Kitabı oku: «Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)», sayfa 9

Meek nodded.

“What is Charley saying?” cried Linton, whose quick eye caught the glance interchanged between the two.

“I was telling Meek,” said Frobisher, “that I don’t put faith enough in the condition to accept the invitation.”

“Indeed!” said Linton, while he turned to the table and filled his glass, to hide a passing sign of mortification.

“Tom Linton for a man’s agent, seems pretty like what old Frederick used to call keeping a goat for a gardener.”

“You are fond of giving the odds, Frobisher,” said Linton, who, for some minutes, continued to take glass after glass of champagne; “now, what’s your bet that I don’t do the honors here next Christmas-day?”

“I can’t say what you mean,” said Frobisher, languidly. “I’ve seen you do ‘the honors’ at more than one table where you were the guest.”

“This, I suppose, is meant for a pleasantry, my Lord?” said Linton, while his face became flushed with passion.

“It is meant for fact,” said Frobisher, with a steady coolness in his air and accent.

“A fact! and not in jest, then!” said he, approaching where the other sat, and speaking in a low voice.

“That’s very quarrelsome wine, that dry champagne,” said Frobisher, lazily; “don’t drink any more of it.”

Linton tried to smile; the effort, at first not very successful, became easier after a moment, and it was with a resumption of his old manner he said, —

“I ‘ll take you two to one in fifties that I act the host here this day twelvemonth.”

“You hear the offer, gentlemen?” said Frobisher, addressing the party. “Of course it is meant without any reservation, and so I take it.”

He produced a betting-book as he said this, and began to write in it with his pencil.

“Would you prefer it in hundreds?” said Linton.

Frobisher nodded an assent.

“Or shall we do the thing sportingly, and say two thousand to one?” continued he.

“Two thousand to one be it,” said Frobisher, while the least possible smile might be detected on his usually immovable features. “There is no knowing how to word this bet,” said he, at last, after two or three efforts, followed by as many erasures; “you must write it yourself.”

Linton took the pencil, and wrote rapidly for a few seconds.

“Will that do?” said he.

And Frobisher read to himself: “‘Mr. Linton, two thousand to one with Lord C. Frobisher, that he, T. L., on the anniversary of this day, shall preside as master of the house Tubbermore, by due right and title, and not by any favor, grace, or sanction of any one whatsoever.”

“Yes; that will do, perfectly,” said Frobisher, as he closed the book, and restored it to his pocket.

“Was the champagne so strong as you expected?” whispered Upton, as he passed behind Frobisher’s chair.

A very knowing nod of acquiescence was the only reply.

Indeed, it did not require the practised shrewdness of Lord Charles, or his similarly sharp-eyed friends, to see that Linton’s manner was very different from his habitual calm collectedness, while he continued to drink on, with the air of a man that was resolved on burying his faculties in the excitement of wine.

Meek slipped away soon after, and, at Linton’s suggestion a rouge-et-noir bank was formed, at which the play became high, and his own losses very considerable.

It was already daylight, and the servants were stirring in the house ere the party broke up.

“Master Tom has had a squeeze to-night,” said Jennings, as he was bidding Upton good-bye at his door.

“I can’t understand it at all,” replied the other. “He played without judgment, and betted rashly on every side. It was far more like Roland Cashel than Tom Linton.”

“Well, you remember he said – to be sure, it was after drinking a quantity of wine – ‘Master Roland and I may change characters yet. Let us see if he can play “Linton,” as well as I can “Cashel.”’”

“He’s so deep, that I wouldn’t say but there is something under all this.” And so they parted, sadly puzzled what interpretation to put on conduct, the mere result of a passing intemperance; for so it is, your “cunning men” are never reputed to be so deep by the world as when by some accident they, have forgotten their craft.

CHAPTER XIV. MR. KENNYFECK AMONG THE BULLS

 
With a bright flie upon his hook,
He played mankind, as anglers play a fish.
 

COTTER.

An hour’s sleep and a cold bath restored Linton to himself, and ere the guests of Tubbermore were stirring, he was up and ready for the day. He dressed with more than usual care, and having ordered a horse to be saddled and a groom to follow him, he sauntered out into the park, taking the road that led to the village.

The groom rapidly overtook him; and then, mounting, he rode at a brisk trot down the road, and drew up at the door of the doctor’s house. To his question, “If Mr. Tiernay were at home?” he received for answer, that “He had set out for Limerick that morning;” nor did the servant know when he might be expected back.

For a moment this intelligence appeared to derange his plans; but he rallied soon, and turning his horse’s head towards Tubbermore, muttered to himself, “As well, – perhaps better as it is.” He rode fast till he gained the wood, and then dismounting, he gave the horse to the groom, with directions to go home, as he would return on foot.

He stood looking after the horses as they retired, and it seemed as if his thoughts were following them, so intent was his gaze; but, long after they had disappeared, he remained standing in the same place, his features still wearing the same expression of highly-wrought occupation. The spot where he stood was a little eminence, from which the view stretched, upon one side, over the waving woods of the demesne, and, on the other, showed glimpses of the Shannon, as, in its sweeping curves, it indented the margin of the grounds. Perhaps not another point could be found which displayed so happily the extent and importance of the demesne, and yet concealed so well whatever detracted from its picturesque effect. The neighboring village of Derra-heeny – a poor, straggling, ruinous street of thatched hovels, like most Irish villages – was altogether hidden from view; while of the great house itself, – an object with few pretensions to architectural elegance, – only so much was visible as indicated its size and extent. The little cottage of Tubber-beg, however, could be seen entire, glittering in the morning’s sun like a gem, its bright-leaved hollies and dark laurels forming a little grove of foliage in the midst of winter’s barrenness.

If this was by far the most striking object of the picture, it was not that which attracted most of Linton’s attention. On the contrary, his eye ranged more willingly over the wide woods which stretched for miles along the river’s side, and rose and fell in many a gentle undulation inland. A commonplace observer, had such been there to mark him, would have pronounced him one passionately devoted to scenery, – a man who loved to watch the passing cloud-shadows of a landscape, enjoying with all a painter’s delight the varying tints, the graceful lines, the sharp-thrown shadows, and the brilliant lights of a woodland picture; a deeper physiognomist would, however, have seen that the stern stare and the compressed lip, the intense preoccupation which every feature exhibited, did not denote a mind bent upon such themes.

“Tom Linton, of Tubbermore,” said he, at length, – and it seemed as if uttering the words gave relief to his overburdened faculties, for his face relaxed, and his habitual easy smile returned to his mouth, – “Linton, of Tubbermore; it sounds well, too.” And then the great game! that game for which I have pined so long and wished so ardently, – which I have stood by and seen others play and lose, where I could have won, – ay, won rank, honor, station, and fame. The heaviest curse that lies on men like me is to watch those who rise to eminence in the world, and know their utter shallowness and incapacity. There will soon be an end to that now.

“Stand by, gentlemen; make way, my Lords Charles and Harry; it is Tom Linton’s turn – not Linton the ‘adventurer,’ as you were gracious enough to call him – not the bear-leader of a marquis, or the hanger-on of his grace the duke, but your equal in rank and fortune – more than your equal in other things; the man who knows you all thoroughly, not fancying your deficiencies and speculating on your shortcomings, as your vulgar adversaries, your men of cotton constituencies, are wont to do, but the man who has seen you in your club and your drawing-room, who has eaten, drunk, betted, played, and lived with you all! who knows your tactics well, and can expound your ‘aristocratic prejudices better than ever a Quaker of them all!’ – Not but,” said he, after a pause, “another line would satisfy me equally. The peerage, with such a fortune as this, is no inordinate ambition; a few years in the House, of that dogged, unmanageable conduct Englishmen call independence – a capriciousness in voting – the repute of refusing office, and so on. There’s no originality in the thought, but it succeeds as well as if there were! Besides, if hard pressed, I can be a Romanist, and, as times go, with every party; that is a strong claim. And why not Lord Linton? I have no doubt” – and he laughed as he spoke this – “there is a peerage in the family already, if I only knew where to look for it!

“And now, sufficient of speculation! to open the campaign!” So saying, he descended the knoll and took the path which led to the cottage. As he drew near the wicket, he saw a man lounging beside it, in all that careless indifference which an Irish peasant can assume, and soon perceived it was Tom Keane, the gatekeeper.

“Good-morrow, Tom; how comes it you are up here so early?”

“‘T is in throuble I am, your honer,” said he, taking off his hat, and putting on that supplicating look so characteristic of his class. “The master’s going to turn me out of the little place beyant.”

“What for?”

“For nothing at all, your honer: that’s just it; but ould Kennyfeck put him up to it.”

“Up to what? That seems the whole question.”

“Your honer may remimber, that when you came here first, the cattle of the neighbors was used to come and pick a mouthful of grass, – and poor grass it was, – bekase there was no way of keeping them out. Well, when the master came down, and all the people, by coorse the cows and pigs couldn’t be let in as afore; for, as the agint said, it was a disgrace to see them under the nose of the quality, running about as if it was Donnybrook fair! ‘Don’t let them appear here again, Tom Keane,’ says he, ‘or it will be worse for you.’ And sorra one ever I let in since that, till it was dark night. But ould Mr. Kennyfeck, the other evening, takes it into his head to walk into the park, and comes right into a crowd of two-year-old bulls, and did n’t know a bit where he was, till a man called out, ‘Lie down on your face, for the love of the Virgin, or you are a dead man! The bullsheens is comin’!’ And down he lay, sure enough, and hard work they had to get him up afterwards, for the herd went over him as the man drov’ them off; and what between bruises and fear, he kept his bed two days; but the worst of it was, the spalpeens said that they paid threepence apiece for the bullsheens every night for the grass, and it was to me they gave it.”

“Which, of course, was untrue?” said Linton, smiling knowingly.

“By coorse it was!” said Tom, with a laugh, whose meaning there was no mistaking; “and so, I ‘m to be turned out of ‘the gate,’ and to lose my few acres of ground, and be thrun on the wide world, just for sake of an attorney!”

“It is very hard, – very hard indeed.”

“Is n’t it now, your honer?”

“A case of destitution, completely; what the newspapers call ‘extermination.’”

“Exactly, sir, – tarnination, and nothing less.”

“But how comes it that you are up here, on that account?”

“I was thinking, sir, if I saw Miss Mary, and could get her to spake a word to the master, – they say she can do what she plazes with him.”

“Indeed! – who says so?”

“The servants’ hall says it; and so does Mr. Corrigan’s ould butler. He towld me the other day that he hoped he ‘d be claning the plate up at the big house before he died.”

“How so?” said Linton, affecting not to catch the intention of the remark.

“Just that he was to be butler at the hall when the master was married to Miss Mary.”

“And so, I suppose, this is very likely to happen?”

“Sure yer honer knows betther than ignorant craytures like us; but faix, if walking about in the moonlight there, among the flowers, and talking together like whisperin’, is any sign, I would n’t wonder if it came about.”

“Indeed! and they have got that far?”

“Ay, faith!” said Tom, with a significance of look only an Irishman or an Italian can call up.

“Well, I had no suspicion of this,” said Linton, with a frankness meant to invite further confidence.

“An’ why would yer honer? Sure was n’t it always on the evenings, when the company was all together in the great house, that Mr. Cashel used to steal down here and tie his horse to the wicket, and then gallop back again at full speed, so that the servants towld me he was never missed out of the room!”

“And does she like him, – do they say she likes him?”

“Not like him wid a place such as this!” said Tom, waving his hand towards the wide-spreading fields and woods of the demesne. “Bathershin! sure the Queen of England might be proud of it!”

“Very true,” said Linton, affecting to be struck by the shrewdness of the speaker.

“See, now,” said Tom, who began to feel a certain importance from being listened to, “I know faymales well, and so I ought! but take the nicest, quietest, and most innocent one among them, and by my conscience ye ‘ll see, ‘t is money and money’s worth she cares for more nor the best man that ever stepped! Tell her ‘tis silk she’ll be wearin’, and goold in her ears, and ye may be as ould and ogly as Tim Hogan at the cross roods!”

“You have n’t a good opinion of the fair sex, Thomas,” said Linton, carelessly, for he was far less interested in his speculations than his facts. “Well, as to your own case, – leave that in my hands. I may not have all the influence of Miss Leicester, but I suspect that I can do what you want on this occasion.” And without waiting for the profuse expressions of his gratitude, Linton passed on and entered the garden, through which a little path led directly to the door of the cottage.

“At breakfast, I suppose?” said Linton to the servant who received him.

“The master is, sir; but Miss Mary isn’t well this morning.”

“Nothing of consequence, I hope?”

“Only a headache from fatigue, sir.” So saying, he ushered Linton, whose visits were admitted on the most intimate footing, into the room where Mr. Corrigan sat by himself at the breakfast-table.

“Alone, sir!” said Linton as he closed the door behind him, and conveying in his look an air of surprise and alarm.

“Yes, Mr. Linton, almost the only time I remember to have been so for many a year. My poor child has had a night of some anxiety, which, although bearing well at the time, has exacted its penalty at last in a slight attack of fever. It will, I trust, pass over in a few hours; and you, – where have you been; they said you had been absent for a day or two?”

“A very short ramble, sir, – one of business rather than pleasure. I learned suddenly – by a newspaper paragraph, too – that a distant relative of my mother’s had died in the East, leaving a considerable amount of property to myself; and so, setting out, I arrived at Limerick, intending to sail for Liverpool, when, who should I meet, almost the first person I saw, but my agent, just come in haste from London, to confer with me on the subject. The meeting was so far agreeable, that it saved me a journey I had no fancy for, and also put me in possession of the desired information regarding the property. My agent, speaking of course from imperfect knowledge, calls it a large – what a man like myself would style – a very large fortune.”

“I give you joy, with all my heart,” cried Corrigan, grasping his hand in both his, and shaking it cordially. “When wealth descends to men who have shown their ability to maintain an honorable station without it, the chances are greatly in favor of its being nobly and generously employed.”

“How I hope that I may not disgrace your theory,” said Linton, “for I am not ashamed to assert that I have fulfilled the first condition of the category. With little else but good birth and a fair education, I had to start in the race against others with every aid of fortune; and if I have not reached a more elevated position, I can say that the obstacle lay rather in my own scruples than my incapacity. I declined Parliamentary life because I would not be a nominee; I had a glancing suspicion that my time would come, too, when, without other check upon my motives than the voice of conscience, I should stand in the British Senate a free and independent member. If I have waited patiently for this hour, I hope I have not abused the leisure interval, and that I may bring to the public service something besides the zeal of one who feels the importance of his trust.”

“There is no failure with intentions pure and honorable as these,” said Corrigan, warmly. “It does not need your talents, Mr. Linton, to insure success in such a path; one half of your ability, so nobly backed, would reach the goal. And now tell me, if I be not indiscreet in asking some of your plans, what place do you mean to stand for?”

“Our good borough of Derraheeny,” said Linton, half smiling. “I am in a measure committed to continue my canvass there, and, indeed, have already entered into securities to keep my pledge. I see these words sound a little mysteriously, but I intend to explain them; only I must ask one favor of you. I hope, before I leave the room, to show that I have, if not a claim upon your generosity, at least a plea to warrant my request. My entreaty is this, that you will never divulge to any one what I shall now tell you.”

“Pray, my dear friend, consider for a moment what you are asking. Why make me the depositary of a secret? An old man, whose very years are like ‘fissures in the strong keep,’ where mysteries should be imprisoned.”

“Could I participate in your reasonings, my dear sir, there is yet enough in the present instance to make it an exception. This is a matter you ought to know for your sake, and to keep secret for mine.”

“Then you have my promise,” said Corrigan, frankly.

“I ‘ll be brief with my explanation,” said Linton. “When there was a design, some time back, of my accepting the representation of the borough, Cashel offered me his property of Tubber-beg, on terms which very nearly approached a gift. This – though at the time our relations were those of the closest friendship – I refused; but, as I had made some progress in my canvass of the borough, there was a difficulty in abandoning the position; and so the matter hung, each hoping that the other would suggest some arrangement that might satisfy both. This fortunate device, however, was not to be discovered, and as, for some time back, our intercourse had become gradually less intimate, the chance of such a solution diminished daily.

“In this way the affair stood, when, a couple of mornings since, I felt it my duty, as one who really felt an interest in him, to remonstrate with Roland on a circumstance which, without any affectation of prudery, would have gravely compromised himself, and, worse still, another person. It was a case, – I know not exactly how to touch upon a matter of such delicacy; enough if I say it was one where a persistence in his conduct must have ended in disgrace to him, ruin and misery to another. Poor thing! she is, indeed, to be pitied; and if there be extenuation for such cases, hers is one to claim it. I knew her as Laura Gardiner, – the handsomest creature I ever beheld. Well, well, it is a theme I must not linger on. Cashel, so far from receiving my counsel as I hoped, and indeed expected, resented it with anger and rudeness, and even questioned the degree of intimacy on which I presumed to give my unasked advice.

“I am fortunately a man of cool temper, and so I bore this ungenerous return better than most others might; and seeing that it would possibly be the last occasion I should ever have of giving even unwilling counsel, I spoke to him freely and openly. I told him that his mode of living, while derogatory to the hopes conceived of him, was one that must end at last in ruin; that no fortune could stand his losses at play, and the wasteful extravagance of his caprices. I pressed the matter as strongly as I was able, and represented that his habits bore no reference whatever to his income.

“‘It is quite true,’ said he, with a sneering tone; ‘I cannot readily forget I am chargeable with all these wasteful ways you speak of, nor do I feel that I make any the slightest defence of myself, in regard to habits where my generosity has been as lavish as it has been ill-bestowed.’

“‘I wish I knew if I understand you aright,’ said I.

“‘Your comprehension is of the quickest where there is question of a favor to be received.’

“I did not trust myself with any answer to this speech, which I well knew was a trait of his old buccaneer life. I withdrew, and hastening to his law-agent, Kennyfeck, I at once arranged for the purchase of this small property. The moment for me was propitious; they were in want of ready money, and the treaty was completed the same day. There is the title.”

As he spoke, he threw down the parchment deed upon the table, and lay back in his chair, watching with intense delight the expression of sadness and disappointment on Corrigan’s features.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the old man at last, “how deceived I have been in him!”

“I confess that is what wounds me most in the whole transaction,” said Linton, with a mock emotion in his manner. “One is well accustomed through life to meet sordid motives in mere men of the world, and who deem their low-born subtilty cleverness; but to find a young fellow, beginning life with an ample fortune and a fair position, surrounded by all the blandishments that wealth charms up – ”

“Hold!” cried Corrigan, laying his hand on Linton’s arm, “I cannot bear this. It is not at my age, sir, that disappointments like these can be borne easily. I have too short a time before me here to hope to recover from such shocks.”

“I would not willingly give you pain, my dear sir; nor indeed, is this the topic on which I am most anxious to address you. Another and a very different interest led me hither this morning; and, although I have thought long and maturely on the subject, I am as far as ever from knowing how to approach it. My own unworthiness to what I aspire recoils upon me at every instant, and nothing but the indulgent kindness with which you have always regarded me could give me courage. Forgive me this prolixity; I am like one who fears to plunge, lest he should never rise again.”

“If my estimate of you be correct,” said the old man, laying his hand upon Linton’s, “the goal must needs be high to which you dare not aspire.”

“It is indeed so!” cried Linton, as if carried away by an irresistible emotion. “To me it means station, hope, worldly success, happiness, – ay, life itself. I cannot longer tamper with your feelings, nor my own. The ambition of which I speak, is to be your son; not alone in the affectionate love which already I bear you, but by the closest and dearest ties, to be bound to you in the same chain by which she is, who owns all my heart and all my destiny.”

He stopped as if overcome; and Corrigan, compassionating the agitation he seemed to suffer, said, —

“Be calm, my dear friend; this takes me by surprise. I was not in any way prepared for such an announcement; nor have I courage to look at its consequences; poor, old, companionless as I should be – ”

“Nay, such cruelty was not in my thoughts. It was with far other intentions I became possessed of the property; it was in the glorious hope that it would be our home, – yours and mine together; not to render your hearth desolate, but to give it another guest, whose duty would be his title to be there.”

“Let me think, – let me reflect on this, – let me separate my own selfish thoughts from the higher ones that should guide me. You have not spoken to my daughter?”

“No, sir; I deemed the more honorable course to have your sanction; or, if not that, to bury my sorrows in silence forever.”

“There is so much to consider, and I am so weak and infirm, so inadequate to decide. Your proposal is a proud one for any girl, – I know it; and we are proud, although poor. Ay, Mr. Linton, poor to very necessity! If her affections were engaged by you, if I saw that your high qualities had made the impression upon her that they have on me, I own this offer would delight me; but can you say this is the case?”

“I hope, sir, I am not indifferent to Miss Leicester. The humble fortune which has restrained me hitherto, and prevented my prosecuting an attachment to which I felt I had no claim, exists no longer. I am independent in means, as in opinion; and, however conscious of my personal unworthiness, in all that regards station and condition I ‘m in a position to satisfy you. I only ask your sanction to address Miss Leicester, to know, in fact, that if I should prove acceptable to her, that you will not look unfavorably upon me.”

“This appears most candid and fair on your part; and it is a time when we must both use candor and fairness. Now, Mr. Linton, there are circumstances which at this moment involve me in considerable difficulty; I cannot enter into them just yet; but they may offer grave obstacles to what you propose. I will, therefore, beg of you not to press me for my answer. I see this delay is displeasing – ”

“Nay, sir, I am ready to yield to anything you suggest; but is it not possible that my assistance and advice might be of service in these difficulties you speak of?”

“There is another point, Mr. Linton, – and I know you will think better of me for all my frankness. Are your friends – your family I mean – aware of this step of yours? are you certain of their concurrence in it?”

“I have few relatives living, sir,” said Linton, reddening; “but I can answer for their participation in all that so nearly concerns my happiness.”

“This evening, then; come to me this evening, then,” said Mr. Corrigan, “and you shall hear my sentiments.”

“This is most kind; I can ask for nothing more,” said Linton; and, with a most affectionate pressure of the old man’s hand, departed.