cashel’s early letters, when he was following the wild buccaneering life of the West; and this, secured by a lock of peculiar construction, Linton had never succeeded in opening. It stood before him, as with a last effort he tried every art upon it. The hinges alone seemed to offer a prospect of success, and he was now endeavoring to remove the fastenings of these. With more of force than skill, for defeat had rendered him impatient, Linton had already loosened the lid, when Cashel burst open the sash with one vigorous blow, and leaped into the room.
The terrible crash of the shattered window made Linton spring round; and there he stood, confronted with the other, – each, motionless and silent. In Cashel’s steady, manly form there was a very world of indignant contempt; and Linton met the gaze with a look of deadly hatred. All the dissimulation by which he could cover over a treachery was at an end; his deceit was no longer of use, and he stood forth in the full courage of his scoundrelism, – bold, steady, and assured.
“This admits of no excuse, no palliation,” said Cashel, as he pointed to the open letters and papers which covered the floor; and although the words were uttered calmly, they were more disconcerting than if given with passionate vehemence.
“I never thought of any,” replied Linton, collectedly.
“So much the better, sir. It seems to me frankness is the only reparation you can make for past infamy!”
“It may be the only one you will be disposed to ask for,” said Linton, sneeringly.
Cashel grew fiery red. To taunt him with want of courage was something so unexpected – for which he was so totally unprepared – that he lost his self-possession, and in a passionate tone exclaimed, —
“Is it you who dare to say this to me– you, whose infamy has need but to be published abroad, to make every one who calls himself ‘gentleman’ shun your very contact!”
“This punctilious reverence for honor does infinite credit to your buccaneer education,” said Linton, whose eyes sparkled with malignant delight at the angry passion he had succeeded in evoking. “The friendship of escaped felons must have a wondrous influence upon refinement.”
“Enough, sir!” said Cashel. “How came you into the room, since the key of it is in my pocket?”
“Were I to inform you,” said Linton, “you would acknowledge it was by a much more legitimate mode than that by which you effected your entrance.”
“You shall decide which is the pleasanter then!” cried Cashel, as he tore open the window, and advanced in a menacing manner towards the other.
“Take care, Cashel,” said Linton, in a low, deliberate voice; “I am armed!”
And while he spoke, he placed one hand within the breast of his coat, and held it there. Quick as was the motion, it was not sudden enough to escape the flashing eye of Roland, who sprang upon him, and seized his wrist with a grasp that nearly jammed the bones together.
“Provoke me a little further,” cried he, “and, by Heaven! I ‘ll not give you the choice or chance of safety, but hurl you from that window as I would the meanest housebreaker.”
“Let me free, – let me loose, sir,” said Linton, in a low weak voice, which passion, not fear, had reduced to a mere whisper. “You shall have the satisfaction you aim at, when and how you please.”
“By daylight to-morrow, at the boat-quay beside the lake.”
“Agreed. There is no need of witnesses, – we understand each other.”
“Be it so. Be true to your word, and none shall hear from me the reasons of our meeting, nor what has occurred here this night.”
“I care not if all the world knew it,” said Linton, insolently; “I came in quest of a lost document, – one which I had my reasons to suspect had fallen into your possession.”
“And of whose forgery I have the proofs,” said Cashel, as opening the deed, he held it up before Linton’s eyes. “Do you see that?”
“And do you know, Cashel,” cried Linton, assuming a voice of slow and most deliberate utterance, “that your own title to this property is as valueless and as worthless as that document you hold there? Do you know that there is in existence a paper which, produced in an open court of justice, would reduce you to beggary, and stamp you, besides, as an impostor? It may be that you are well aware of that fact; and that the same means by which you have possessed yourself of what was mine has delivered into your hands this valuable paper. But the subtlety is thrown away; I am cognizant of its existence; I have even shown it to another; and on me it depends whether you live here as a master, or walk forth in all the exposure of a cheat.”
The nature of this announcement, its possible truth, added to the consummate effrontery of him who made it, contributed to render Cashel silent, for he was actually stunned by what he heard. Linton saw the effect, but mistook its import. He believed that some thought of a compromise was passing through a mind where vengeance alone predominated; and in this error he drew nearer to him, and in a voice of cool and calm persuasion, added, —
“That you could pilot the course through all these difficulties, no one knows better than yourself to be impossible. There is but one living able to do so, and I am that one.”
Cashel started back, and Linton went on, —
“There is no question of friendship between us here. It is a matter of pure interest and mutual convenience that binds us. Agree to my terms, and you are still the owner of the estate; reject them, and you are as poor as poverty and exposure can make you.”
“Scoundrel!” said Cashel. It was all that he could utter; the fulness of his passion had nearly choked him, as, taking a heavy riding-glove from the table, he struck Linton with it across the face. “If there be any manhood in such a wretch, let this provoke it!”
Linton’s hand grasped the weapon he carried within his coat, but with a quick, short stroke, Cashel struck down his arm, and it fell powerless to his side.
“You shall pay dearly for this – dearly, by heaven!” cried Linton, as he retired towards the door.
“Go, sir,” said Cashel, flinging it wide open, “and go quickly, or I may do that I should be sorry for.”
“You have done that you will be sorry for, if it costs me my life’s blood to buy it.” And with these words, delivered in a voice guttural from rage, Linton disappeared, and Cashel stood alone in the centre of the room, overwhelmed by the terrible conflict of his passions.
The room littered with papers, the open boxes scattered on every side, his own hands cut and bleeding from the broken glass of the window, his dress torn from the recent exertion, were evidences of the past; and it seemed as though, without such proofs, he could not credit his memory, as to events so strange and stunning.
To restore something like order to his chamber, as a means of avoiding the rumors that would be circulated by the servants; to write some letters, – the last, perhaps, he should ever indite; to dress and appear among his company; to send for some one with whom he might confer as to his affairs, – such were the impulses that alternately swayed him, and to which he yielded by turns; now seating himself at his table; now hastening hither and thither, tossing over the motley livery of distasteful pleasure, or handling, with the rapture of revenge, the weapons by which he hoped to wreak his vengeance. The only fear that dwelt upon his mind was, lest Linton should escape him, – lest, by any accident, this, which now appeared the great business of his life, should go unacquired. Sometimes he reproached himself for having postponed the hour of vengeance, not knowing what chances might intervene, what accidents interrupt the course of his sworn revenge. Fortune, wealth, station, love itself had no hold upon him; it was that mad frame of mind where one sole thought predominates, and, in its mastery, makes all else subordinate. Would Linton be true to the rendezvous? – Could such a man be a coward? – Would he compass the vengeance he had threatened by other means? were questions that constantly occurred to his mind.
If the sounds of music and the clangor of festivity did break in upon this mood from time to time, it was but to convey some indistinct and shadowy impression of the inconsistency between his sad brooding and the scene by which he was surrounded, – between the terrible conflict within him and the wild gayety of those who wasted no thought upon him.
