Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

“I only know of one man who realizes all this combination,” said Cashel, smiling, “and he would n’t answer.”

“Who is he, – and why?” asked Linton, in vain endeavoring to look easy and unconcerned.

“Tom Linton is the man, and his invincible laziness the ‘why.’ Isn’t that true?”

“By George, Cashel, if you ‘re content with the first part of the assertion, I ‘ll pledge myself to remedy the latter. I own, frankly, it is a career for which I have no predilection; if I had, I should have been ‘in’ many years ago. I have all my life held very cheap your great political leaders, both as regards capacity and character, and I have ever fancied that I should have had some success in the lists; but I have always loved ease, and that best of ease, independence. If you think, however, that I can worthily represent you in Parliament, and that you could safely trust to my discretion the knotty question of political war, say the word, my boy, and I ‘ll fling my ‘far niente’ habits to the wind, and you shall have all the merit of developing the promising member for – what’s the name of it?”

“Derraheeny.”

“Exactly – the honorable and learned – for Derraheeny. I rather like the title.”

“Well, Linton, if you are really serious – ”

“Most assuredly, serious; and more, to prove it, I shall ask you to clench our bargain at once. It is not enough that you make me your nominee, but you must also render me eligible to become so.”

“I don’t clearly comprehend – ”

“I ‘ll enlighten you. Our venerable constitution, perfectly irrespective of the Tom Lintons of this world – a race which, by the way, never dies out, probably because they have avoided intermarriage – has decided that a man must possess something besides his wits to be qualified as ‘Member of Parliament;’ a strange law, because the aforesaid wits are all that the Honorable House has any reason to lay claim to. This same something which guarantees that a man has a legislative capacity, amounts to some hundreds a year. Don’t be impatient, and come out with any piece of rash generosity; I don’t want you to make a present of an estate – only to lend me one! To be qualified, either as a candidate for the House or a gentleman rider, one only needs a friend, – a well-to-do friend, who ‘ll say, ‘He’s all right.’”

“I ‘m quite ready to vouch for you, Tom, but you ‘ll have to take the affair into your own management.”

“Oh, it’s easy enough. That same cottage and the farm which we spoke of the other day, Kennyfeck can make out a kind of conveyance, or whatever the instrument is called, by which it acknowledges me for its owner, vice Roland Cashel, Esquire. This, properly sealed, signed, and so on, will defy the most searching Committee that ever pried into any gentleman’s private circumstances.”

“Then explain it all to Kennyfeck, and say that I wish it done at once.”

“Nay, Cashel, pardon me. My ugliest enemy will not call me punctilious, but I must stand upon a bit of ceremony here. This must be ordered by yourself. You are doing a gracious thing, – a devilish kind thing, – it must not be done by halves. Were I to communicate this to Kennyfeck, he ‘ll unquestionably obey the direction, but most certainly he ‘d say to the first man he met, ‘See how Linton has managed to trick Cashel out of a very considerable slice of landed property.’ He ‘d not take much trouble to state the nature of our compact; he ‘d rather blink the whole arrangement, altogether, and make the thing seem a direct gift. Now, I have too much pride on your account, and my own too, to stand this.”

“Well, well, it shall be as you like; only I trow I disagree with you about old Kennyfeck: he ‘s a fine straight-hearted fellow – he’s – ”

“He ‘s an attorney, Cashel. These fellows can no more comprehend a transfer of property without a trial at bar, or a suit in Equity, than an Irish second can understand a falling out without one of the parties being brought home on a door. Besides, he has rather a grudge against me. I never told you, – indeed, I never meant to tell you, – but I can have no secrets from you. You know the youngest girl, Olivia?”

“Yes, go on,” said Cashel, red and pale by turns.

“Well, I flirted a good deal last winter with her. Upon my life, I did not intend it to have gone so far; I suppose it must have gone far, though, because she became desperately in love. She is very pretty, certainly, and a really good little girl, —mais, que voulez-vous? If I tie a fly on my hook I can’t afford to see a flounder or a perch walk off with it; it’s the speckled monster of the stream I fish for. They ought to have known that themselves, – I ‘ve no doubt they did, too; but they were determined, as they say here, to die ‘innocent,’ and so one fine morning I was just going to join the hounds at Finglas, when old Kennyfeck, very trimly dressed, and looking unutterable importance, entered my lodgings. There’s a formula for these kind of explanations – I ‘ve gone through seven of these myself, and I ‘ll swear that every papa has opened the conference with a solemn appeal to Heaven ‘that he never was aware of the attentions shown his daughter, nor the state of his dear child’s affections, till last evening.’ They always assure you, besides, that if they could give a million and a half as dowry, you are the very man – the actual one individual – they would have selected; so that on an average most young ladies have met with at least half-a-dozen parties whom the fathers have pronounced to be, separately, the one most valued. Kennyfeck behaved, I must say, admirably. His wife would have a Galway cousin sent for, and a duel; some other kind friend suggested to have me waylaid and thrashed. He calmly heard me for about ten minutes, and then taking up his hat and gloves, said, ‘Take your rule,’ and so it ended. I dined there the next Sunday, – yes, that’s part of my system: I never permit people to nourish small grudges, and go about abusing me to my acquaintances. If they will do that, I overwhelm them by their duplicity, as I am seen constantly in their intimacy, and remarkable for always speaking well of them, so that the world will certainly give it against them. The gist of all this tiresome story is, that Kennyfeck and the ladies would, if occasion served, pay off the old debt to me; therefore, beware if you hear me canvassed in that quarter!” Linton, like many other cunning people, very often lapsed into little confessions of the tactics by which he played his game in the world, and although Cashel was not by any means a dangerous confidant to such disclosures, he now marked with feelings not all akin to satisfaction this acknowledgment of his friend’s skill.

“You ‘d never have shown your face there again, I ‘ll wager a hundred!” said Linton, reading in the black look of Roland’s countenance an expression he did not fancy.

“You are right. I should have deemed it unfair to impose on the young lady a part so full of awkwardness as every meeting must necessitate.”

“That comes of your innocence about women, my dear friend; they have face for anything. It is not hypocrisy, it is not that they do not feel, and feel deeply, but their sense of command, their instinct of what is becoming, is a thousand times finer than ours; and I am certain that when we take all manner of care to, what is called, spare their feelings, we are in reality only sparing them a cherished opportunity of exercising a control over those feelings which we foolishly suppose to be as ungovernable as our own.”

Either not agreeing with the sentiment, or unable to cope with its subtlety, Cashel sat some time without speaking. From Olivia Kennyfeck his thoughts reverted to one in every respect unlike her, – the daring, impetuous Maritaña.

He wondered within himself whether her bold, impassioned nature could be comprehended within Linton’s category, and a secret sense of rejoicing thrilled through him as he replied to himself in the negative.

“I ‘d wager a trifle, Roland, from that easy smile you wear, that your memory has called up one example, at least, unfavorable to my theory. Eh! I have guessed aright Come then, out with it, man, – who is this peerless paragon of pure ingenuous truth? – who is she whose nature is the transparent crystal where fair thoughts are enshrined? No denizen of our misty northland, I’ll be sworn, but some fair Mexican, with as little disguise as drapery. Confess, I say – there is a confession, I ‘ll be sworn – and so make a clean breast of it.”

It struck Cashel, while Linton was speaking, how effectually Maritaña herself, by one proud look, one haughty gesture, would have silenced such flippant raillery; and he could not help feeling it a kind of treason to their old friendship that he should listen to it in patient endurance.

“Listen to me, amigo mio,” said he, in a tone of earnest passion that seemed almost estranged from his nature latterly, – “listen to me while I tell you that in those faraway countries, whose people you regard with such contemptuous pity, there are women – ay, young girls – whose daring spirit would shame the courage of many of those fine gentlemen we spend our lives with; and I, for one, have so much of the Indian in me, as to think that courage is the first of virtues.”

“I cannot help fancying,” said Linton, with an almost imperceptible raillery, “that there are other qualities would please me as well in a wife or a mistress.”

“I have no doubt of it – and suit you better, too,” said Cashel, savagely; then hastily correcting himself for his rude speech, he added, “I believe, in good earnest, that you would as little sympathize with that land and its people as I do with this. Ay, if you want a confession, there’s one for you. I’m longing to be back once more among the vast prairies of the West, galloping free after the dark-backed bisons, and strolling along in the silent forests. The enervation of this life wearies and depresses me; worse than all, I feel that, with a little more of it, I shall lose all energy and zest for that activity of body, which, to men like myself, supplies the place of thought, – a little more of it, and I shall sink into that languid routine where dissipation supplies the only excitement.”

“This is a mere passing caprice; a man who has wealth – ”

“There it is,” cried Cashel, interrupting him impetuously; “that is the eternal burden of your song. As if wealth, in forestalling the necessity for labor, did not, at the same time, deprive life of all the zeal of enterprise. When I have stepped into my boat to board a Chilian frigate, I have had a prouder throbbing at my heart than ever the sight of that banker’s check-book has given me. There’s many a Gambusino in the Rocky Mountains a happier – ay, and a finer fellow, too, than the gayest of those gallants that ever squandered the gold he quarried! But why go on? – we are speaking in unknown tongues to each other.”

The tone of irritation into which, as it seems unconsciously, Cashel had fallen, was not lost on the keen perception of Linton, and he was not sorry to feign a pretext for closing an interview whose continuance might be unpleasant.

“I was thinking of a hurried trip down to Tubbermore,” said he, rising; “we shall have these guests of yours in open rebellion, if we don’t affect at least something like preparation for their reception. I’ll take Perystell along with me, and we’ll see what can be done to get the old house in trim.”

“Thanks,” said Cashel, as he walked up and down, his thoughts seeming engaged on some other theme.

“I ‘ll write to you a report of the actual condition of the fortress,” said Linton, assuming all his habitual easy freedom of manner, “and then, if you think of anything to suggest, you’ll let me hear.”

“Yes, I ‘ll write,” said Cashel, still musing on his own thoughts.

“I see pretty plainly,” cried Linton, laughing, “there’s no earthly use in asking you questions just now, your brain being otherwise occupied, and so, good-bye.”

“Good-bye – good-bye,” said Cashel, endeavoring, but not with a very good grace to shake off his pre-occupation while he shook hands with him; and Linton descended the stairs, humming an opera air, with all the seeming light-heartedness of a very careless nature.

Cashel, meanwhile, sat down, and, with his head resting on his hand, pondered over their late interview. There were two circumstances which both puzzled and distressed him. How came it that Linton should have written this note to Kennyfeck on a subject which only seemed to have actually suggested itself in the course of this their very last conversation? Had he already planned the whole campaign respecting the seat in Parliament and the qualification, and was his apparently chance allusion to those topics a thing studied and devised beforehand? This, if true, would argue very ill for his friend’s candor and fair dealing; and yet, how explain it otherwise? Was there any other seat open to him for which to need a qualification? If so, he had never spoken of it. It was the first time in his life that Cashel had conceived a suspicion of one whom he had regarded in the light of friend, and only they who have undergone a similar trial can understand the poignant suffering of the feeling; and yet, palpable as the cause of such a doubt was, he had never entertained it had not Linton spoken disparagingly of the Kennyfecks! This is a curious trait of human nature, but one worth consideration; and while leaving it to the elucidation the penetration of each reader may suggest, we only reiterate the fact, that while Cashel could, without an effort, have forgiven the duplicity practised on himself, the levity Linton employed respecting Olivia engendered doubts of his honor too grave to be easily combated.

As for Linton scarcely had he quitted Cashel, than he hastened to call on Kennyfeck; he had written the note already alluded to, to leave at the house should the solicitor be from home; but having left it by accident on the writing-table, his servant, discovering it to be sealed and addressed, had, without further question, left it at Kennyfeck’s house. As Linton went along, he searched his pockets for the epistle, but consoled himself by remembering how he had left it at home.

A few moments later found him at Kennyfeck’s door. The attorney was at home, and, without any announcement, Linton entered the study where he sat.

“I was this instant writing to you, sir,” said Kennyfeck, rising, and placing a seat for him; “Mr Cashel, on being informed of the wish expressed in your note – ”

“Of what note?” said Linton, in a voice of, for him, very unusual agitation.

“This note – here, sir, – dated – no, by-the-by, it is not dated, but brought by your servant two hours ago.”

Linton took the paper, glanced his eye over it, and then, in mingled chagrin and forgetfulness, tore it, and threw the fragments into the fire.

“There is some mistake about this,” said he, slowly, and giving himself time to consider what turn he should lend it.

“This is Mr. Cashel’s reply, sir,” said Kennyfeck, after pausing some moments, but in vain for the explanation.

Linton eagerly caught the letter and read it through, and whatever scruples or fear he might have conceived for any other man’s, it seemed as if he had little dread of Cashel’s penetration, for his assured and easy smile at once showed that he had regained his wonted tranquillity.

“You will then take the necessary steps, without delay, Kennyfeck,” said he. “The elections cannot be very distant, and it is better to be prepared.” As he spoke, he threw the letter back upon the table, but in a moment afterwards, while taking off his gloves, managed to seize it and convey it to his pocket. “You know far better than I do, Kennyfeck,” resumed he, “how sharp the lawyers can be in picking out any flaw respecting title and so forth; for this reason, be careful that this document shall be as regular and binding as need be.”

“It shall be submitted for counsel’s opinion this evening, sir – ”

“Not to Jones, then; I don’t fancy that gentleman, although I know he has some of your confidence; send it to Hammond.”

“As you please, sir.”

“Another point. You’ll not insert any clause respecting the tenant in possession; it would only be hampering us with another defence against some legal subtlety or other.”

“Mr. Cashel does not desire this, sir?”

“Of course not – you understand what the whole thing means. Well, I must say good-bye; you ‘ll have all ready by the time I return to town. My respects to the drawing-room. Adieu.

“That was bad blunder about the note,” muttered Linton, as he walked along towards home, “and might have lost the game, if the antagonist had any skill whatever.”

CHAPTER XXIII. LINTON VISITS HIS ESTATE

Let’s see the field, and mark it well,For, here, will be the battle.Ottocar.

“Does this path lead to the house, friend?” said a gentleman whose dress bespoke recent travel, to the haggard, discontented figure of a man who, seated on a stone beside a low and broken wicket, was lazily filling his pipe, and occasionally throwing stealthy glances at the stranger. A. short nod of the head was the reply. “You belong to the place, I suppose?”

“Maybe I do; and what then?”

“Simply that, as I am desirous of going thither, I should be glad of your showing me the way.”

“Troth, an’ there’s little to see when you get there,” rejoined the other, sarcastically. “What are you by trade, if it’s not displeasin’ to ye?”

“That’s the very question I was about to ask you,” said Linton, for it was himself; “you appear to have a very easy mode of life, whatever it be, since you are so indifferent about earning half-a-crown.”

Tom Keane arose from his seat, and made an awkward attempt at saluting, as he said, —

“‘Tis the dusk o’the evening prevented me seeing yer honer, or I wouldn’t be so bowld. This is the way to the Hall sure enough.”

“This place has been greatly neglected of late,” said Linton, as they walked along side by side, and endeavoring, by a tone of familiarity, to set his companion at ease.

“Troth, it is neglected, and always was as long as I remember. I was reared in it, and I never knew it other; thistles and docks as big as your leg, everywhere, and the grass choked up with moss.”

“How came it to be so completely left to ruin?”

“Anan!” muttered he, as if not well comprehending the question, but, in reality, a mere device employed to give him more time to scan the stranger, and guess at his probable object.

“I was asking,” said Linton, “how it happened that a fine old place like this was suffered to go to wreck and ruin?”

“Faix, it’s ould enough, anyhow,” said the other, with a coarse laugh.

“And large too.”

“Yer honer was here afore?” said Tom, stealthily glancing at him under his brows. “I ‘m thinking I remember yer honer’s faytures. You would n’t be the gentleman that came down with Mr. Duffy?”

“No; this is my first visit to these parts; now, where does this little road lead? It seems to be better cared for than the rest, and the gate, too, is neatly kept.”

“That goes down to the cottage, sir – Tubber-beg, as they call it. Yer honer isn’t Mr. Cashel himself?” said Tom, reverentially taking off his tattered hat, and attempting an air of courtesy, which sat marvellously ill upon him.

“I have not that good luck, my friend.”

“‘T is good luck ye may call it,” sighed Tom; “a good luck that does n’t fall to many; but, maybe, ye don’t want it; maybe yer honer – ”

“And who lives in the cottage of Tubber-beg?” said Linton, interrupting.

“One Corrigan, sir; an old man and his granddaughter.”

“Good kind of people, are they?”

“Ayeh! there’s worse, and there ‘s betther! They ‘re as proud as Lucifer, and poor as naygurs.”

“And this is the Hall itself?” exclaimed Linton, as he stopped directly in front of the old dilapidated building, whose deformities were only exaggerated by the patchy effect of a faint moonlight.

“Ay, there it is,” grinned Tom, “and no beauty either; and ugly as it looks without, it’s worse within! There ‘a cracks in the walls ye could put your hand through, and the windows is rotten, where they stand.”

“It is not very tempting, certainly, as a residence,” said Linton, smiling.

“Ah, but if ye heerd the rats, the way they do be racin’ and huntin’ each other at night, and the wind bellowsin’ down the chimbleys, such screechin’ and yellin’ as it keeps, and then the slates rattlin’, till ye’d think the ould roof was comin’ off altogether, – be my soul, there’s many a man would n’t take the property and sleep a night in that house.”

“One would do a great deal, notwithstanding, for a fine estate like this,” said Linton, dryly.

There was something, either in the words or the accent, that touched Tom Keane’s sympathy for the speaker; some strange suspicion perhaps, that he was one whose fortune, like his own, was not beyond the casualties and chances of life, and it was with a species of coarse friendship that he said, “Ah, if we had it between us, we ‘d do well.”

“Right well; no need to ask for better,” said Linton, with a heartiness of assent that made the other perfectly at ease. “I’m curious to have a look at the inside of the place; I suppose there is no hindrance?”

“None in life! I live below, and, faix, there’s no living anywhere else, for most of the stairs is burned, and, as I towld ye, the rats has upstairs all to themselves. Nancy, give us a light,” cried he, passing into the dark and spacious hall, “I’m going to show a gentleman the curiosities. I ax you honer’s pardon, the place is n’t so clean as it might be.”

Linton gave one peep into the long and gloomy chamber, where the whole family were huddled together in all the wretchedness and disorder of a cabin, and at once drew back.

“The cows is on the other side,” said the man, “and, beyond, there’s four rooms was never plastered; and there, where you see the straw, that’s the billiard-room, and inside of it again, there’s a place for play-actin’, and, more by token, there’s a quare thing there.”

“What’s that?” asked Linton, whose curiosity was excited by the remark.

“Come, and I ‘ll show yer honer.”

So saying, he led on through a narrow corridor, and, passing through two or three dilapidated, ruined chambers, they entered a large and spacious apartment, whose sloping floor at once showed Linton that they were standing on the stage of a theatre.

Tom Keane held up the flickering light, that the other might see the torn and tattered remnants of the decorations, and the fragments of scenes, as they flapped to and fro. “It’s a dhroll place, anyhow,” said he, “and there’s scarce a bit of it hasn’t a trap-door, or some other contrivance of the like; but here’s one stranger than all; this is what I towld yer honer about.” He walked, as he spoke, to the back wall of the building, where, on the surface of the plaster, a rude scene, representing a wood, was painted, at one side of which a massive pile of rock, overgrown with creepers, stood. “Now, ye ‘d never guess what was there,” said Tom, holding the candle in different situations to exhibit the scene; “and, indeed, I found it by chance myself; see this,” – and he pressed a small but scarcely perceptible knob of brass in the wall, and at once, what appeared to be the surface of the rock, slid back, discovering a dark space behind. “Come on, now, after me,” continued he. Linton followed, and they ascended a narrow stair constructed in the substance of the wall, and barely sufficient to admit one person.

Arriving at the top, after a few seconds’ delay, Tom opened a small door, and they stood in a large and well-proportioned room, where some worm-eaten bed-furniture yet remained. The door had been once, as a small, fragment of glass showed, the frame of a large mirror, and must have been quite beyond the reach of ordinary powers of detection.

“That was a cunning way to steal down among the play acthers,” said Keane, grinning, while Linton, with the greatest attention, remarked the position of the door and its secret fastening.

“I suppose no one but yourself knows of this stair?” said Linton.

“Sorra one, sir, except, maybe, some of the smugglers that used to come here long ago from the mouth of the Shannon. This was one of their hiding-places.”

“Well, if this old mansion comes ever to be inhabited, one might have rare fun by means of that passage; so be sure, you keep the secret well. Let that be a padlock on your lips.” And, so saying, he took a sovereign from his purse and gave it to him. “Your name is – ”