Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“That is the room,” said Meek, pointing to a door, beneath which, although it was now daybreak, a stream of light issued; and, slight as the circumstance was, the looks exchanged among the party seemed to give it a significance.

The Chief Justice advanced and tapped at the door. Immediately a voice was heard from within that all recognized as Cashel’s asking, —

“Who’s there?”

“We want you, Mr. Cashel,” said the judge, in an accent which all the instincts of his habit had not rendered free from a slight tremor.

The door was immediately thrown wide, and Roland stood before them. He had not changed his dress since his arrival, and his torn sleeve and blood-stained trousers at once caught every eye that was fixed upon him. The disorder, too, was not confined to his own haggard look; the room itself was littered with papers and letters, with clothes strewn carelessly in every direction; and conspicuously amid all, an open pistol-case was seen, from which one of the weapons was missing. A mass of charred paper lay within the fender, and a great heap of paper lay, as it were, ready for burning, beside the hearth. There was full time for those who stood there to notice all these particulars, since neither spoke, but each gazed on the other in terrible uncertainty. Cashel was the first to break the silence.

“Well, sirs,” said he, in a voice that only an effort made calm, “are my friends so very impatient at my absence that they come to seek me in my dressing-room?”

“The dreadful event that has just occurred, sir,” said the judge, “makes apology for our intrusion unnecessary. We are here from duty, Mr. Cashel, not inclination, still less caprice.”

The solemnity of manner in which he spoke, and the grave faces around him on every side, seemed to apprise Roland that bad tidings awaited him, and he looked eagerly to each for an explanation. At length, as none spoke, he said, —

“Will no one vouchsafe to put an end to this mystification? What, I pray, is this event that has happened?”

“Mr. Kennyfeck has been murdered,” said the judge.

Roland staggered backwards, and grasped a chair for support. “When? – How? – Where?” said he, in a low voice, every accent of which trembled.

“All as yet is hidden in mystery, sir. We know nothing beyond the fact that his dead body was discovered in the Gap of Ennismore, and that a pistol-shot had penetrated his brain.” Sir Andrew grasped the weapon more tightly as these words were uttered.

“You left this in his company, Mr. Cashel?” asked Goring.

“Yes; we set out at daybreak for Drumcoologan, where an affair of business required our presence. We spent the whole of the day together, and as evening drew nigh, and our business had not been completed, I resolved to hasten back here, leaving him to follow whenever he could.”

“You have been on the best terms together, I believe?” said Goring.

“Stay – I cannot permit this,” interposed the Chief Justice, authoritatively. “There must be nothing done here which is not strictly honorable as well as legal. It is right that Mr. Cashel should understand that when an event of this nature has occurred, no one, however high his station, or umblemished his fame, can claim exemption from that scrutiny which the course of justice demands; and the persons latest in the company of the deceased are more peculiarly those exposed to such inquiry. I would, therefore, caution him against answering any questions here, which may be prejudicial hereafter.”

“Do I understand you aright, my Lord?” said Cashel, whose whole frame trembled with agitation as he spoke. “Do your words imply that I stand here in the light of a suspected party?”

“I mean to say, sir,” replied the judge, “that so long as doubt and obscurity veil the history of a crime, the accusation hangs over the community at large among whom it was enacted, and that those who were last seen in the presence of the victim have the greatest obligation to disconnect themselves with the sad event.”

“But you stopped me while about to do so,” cried Roland, angrily.

“I cautioned you, rather, against any disclosures which, whatever your innocence, might augment suspicion against you,” said the judge, mildly.

“These distinctions are too subtle for me, my Lord. The insult of such an accusation ought to be enough, without the aggravation of chicanery.” Then, turning to Meek, Roland went on: “You, at least, are above this meanness, and will listen to me patiently. Look here.” He took a sheet of paper as he spoke, and proceeded with a pen to mark out the direction of the two roads from Drumcoologan to Tubbermore. “Here stands the village; the road by which we travelled in the morning takes this line, skirting the base of the mountain towards the north: the path by which I returned follows a shorter course, and after crossing a little rivulet here, comes out at Ennismore, somewhere about this point.”

Just as Roland’s description reached thus far, a large drop of blood oozed from his wounded hand, and fell heavily upon the paper. There seemed something so terribly significant in its falling exactly on the very spot where the murdered body was found, that each looked at the other in anxious dread; and then, as if with a common impulse, every eye was bent on Cashel, who, heart-sick with indignant anger, stood unable to utter a word.

“I pray you, sir, do not misconstrue my advice,” said the judge, mildly, “nor resent a counsel intended for your good. Every explanation you may offer, hereafter, will be serviceable to your case; every detail you enter into, now, necessarily vague, and unsupported as it must be by other testimony, will only be injurious to you.”

Cashel seated himself in a chair, and crossing his arms, seemed to be lost in thought; then, suddenly starting to his feet, he cried, —

“Is all this a deep-laid scheme against my honor and my life, or do you, indeed, desire to trace this crime to its author? If so, let us mount our horses and scour the country; let us search every cabin; let us try if some discovery of a weapon – ”

“Ech, sirs, we hae the weapon!” said Sir Andrew, with a sardonic grin; “an’ it’s muckle like to its brither yonder,” pointing to the open pistol-case.

Roland turned suddenly, and now for the first time perceived that one of his pistols was missing from the case. Up to this moment his anger at the suspicions directed towards him was mingled with a degree of contemptuous disregard of them; but now, suddenly, a terrible fear shot through his heart that he was in the meshes of some deep-laid scheme for his ruin; and his mind ran over in eager haste every circumstance that seemed to point towards guilt. His presence with Kennyfeck on the mountain; his departure from Drumcoologan alone-, his unexplained reappearance in his own chamber, disordered and littered as it stood; his torn dress; his bleeding fingers; and lastly, the missing pistol, – arose in terrible array before him; and with a heart-sick sigh, he laid his forehead on the table, and never uttered a word.

It was at this juncture that a groom, splashed and heated from a hard ride, placed a small bit of twisted paper in Mr. Goring’s hand. It was written with pencil, and ran thus: —

Gap of Ennismore.

Dear G., – It looks badly; but I fear you have no other course than to arrest him. In fact, it is too late for anything else. Consult Malone and Meek.

Yours, in great haste, T. Linton.

Goring handed the note to the Chief Justice, who, having read it, passed it on to Meek. A nod from the latter, as he refolded the paper, seemed to accord concurrence with the counsel.

“Would it not be better to defer this till after the inquest?” he whispered.

“Are ye certain o’ findin’ him when ye want him?” dryly remarked Sir Andrew.

The Chief Justice conferred for a few seconds with Meek apart, and then approaching Cashel, addressed him in a tone inaudible to all but himself, —

“It would be excessively painful to us, Mr. Roland Cashel, to do anything which should subject you to vulgar remark or impertinent commentary; and as, until some further light be thrown upon this sad catastrophe, your detention is absolutely necessary, may I ask that you will submit to this rigor, without compelling us to any measures to enforce it?”

“Am I a prisoner, my Lord?” asked Roland, growing lividly pale as he spoke.

“Not precisely, sir. No warrant has been issued against you; but as it is manifestly for your advantage to disprove any suspicions that may attach to you in this unhappy affair, I hope you will see the propriety of remaining where you are until they be entirely removed.”

Roland bowed coldly, and said, —

“May I ask to be left alone?”

“Of course, sir; we have neither the right nor the inclination to obtrude ourselves upon you. I ought to mention, perhaps, that if you desire to confer with any friends – ”

“Friend!” echoed Cashel, in bitter derision; “such friends as I have seen around my table make the selection difficult.”

“I used the phrase somewhat technically, sir, as referring to a legal adviser,” said the judge, hastily.

“I thank you, my Lord,” replied Roland, haughtily. “I am a plain man, and am well aware that in your trade truth is no match for falsehood.” He walked to the window as he spoke, and by his gesture seemed to decline further colloquy.

The Chief Justice moved slowly away, followed by the others; Meek withdrawing last of all, and seeming to hesitate whether he should not say something as he went. At last he turned and said, —

“I sincerely trust, Mr. Cashel, that you will not connect me with this most painful suspicion; your own good sense will show you how common minds may be affected by a number of concurring circumstances; and how, in fact, truth may require the aid of ingenuity to reconcile and explain them.”

“I am not certain that I understand your meaning, sir,” said Cashel, sternly; “but when a number of ‘concurring circumstances’ seemed to point out those with whom I associated as blacklegs, parasites, and calumniators, I gave them the benefit of a doubt, and believed them to be gentle-men; I almost expected they might return the favor when occasion offered.”

For a second or two Meek seemed as if about to reply; but he moved noiselessly away at last and closed the door, leaving Roland alone with his own distracted thoughts.

CHAPTER XXVIII. SCENE OF THE MURDER – THE CORONER’S VERDICT

Are there not proofs enough?Or can the stubborn mind reject all truthAnd cling to fallacy?The Will.

What a change did Tubbermore present to its aspect of the day before! All the emblems of joy and festivity, all the motley of pleasure, all the gay troops of guests hastening onward in glowing eagerness and anticipation, were gone; and in their stead a dreary and mysterious silence brooded over the place, interrupted at intervals by the bustle of some departure. For thus, without one word of sympathy, without even a passing good-bye, Roland’s “friends” hurried away, as if flying from the very memories of the spot.

It was a dreary winter’s day; the dark leaden clouds that flitted past, and the long-sighing wind, seemed to add their sad influence to the melancholy. The house itself already appeared to feel its altered fortunes. Most of the windows were closed and shuttered; the decorations of rare plants and shrubs and lamps were removed; instead of the movement of liveried servants to and fro, ill-favored and coarse-clad men, the underlings of the law, crept stealthily about, noticing each circumstance of the locality, and conferring together in mysterious whispers. Mounted messengers, too, came and went with a haste that boded urgency; and post-horses were each moment arriving to carry away those whose impatience to leave was manifested in a hundred ways. Had the air of the place been infected with some pestilential malady, their eagerness could scarce have been greater. All the fretful irritability of selfishness, all the peevish discontent of petty natures, exhibited themselves without shame; and envious expressions towards those fortunate enough to “get away first,” and petulant complaints over their own delay, were bandied on every side.

A great table was laid for breakfast in the dining-room, as usual. All the luxuries and elegances that graced the board on former occasions were there, but a few only took their places. Of these, Frobisher and some military men were the chief; they, indeed, showed comparatively little of that anxiety to be gone so marked in the others. The monotony of the barrack and the parade was not attractive, and they lingered like men who, however little they had of pleasure here, had even less of inducement to betake them elsewhere.

Meek had been the first to make his escape, by taking the post-horses intended for another, and already was many miles on his way towards Dublin. The Chief Justice and his family were the next. From the hour of the fatal event, Mrs. Malone had assumed a judicial solemnity of demeanor that produced a great impression upon the beholders, and seemed to convey, by a kind of reflected light, the old judge’s gloomiest forebodings of the result.

Mrs. Leicester White deferred her departure to oblige Mr. Howie, who was making a series of sketches for the “Pictorial Paul Pry,” showing not only the various façades of Tubbermore House, but several interesting “interiors:” such as the “Ball-room, when the fatal tidings arrived:” “Dressing-room of Roland Cashel, Esq., when entered by the Chief Justice and his party;” the most effective of all being a very shadowy picture of the “Gap of Ennismore – the scene of the murder;” the whole connected by a little narrative so ingeniously drawn up as to give public opinion a very powerful bias against Cashel, whose features, in the woodcut, would in themselves have made a formidable indictment.

Of the Kennyfecks, few troubled themselves with even a casual inquiry: except the fact that a fashionable physician had been sent for to Dublin, little was known about them. But where was Linton all this while? Some averred that he had set out for the capital, to obtain the highest legal assistance for his friend; others, that he was so overwhelmed by the terrible calamity as to have fallen into a state of fatuous insensibility. None, however, could really give any correct account of him; he had left Tubbermore, but in what direction none could tell.

As the day wore on, a heavy rain began to fall; and of those who still remained in the house, little knots of two and three assembled at the windows, to watch for the arrival of their wished-for “posters,” or to speculate upon the weather. Another source of speculation there was besides. Some hours before, a magistrate, accompanied by a group of ill-dressed and vulgar-looking men, had been seen to pass the house, and take the path which led to the Gap of Ennismore. These formed the inquest, who were to inquire into the circumstances of the crime, and whose verdict, however unimportant in a strictly legal sense, was looked for with considerable impatience by some of the company. To judge from the anxious looks that were directed towards the mountain road, or the piercing glances which at times were given through telescopes in that direction, one would have augured that some, at least, of those there, were not destitute of sympathy for him whose guests they had been, and beneath whose roof they still lingered. A very few words of those that passed between them will best answer how this impression is well founded.

“Have you sent your groom off, Upton?” asked Frobisher, as he stood with a coffee-cup in his hand at the window.

“Yes, he passed the window full half an hour ago.”

“They are confoundedly tedious,” said Jennings, half suppressing a yawn. “I thought those kind of fellows just gave a look at the body, and pronounced their verdict at once.”

“So they do when it’s one of their own class; but in the case of a gentleman they take a prodigious interest in examining his watch and his purse and his pocket-book; and, in fact, it is a grand occasion for prying as far as possible into his private concerns.”

“I ‘ll double our bet, Upton, if you like,” said Frobisher, languidly.

The other shook his head negatively.

“Why, the delay is clearly in your favor, man. If they were strong in their convictions, they ‘d have brought him in guilty an hour ago.”

“That is my opinion too,” said Jennings.

“Well, here goes. Two fifties be it,” cried Upton.

Frobisher took out his memorandum-book and wrote something with a pencil.

“Is n’t that it?” said he, showing the lines to Upton.

“Just so. ‘Wilful murder,’” muttered the other, reading.

“You have a great ‘pull’ upon me, Upton,” said Frobisher; “by Jove! if you were generous, you’d give me odds.”

“How so?”

“Why, you saw his face since the affair, and I did n’t.”

“It would need a better physiognomist than I am to read it. He looked exactly as he always does; a thought paler, perhaps, but no other change.”

“Here comes a fellow with news,” said Jennings, throwing open the window. “I say, my man, is it over?”

“No, sir; the jury want to see one of Mr. Cashel’s boots.”

Jennings closed the sash, and, lighting a cigar, sat down in an easy-chair. A desultory conversation here arose among some of the younger military men whether a coroner’s verdict were final, and whether a “fellow could be hanged” when it pronounced him guilty; the astute portion of the debaters inclining to the opinion that although this was not the case in England, such would be “law” in Ireland. Then the subject of confiscation was entertained, and various doubts and surmises arose as to what would become of Tubbermore when its proprietor had been executed; with sly jests about the reversionary rights of the Crown, and the magnanimity of extending mercy at the price of a great landed estate. These filled up the time for an hour or so more, interspersed with conjectures as to Cashel’s present frame of mind, and considerable wonderment why he had n’t “bolted” at once.

At last Upton’s groom was seen approaching at a tremendous pace; and in a few minutes after he had pulled up at the door, and dismounting with a spring, hastened into the house.

“Well, Robert, how did it go?” cried Upton, as, followed by the rest, he met him in the hall.

“You ‘ve lost, sir,” said the man, wiping his forehead.

“Confound the rascals! But what are the words of the verdict?”

“‘Wilful murder,’ sir.”

“Of course,” said Frobisher, coolly; “they could give no other.”

“It’s no use betting against you,” cried Upton, pettishly. “You are the luckiest dog in Europe.”

“Come, I ‘ll give you a chance,” said Frobisher; “double or quit that they hang him.”

“No, no; I ‘ve lost enough on him. I ‘ll not have it.”

“Well, I suppose we’ve nothing to wait for now,” yawned Jennings. “Shall we start?”

“Not till we have luncheon, I vote,” cried an infantry sub.; and his suggestion met general approval. And while they are seated at a table where exquisite meats and rarest wines stimulated appetite and provoked excess, let us turn for a few brief moments to him who, still their entertainer, sat in his lone chamber, friendless and deserted.

So rapid had been the succession of events which occupied one single night, that Roland could not believe it possible months had not passed over. Even then, he found it difficult to disentangle the real circumstances from those fancied results his imagination had already depicted; many of the true incidents appearing far more like fiction than the dreamy fancies his mind invented. His meeting with Enrique, for instance, was infinitely less probable than that he should have fought a duel with Linton; and so, in many other cases, his faculties wavered between belief and doubt, till his very senses reeled with the confusion. Kennyfeck’s death alone stood out from this chaotic mass, clear, distinct, and palpable, and, as he sat brooding over this terrible fact, he was totally unconscious of its bearing upon his own fortunes. Selfishness formed no part of his nature; his fault lay in the very absence of self-esteem, and the total deficiency of that individuality which prompts men to act up to a self-created standard. He could sorrow for him who was no more, and from whom he had received stronger proofs of devotion than from all his so-called friends; he could grieve over the widowed mother and the fatherless girls, for whose destitution he felt, he knew not how, or wherefore, a certain culpability; but of himself and his own critical position, not a thought arose. The impressions that no effort of his own could convey fell with a terrific shock upon him when suggested by another.

He was seated at his table, trying, for the twentieth time, to collect his wandering thoughts, and determine what course to follow, when a tap was heard at his door, and it opened at the same instant.

“I am come, sir,” said Mr. Goring, with a voice full of feeling, “to bring you sad tidings; but for which events may have, in a measure, prepared you.” He paused, perhaps hoping that Cashel would spare him the pain of continuing; but Roland never spoke.

“The inquest has completed its labors,” said Goring, with increasing agitation; “and the verdict is one of ‘wilful murder.’”

“It was a foul and terrible crime,” said Cashel, shuddering; “the poor fellow was animated with kind intentions and benevolent views towards the people. In all our intercourse he displayed but one spirit – ”

“Have a care, sir,” said Goring, mildly. “It is just possible that, in the frankness of the moment something may escape you which hereafter you might wish unsaid; and standing in the position you now do – ”

“How so? What position, sir, do I occupy, that should preclude me from the open expression of my sentiments?”

“I have already told you, sir, that the verdict of the jury was wilful murder, and I hold here in my hand the warrant for your arrest.”

“As the criminal? as the murderer?” cried Cashel, with a voice almost like a shriek of agony. Goring bowed his head, and Roland fell powerless on the floor.

Summoning others to his aid, Goring succeeded in lifting him up and placing him on a bed. A few drops of blood that issued from his mouth, and his heavy snoring respiration, indicated an apoplectic seizure. Messengers were sent in various directions to fetch a doctor. Tiernay was absent, and it was some hours ere one could be found. Large bleeding and quiet produced the usual effects, and towards evening Cashel’s consciousness had returned; but memory was still clouded and incoherent, and he lay without speaking, and almost without thought.

After the lapse of about a week he was able to leave his bed and creep about his chamber, whose altered look contributed to recall his mind to the past. All his papers and letters had been removed; the window was secured with iron stanchions; and policemen stood sentry at the door. He remembered everything that had occurred, and sat down in patient thought to consider what he should do.

He learned without surprise, but not without a pang, that of all his friends not one had remained, – not one had offered a word of counsel in his affliction, or of comfort in his distress. He asked after Mr. Corrigan, and heard that he had quitted the country, with his granddaughter, on the day before the terrible event. Tiernay, it was said, had accompanied them to Dublin, and not since returned. Roland was, then, utterly friendless! What wonder if he became as utterly reckless, as indifferent to life, as life seemed valueless? And so was it: he heard with indifference the order for his removal to Limerick, although that implied a Jail! He listened to the vulgar but kindly meant counsels of his keepers, who advised him to seek legal assistance, with a smile of half-contempt. The obdurate energy of a martyrdom seemed to take possession of him; and, so far from applying his mind to disentangle the web of suspicion around him, he watched, with a strange interest, the convergence of every minute circumstance towards the proof of his guilt; a secret vindictiveness whispering to his heart that the day would come when his innocence should be proclaimed; and then, what tortures of remorse would be theirs who had brought him to a felon’s death!

Each day added to the number of these seeming proofs, and the newspapers, in paragraphs of gossiping, abounded with circumstances that had already convinced the public of Cashel’s guilt: and how often do such shadowy convictions throw their gloom over the prisoner’s dock! One day, the fact of the boot-track tallying precisely with Roland’s, filled the town; another, it was the pistol-wadding – part of a letter addressed to Cashel – had been discovered. Then, there were vague rumors afloat that the causes of Cashel’s animosity to Kennyfeck were not so secret as the world fancied; that there were persons of credit to substantiate and explain them; and, lastly, it was made known that among the papers seized on Cashel’s table was a letter, just begun by himself, but to whom addressed uncertain, which ran thus: —