Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“Are you still so infatuated as not to guess the traitor?” cried Enrique.

“You mean Linton?”

“I do.”

“But are you certain of what you speak? or do you mistake the cunning devices of a subtle mind for the darker snares of downright treachery?”

“You shall hear,” said Enrique. “Sit down hereupon this stone; I have some hours before I sail. The vessel leaves Limerick to-morrow for Naples; and thither I am bound, for Maritaña is there. No, no, my dear friend, you must not ask me to stay; I have remained longer than I ought; but I waited for the time when I might be able to recompense you for having thus played the spy upon your actions. Hear me out patiently now, for that hour is come.”

As Cashel seated himself beside Enrique, it was only by a great effort he could compose himself to listen, when a hundred questions came thronging to his mind, and doubts and inquiries, of every possible kind, demanded explanation.

“I will not waste your time nor my own by dwelling upon your losses at play. I may one day or another amuse you by showing how little chance our old Columbian friends would have had against these honorable and right honorable swindlers. That you should be the mark for artifice is natural enough; but I have little patience with your blindness in not seeing it. From the first hour of your arrival here, Linton set a watch upon your doings. Phillis was his principal agent. But even upon him Linton had his spies, – myself among the number. Ay, Roland, I was perhaps the only one he trusted! As I have said, Linton marked every step you took, heard all you said, read every letter that reached you. Every night it was his practice, at a certain hour when you repaired to the cottage, to enter your dressing-room by a secret door that led from the theatre; and then, at his leisure, he ransacked your papers, examined your correspondence, searched through all the documents which concerned your estate, possessing himself of information on every point of your circumstances. Nor was this all; he abstracted papers of value from amongst them, well knowing the carelessness of your habits, and with what little risk of detection his boldest darings were attended. I studied him long and closely. For a great while I could not detect the clew to his proceedings. I even at one time ascribed all to jealousy, for he was jealous of the favor by which Lady Kilgoff distinguished you. This, however, could not explain all I saw, for it was on the subject of your fortune his deepest interest was excited. At last came his first move, and the whole game disclosed itself before me. There lay upon your table for several days a deed concerning the cottage where the old gentleman resided with his daughter. This, Linton, to my surprise, did not take away, but simply contented himself by placing it in such a prominent position as would in all likelihood attract your notice. To no purpose, however; you would seem to have tossed it over, among other papers, without attention. He went a step further; he broke the seal, and left the enclosure half open. Still it lay unminded. The next night he carried it off, but you never missed it.”

“Nor was it of any consequence,” broke in Cashel. “It was never perfected, and had neither my signature nor my seal.”

“Are you certain of that?” said Enrique, smiling dubiously.

“I could swear to it.”

“Look here, then,” said the other, as he drew forth a pocket-book, from the folds of which he took a heavy package, and opened it before Cashel. “Is that name, there, – that signature, ‘Roland Cashel,’ – yours?”

Cashel stared at the writing without speaking; his hands trembled as they held the paper, and his very frame shook with agitation.

“I never wrote it!” cried he, at last, with an effort almost convulsive.

“Yet, see if it be not witnessed; there are the names and address of two persons.”

“It is a forgery; a clever one, I own, but still a forgery. I never signed that paper – never saw it till this instant.”

“Well,” said Enrique, slowly, “I scarcely expected so much of memory from you. It is true, as you say, you never did sign it; but I did.”

“You, Enrique, – you?” exclaimed Cashel.

“Yes, Roland. I accompanied Linton to Limerick at his request, dressed to personate you. We were met at the hotel by two persons summoned to witness this act of signature; of the meaning of which I, of course, appeared to know nothing; nor did I, indeed, till long afterwards discover the real significance.”

“And how came you by it eventually?”

“By imitating Linton’s own proceedings. I saw that for security he placed it in an iron box, which he carried with him to Limerick, and which contained another document of apparently far greater value. This casket was long enough in my company on that morning to enable me to take a model of the key, by which I afterwards had another made, and by means of which I obtained possession of both these papers – for here is the other.”

“And when did you take them?”

“About an hour ago. I saw this drama was drawing to a finish. I knew that Linton’s schemes were advancing more rapidly than I could follow; his increased confidence of manner proved to me his consciousness of strength, and yet I could neither unravel his cunning nor detect his artifice. Nothing then remained but to carry off these papers; and as the hour of my own departure drew nigh, there was no time to lose. There they are both. I hope you will be a more careful depositary than you have been hitherto.”

“And where is Linton?” cried Roland, his passionate eagerness for revenge mastering every other feeling.

“Still your guest. He dines and does the honors of your board to-day, as he did yesterday, and will to-morrow.”

“Nay, by my oath, that he will never do more! The man is no coward, and he will not refuse me the amende I ‘ll ask for.”

“Were he on board, it is a loop and a leap I ‘d treat him to,” said Enrique.

“So should I, perhaps,” said Cashel, “but the circumstances change with the place. Here he shall have the privilege of the class he has belonged to and disgraced.”

“Not a bit of it, Roland. He is an average member of the guild; the only difference being, with more than average ability. These fellows are all alike. Leave them, I say. Come and rough it with me in the Basque, where a gallant band are fighting for the true sovereign; or let us have another dash in the Far West, where the chase is as the peril and glory of war; or what say you to the East? a Circassian saddle and a cimeter would not be strange to us. Choose your own land, my boy, and let us meet this day month at Cadiz.”

“But why leave me, Enrique? I never had more need of a true-hearted friend than now.”

“No, I cannot stay; my last chance of seeing Maritaña depends on my reaching Naples at once; and as to your affair with Linton, it will be one of those things of etiquette, and measured distance, and hair-trigger, in which a rough sailor like myself would be out of place.”

“And Maritaña – tell me of her. They said that Rica had come to England.”

“Rica! He dared not set foot on shore. The fellow has few countries open to him now: nor is it known where he is.”

“And is she alone? Is Maritaña unprotected?”

“Alone, but not unprotected. The girl who has twice crossed the Cordilleras with a rifle on her shoulder need scarcely fear the insults of the coward herd that would molest her.”

“But how is she living? In what rank – among what associates?”

“I only know that she maintains a costly retinue at the ‘Albergo Reale;’ that her equipages, her servants, her liveries, bespeak wealth without limit. She is a mystery to the city she inhabits. So much have I heard from others; from herself, a few lines reached me at Dieppe, begging me to see you, and – you will scarcely believe it – asking for a release from that bond of betrothal that passed between you, – as if it could signify anything.”

“Was the freedom thus obtained to be used in your favor, Enrique?”

The other grew purple, and it was a few seconds before he could answer. “No; that is over forever. She has refused me as one so much below her that the very thought of an alliance would be degradation. The sailor – the buccaneer – raise his eyes to her whom princes seek in vain? I go now to say my last farewell: so long as there dwells upon my mind the slenderest chance of meeting her, so long will hope linger in my heart; not the high hope that spirits one to glorious enterprise, but that feverish anxiety that unnerves the courage and shakes the purpose. I cannot endure it any longer.”

“Remain with me, then, for a day – for two at furthest – and we will go together to Naples.”

“Do not ask me, Roland. Some accident – some one of those chances which befall each hour of life – might delay us; and then I might never see her more. She is to leave Naples by the end of the month, but to go whither, or how, she will not tell. Promise me to follow. Let us meet there; and then, if the world has not a faster hold upon you than I deem it has, we ‘ll seek our fortune together in new lands. What say you? is it a bargain?”

“Agreed,” said Roland. “I’ll leave this within a week, without it be my fate to quit it never. Let us rendezvous at Naples, then; and fortune shall decide what after.”

“How hundreds of things press upon my mind, all of which, when I am gone, will be remembered, but which now are confusedly mingled up together! What warnings I meant to have given you! what cautions! and now I can think of nothing.”

“I have room for but one thought,” said Cashel, sternly: “it is a debt which every hour unpaid increases by a tenfold interest.”

“It need not weigh long upon your conscience. Linton wears the dress of a grandee of Spain to-night; but he ‘ll conceal it from time to time beneath a plain brown domino with yellow cape. Do not mix with your company on arriving, but wait till about twelve o’clock in your room, and you’ll hear him as he enters his own: then, without risk of disturbance, you can see him; or, if you like it better, send another to him. Should he be the man you suppose, the whole can easily be arranged by the light of morning.”

“And so shall it be,” said Cashel, in a deep low voice.

“If this life of luxury has not unsteadied your finger, I’d not take his place for half your fortune.”

A short motion of the head from Cashel seemed to concur with this speech.

“How I wish you were to be with me, Enrique!” said he, after a silence of some minutes.

“So should I, Roland; but you will not need me: were there two to bring to reckoning, I’d stay, cost what it might. And here we say farewell.” They had walked together, during this colloquy, to the high-road, which on one side leads towards Tubbermore, and on the other to Limerick.

Cashel held his comrade’s hand fast clasped in his own, without speaking. The sense of isolation had never struck him so forcibly as now that, having met an old and attached friend, he was about to part with him so suddenly. It appeared to darken his solitude into something more lonely still.

“I ‘d have thought that all this wealth had made you happier,” said Enrique, as he gazed at the sorrow-struck features of his friend.

“Neither happier nor better,” said Roland, mournfully.

“There! see yonder,” cried Enrique, “where you see the lamps flashing; those are the carriages of your gay company. Remember that you are the host to-night; and so, good-bye.”

“Good-bye, my old comrade.”

“One word more,” said Enrique. “Be not weak-hearted – trust none of them – they are false, every one: some from envy; some from treachery; some from that fickleness that they fancy to be knowledge of life; but all are alike. And so, till we meet again at Naples.”

“At Naples,” echoed Cashel; and, with head bent down, pursued his way homeward.

CHAPTER XXV. TIERNAY INTIMIDATED – THE ABSTRACTED DEEDS

Warmth may suit the gen’rous fool;The deeper knave must aye be cool.Bell.

Rapidly as carriage after carriage rolls up the broad approach to Tubbermore, the lamps flashing and glittering through the dark wood, we must beg of our reader to turn back a few hours in our history, and follow the steps of Mr. Linton, as, leaving the cottage, he turned towards the “great house.”

Probably, to a mind constituted like his there could be no more poignant sense of sorrow and regret than that experienced in consequence of a sudden and irrepressible burst of passion. It was a great fault, – the greatest he could commit. In justice to him, we will own it was of the very rarest in occurrence. His outbreaks of anger, like his moments of calm, were all studied beforehand; and nothing short of a catastrophe, unexpected and overwhelming, could have surprised him into the fatal excess of which his interview with Corrigan was an instance.

If repentance could have compensated for his sin, assuredly the offence might have been effaced from the tablet of his misdeeds. Never was sorrow more true, heartfelt, and cutting. He called none of his accustomed casuistry to aid him in softening down his fault; he saw it in all the breadth of its enormity, as a foul blot upon that system of deceit in which years of practice had made him so perfect. He felt compromised by himself; and possibly, to a cunning man, this is the bitterest of all self-reproaches.

Very little consideration was needed to show that, so far as Corrigan went, reconciliation was impossible. He knew the old man too well to have a doubt upon that subject.

What, then, was to be done? In which was the most profitable channel to turn the stream of coming events? Were Cashel a man of different mould, there would be no price too high to pay for that document which stood between him and his title to the estate. It was all the difference between rank and obscurity – between wealth and want – between the condition of an estated gentleman and the assumption of a mere pretender. Wide as the alternatives lay, Linton knew they would not affect Cashel’s mind. He foresaw clearly that, in a burst of his “most virtuous probity,” he would declare Corrigan the rightful owner of the estate, and walk forth into the world as poor as when he began it. With Cashel, therefore, all treaty would be impossible. The next consideration was, what terms might be made with Corrigan through Tiernay. The rough frankness of the old doctor had always been reckoned by Linton as a commonplace trick of certain coarse minds, to simulate honesty and straightforwardness. He believed that mankind consisted of but two categories, – the knave and the fool: he who was not one must necessarily be the other. Now, an acute study of Tiernay persuaded him that he was a shrewd, sound-headed man, whose very profession had trained him into habits of investigation; and thought there could be little doubt, therefore, into which class be fell. There was, moreover, this advantage in treating with him, that neither personal feeling nor pride of station would interfere with the negotiation; he would entertain the question in the simple light of a bargain, – so much for so much. The unlucky release of all claim upon their property was, of course, to be thought of – as deteriorating, if not altogether invalidating, the title; but of this it might be possible, perhaps, to obtain possession. Cashel’s papers must be ransacked throughout; it was very unlikely that he had taken an unusual care of it, so that Linton was far from supposing that this would present a serious difficulty. But why had he not thought of this before? Why had he suffered his disappointment to blind him to what was so palpable? “So much for thinking the game won ere it is finished,” exclaimed he; “but who would have thought Linton should make this blunder?”

To treat with Tiernay, then, realized every advantage he could think of. It offered the prospect of better terms, an easier negotiation; and it presented one feature of inestimable merit in his eyes, – it afforded the means of gratifying his hatred against Cashel, without the vengeance costing him anything. This thought, for a while, left him incapable of entertaining every other. Cashel reduced to poverty – humiliated to the position of an adventurer who had obtained a property under false pretences – was a picture he could never weary of contemplating. What a glorious consummation of revenge, could he have involved one other in the ruin! – if Laura had been the companion of his fall! But that scheme had failed; a friendship – a perilous one, ‘t is true – had sprung up where Linton had sowed the seeds of a very different passion; and nothing remained but to involve them both in the disgrace and ruin which a separation and its consequences could inflict. “Even this,” thought be, “will now be no trifling penalty, – the ‘millionnaire’ Roland Cashel would have conferred an éclat on the fall, that would become ludicrous when associated with the name of a mere adventurer.”

If thoughts of these vengeances afforded the most intense pleasure to his vindictive mind, there came, ever and anon, deep regrets at the loss of that greater game for which he had planned and plotted so anxiously. That noble fortune which he had almost held within his grasp; that high station from which he would have known how to derive all its advantages; the political position he had so long ambitioned, – were now all to flit from before his eyes like the forms of a dream, unreal and impossible.

So intently had he pursued these various reasonings, that he utterly forgot everything of his late interview with Tom Keane; and when the remembrance did flash upon him, the effect was almost stunning. The crime would now be useless, so far as regarded Linton’s own advantage. Mary Leicester could never be his wife; why, then, involve himself, however remotely, in a deed as profitless as it was perilous? No time should be lost about this. He must see Keane immediately, and dissuade him from the attempt. It would be easy to assure him that the whole was a misconception, – a mistake of meaning. It was not necessary to convince, it was enough to avert the act; but this must be done at once.

So reflecting, Linton took his way to the gate-lodge, which lay a considerable distance off. The space afforded much time for thought, and he was one whose thoughts travelled fast. His plans were all matured and easy of accomplishment. After seeing Keane, he would address a few lines to Tiernay, requesting an interview on the following morning. That night, he resolved, should be his last at Tubbermore; the masquerade had, as may be conjectured, few charms for one whose mind was charged with heavier cares, but still it would give him an occasion to whisper about his scandal on Lady Kilgoff, and, later on, give him the opportunity of searching Cashel’s papers for that document he wished to obtain.

On reaching the gate-lodge, under pretence of lighting his cigar he entered the house, where, in all the squalid misery of their un tractable habits, Keane’s wife sat, surrounded by her ragged children.

“Tom is at work, I suppose?” said he, carelessly.

“No, yer honer; he went out early this morning to look after a little place for us, as the master is goin’ to turn us out.”

“I ‘m sorry for that,” said he, compassionately; “land is dear, and hard to be got now-a-days. Why don’t he go to America?”

“Indeed an’ I don’t know, sir. They say it’s the asy place to gain a livin’; fine pay, and little to do for it.”

Linton smiled at an encomium for whose accuracy he would not have vouched, and then tried to ascertain, in the same careless fashion, in what direction Keane had gone; but the woman could not tell. She believed it was by the high road, but could not be certain, since he had left the house shortly after daybreak.

Linton sauntered out in deep thought. It was evident enough to him what the object of that journey was; it needed no clew to track his path. It was strange; but now, when the deed was not to secure any future benefits to himself, it appeared before his eyes in all the glaring colors of its criminality. It was a cold-blooded and useless crime, and he actually shuddered as he thought upon it.

Although he well knew that it would not be possible to connect him in any way with the act, his conscience made him restless and uneasy, and he would have given much that he had never mooted it. It was too late, however, now, to think of these things; were he to mount his horse and follow the fellow Keane, the chances of coming up with him were few. The man would inevitably have concealed himself till the very moment came; and were Linton to be present at such a time, the fact of his presence might, in such a remote and unfrequented spot, give rise to the very worst suspicions. “Be it so,” said he, at length, and with the tone of one who left the issue to fortune. He found himself now upon the high road, and remembering that he was not far from Tiernay’s house, resolved on making a visit to the doctor in person. It might so happen hereafter that a question would arise where he had passed the morning. There was no saying what turn events might take, and it would be as well were he able to show that he had spent some time in Tiernay’s company; and as, in such a critical moment, it would have been far from wise to discuss any matter connected with Cashel’s property, it were safest to make the object of the visit appear an effort to obtain Dr. Tiernay’s kind mediation in the difference with Mr. Corrigan.

To pass half an hour in his company, under any pretext, would be to put on record his occupation on that morning; and with this resolve, he knocked at the door.

It was with a start of surprise Tiernay received Linton as he entered his study. The doctor arose from the chair where he had been sitting, and stood in the attitude of one who desires by his very air and deportment to express that he does not mean that the other should be seated.

“This is an honor, sir,” said he, at last, “so undeserved on my part, that I am at a loss how to acknowledge it.”

“A little patience and a little courtesy are all I ask for, Dr. Tiernay,” replied Linton, while he placed a chair and seated himself with the most perfect unconcern. “You may easily guess that I do not intrude my presence upon you without what at least seem to me to be sufficient reasons. Whether you may think them so or not, will in a great measure depend upon whether you prefer to be guided by the false lights of an unjust prejudice, or the true illumination of your own natural good sense and practical intelligence.”

Tiernay sat down without speaking; the appeal was made calmly and dispassionately to him, and he felt that he could not but entertain it, particularly as the scene was beneath his own roof.

Linton resumed, —

“Your friend, – I hope the time is not far distant when I may be enabled to say and mine, – Mr. Corrigan, acting under the greatest of all misconceptions, mistaking my heartfelt zeal in his behalf for an undue interference in his affairs, has to-day expressed himself towards me in a manner so uncalled for, so unfair, and ungenerous, that, considering the position I sought to occupy in his regard, either bespeaks the existence of some secret attack upon my character, or that a mere sudden caprice of temper overbalances with him the qualities he has been gracious enough to speak of in terms of praise and approbation.”

Tiernay gave a short, dry nod, whose significance was so very doubtful that Linton stopped and stared at him, as if asking for further information.

“I had made a proposition for the hand of his granddaughter,” resumed he, “and surely my pretensions could not subject me to rebuke?”

Tiernay nodded again, in the same puzzling way as before.

“Knowing the influence you possess in the family,” resumed Linton, “seeing how much confidence they repose in your counsels, I have thought it advisable to state to you that, although naturally indignant at the treatment I have met with, and possibly carried away for a moment by passion, my feelings regarding Miss Leicester are unchanged, and, I believe, unchangeable.”

Tiernay moved his head slightly, as though implying assent.

“Am I to understand, sir, that my communication is pleasing to you?” said Linton, firmly.

“Very pleasing in every respect,” said Tiernay.

“And I may reckon upon your kind offices in my behalf, Dr. Tiernay?”

Tiernay shook his head negatively.

“Be kind enough to speak your mind more intelligibly, sir, for there is need that we should understand each other here.”