Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“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 – ”

“If you dare, sir!” cried Corrigan, interrupting; and the insolence, schooled and practised in many a trial, quailed before the look and gesture of the old man.

“You shall have your choice, then,” said Linton. “From henceforth you will have to confess that I am not a secret enemy.” And so saying, he opened the sash which led into the garden and passed out, leaving Corrigan overcome by emotion, and almost panic-stricken.

The deceptions which are practised on youth are seldom attended with lasting influence; but when they fall upon a heart chilled and saddened by age, they are stunning in their effect, and seldom, or never, admit of relief.

CHAPTER XXIV. GIOVANNI UNMASKED

Can sight and hearing – even touch deceive?

Or, is this real?

Play.

Probably, in all his varied life, Cashel had never passed a day less to his satisfaction than that spent at Drumcoologan. His mind, already tortured by anxieties, was certainly not relieved by the spectacle that presented itself to his eyes. The fearful condition of a neglected Irish property, where want, crime, disease, and destitution were combined, was now seen by him for the first time. There was one predominant expression on and over everything, – “Despair.” The almost roofless cabin, the scarce-clad children, the fevered father stretched upon his bed of clay, the starving mother, with a dying infant at her bosom, passed before him like the dreadful images of a dream. And then he was to hear from his agent, that these were evils for which no remedy existed: “there had always been fever in Ireland;” “dirt they were used to;” want of clothing had become “natural” to them; falsehood was the first article of their creed; their poverty was only fictitious, – this one owned several cows; the other had money in a savings’ bank; and so on. In fact, he had to hear that every estate had its plague-spot of bad characters, where crime and infamy found a refuge; and that it might be poor morality, but good policy, to admit of the custom.

Confused by contradictory statements, wearied by explanations, to understand which nothing short of a life long should have passed in studying the people, – imposed upon by some, unjust towards others, – he listened to interminable discussions without one gleam of enlightenment – and, what is far worse, without one ray of hope; the only piece of satisfaction he derived from the visit being, that Hoare had consented to advance a sum of money upon mortgage of the property, which, in his secret soul, Cashel resolved should be a purchase, and not a mere loan. The object he had in view was to buy off Linton’s claim upon the cottage; and having settled all his most pressing debts, to retire for some years to the Continent, till a sufficient sum should have accumulated to permit him to recommence his life as a country gentleman, in a manner and with views very different from what he had hitherto done. He hoped, by travel, to improve his mind and extend his knowledge; he trusted that, by observing the condition of the peasant in different countries of Europe, he might bring back with him certain suggestions applicable to his own tenantry; and, at all events, he determined that the resources of his large fortune should no longer be squandered in meaningless debauch, so long as real destitution and grinding misery lay at his very door. He made many a good and noble resolve, and, like most men in such cases, with youth on their side, he was impatient to begin to act upon them.

It was, then, with a feeling like that of a liberated prisoner, he heard from Mr. Kennyfeck that, although Mr. Hoare and himself had yet many preliminaries to arrange, which might detain them several hours longer, he might now return homeward to Tubbermore, where his company were doubtless in anxious expectation of his coming. There were two roads which led to Drumcoologan, – one was a species of carriage-road, by which they had come that morning; the other was a mere bridle-path over the mountain, and though shorter in mileage, required fully as much time, if not more, to travel. Refusing the assistance of a guide, and preferring to be alone, he set out by himself, and on foot, to pursue the way homeward.

It was the afternoon of a sharp, clear winter’s day, when the bracing air and the crisp atmosphere elevate the spirits, and make exercise the most pleasurable of stimulants; and as Cashel went along, he began to feel a return of that buoyancy of heart which had been so peculiarly his own in former days. The future, to which his hope already lent its bright colors, was rapidly erasing the past, and in the confidence of his youth he was fashioning a hundred schemes of life to come.

The path along which he travelled lay between two bleak and barren mountains, and followed the course of a little rivulet for several miles. There was not a cabin to be seen; not a trace of vegetation brightened the dreary picture; not a sheep, nor even a goat, wandered over the wild expanse. It was a solitude the most perfect that could be conceived. Roland often halted to look around him, and each time his eye wandered to a lofty peak of rock on the very summit of the mountain, and where something stood which he fancied might be a human figure. Although gifted with strong power of vision, the great height prevented his feeling any degree of certainty; so that he abandoned the effort, and proceeded on his way for miles without again thinking on the subject. At last, as he was nearing the exit of the glen, he looked up once more; the cliff was now perceptible in its entire extent, and the figure was gone! He gave no further thought to the circumstance, but seeing that the day was declining fast, increased his speed, in order to reach the high-road before night closed in. Scarcely had he proceeded thus more than half a mile, when he perceived, full in front of him, about a couple of hundred yards distant, a man seated upon a stone beside the pathway. Cashel had been too long a wanderer in the wild regions of the “Far West,” not to regard each new-comer as at least a possible enemy. His prairie experience had taught him that men do not take their stand in lonely and unfrequented spots without an object; and so, without halting, which might have awakened suspicion in the other, he managed to slacken his pace somewhat, and thus gave himself more time for thought. He well knew that, in certain parts of Ireland, landlord murder had become frequent; and although he could not charge himself with any act which should point him out as a victim, his was not a mind to waste in casuistry the moments that should be devoted more practically. He was perfectly unarmed, and this consideration rendered him doubly cautious. The matter, however, had but few issues. To go back would be absurd; to halt where he was, still more so. There was nothing, then, for it but to advance; and he continued to do so, calmly and warily, till about twenty paces from the rock where the other sat, still and immovable. Then it was that, dropping on one knee, the stranger threw back a cloak that he wore, and took a deliberate aim at him.

The steady precision of the attitude was enough to show Cashel that the man was well versed in the use of firearms. The distance was short, also, and the chance of escape consequently, the very smallest imaginable. Roland halted, and crossing his arms upon his breast, stood to receive the fire exactly as he would have done in a duel. The other never moved; his dark eye glanced along the barrel without blinking, and his iron grasp held the weapon still pointed at Cashel’s heart.

“Fire!” cried Roland, with the loud utterance he would have used in giving the word of command; and scarcely was it spoken when the rifle was flung to the earth, and, springing to his feet, a tall and muscular man advanced with an outstretched hand to meet him.

“Don’t you know me yet, Roland?” cried a deep voice in Spanish; “not remember your comrade?”

“What!” exclaimed Casbel, as he rubbed his eyes and shook himself as if to insure he was not dreaming. “This is surely impossible! you cannot be my old friend and shipmate Enrique!”

“That am I, my boy,” cried the other, throwing his arms around him and embracing him in true Mexican fashion; “your own old comrade for many a year, who has sailed with you, fought with you, drunk with you, played with you, and swears now that he wishes for nothing but the old times over again.”

“But how came you here? and when? By what chance did you discover me?” said Roland, as he clasped the other’s hand in both his own.

“‘T is a long story, amigo mio but you shall have it all one of these days.”

“True; there will be time enough to tell it, for you shall not leave me, Enrique. I was longing for a face of an old comrade once again – one of the old ‘Esmeralda’s,’ with whom my happiest days were passed.”

“I can well believe it,” said Enrique; “and it was to see if wealth had not sapped your courage, as I know it has your high spirits, that I took aim at you, a while ago. Had you quailed, Roland, I almost think I could have pulled the trigger.”

“And I had well deserved it, too,” said Cashel, sternly. “But let us hasten forward. Enrique, I am longing to see an old friend beneath my roof, – longing to see you seated opposite to me, and answering the hundred questions about old friends and times that are thronging to my mind.”

“No, Roland, my way lies thither,” said he, pointing towards the west; “I have been too long your guest already.”

“How do you mean?” cried Roland, in amazement.

“Simply, that for seven weeks I have lived beneath your roof. The narrative is too long for a moment like this; but enough if I tell you that it was a plot of Maritaña’s, who, had I not acceded to the notion, would have disguised herself and come hither, to watch and see with her own eyes how you played the great man. To save her from such a step, when all persuasion failed, I came here as the sailor Giovanni.”

“You Giovanni?”

“Ay, Roland; and if wealth had not blinded you so effectually, you had soon seen through the counterfeit. As Giovanni, I saw your daily life, – the habits of your household; the sterling worth and fidelity of the men you made your friends; and let me tell you, Cashel, our old associates of the Villa de las Noches were men of unblemished honor compared with those well-bred companions of your prosperity. Often and often have I been upon the brink of declaring myself, and then have I held back, sometimes from a curiosity to see the game played out, sometimes anxious to know how far this course of treachery might be carried on without its awakening your suspicions. At length, I actually grew weary of seeing you the dupe. I almost ceased to feel interest in one who could be imposed upon with such slender artifice. I forgot, Roland, that I was the looker-on, and not the player of the game. It was in this mood of mind I had half determined to leave your house, and suffer you to go down the stream as chance might pilot, when I discovered that treachery had taken a higher flight than I suspected; and that, not content with the slow breaching of your fortune by play and reckless waste, your utter ruin, your very beggary had been compassed!”

Cashel started back, and grasped the other’s arm tightly, but never spoke.