Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“These are the bills; they are now your property, sir.”

“For what purpose?”

“They are vouchers for your claim on Mr. Corrigan,” said Hoare.

“His word will suffice,” said Cashel; and, gathering them up, he hurled them into the fire.

“A costly blaze that,” said Hoare, as he watched the conflagration.

“Speak to him, doctor; learn what you can of Rica for me. If money will do it, I ‘ll not quarrel with the price,” said Cashel to Tiernay, in a low tone. “Another point, – I was nigh forgetting it, – you ‘ll not tell Mr. Corrigan how the matter has been arranged. Promise me this. Nay, I have a reason for it, – a reason you shall hear to-morrow or next day, and will acknowledge to be good. Keep my secret for a month; I ask no longer.”

“For a month, then, I am silent,” said Tiernay.

“Let me see you to-morrow early,” said Cashel. “Will you breakfast with me?”

“No; I ‘ll not risk my character by going twice to your grand house in the same week; besides, I am going to Limerick.”

“Good-night, then,” said Cashel; “good-night, sir.” And with a formal bow to Hoare, Roland left the room, and took his way homeward alone.

CHAPTER XIII. CIGARS, ÉCARTÉ, AND HAZARD

The Devil’s back-parlor – a bachelor’s room.

    Milyard.

While Cashel continued his way homeward, a very joyous party had assembled in Lord Charles Frobisher’s room, who were endeavoring, by the united merits of cigars, écarté, hazard, and an excellent supper, of which they partook at intervals, to compensate themselves for the unusual dulness of the drawing-room. It is well known how often the least entertaining individuals in general society become the most loquacious members of a party assembled in this fashion. The restraints which had held them in check before are no longer present; their loud speech and empty laughter are not any longer under ban, and they are tolerated by better men, pretty much as children are endured, because at least they are natural.

At a round table in the middle of the room were a group engaged at hazard. Upton was deep in écarté with his brother officer, Jennings, while Frobisher lounged about, sipping weak negus, and making his bets at either table as fancy or fortune suggested. The supper-table had few votaries; none, indeed, were seated at it save Meek, who, with a newspaper on his knee, seemed singularly out of place in the noisy gathering.

“Eleven’s the nick – eleven! I say, Charley, have at you for a pony,” called out a boyish-looking dragoon, from the middle table.

“You’re under age, young gentleman,” said Frobisher; “I can’t afford to bet with you. Wait a moment, Upton, I ‘ll back you this time. Twenty sovereigns – will you have it?”

“Done!” said Jennings, and the game began.

“The King,” cried Upton; “I propose.”

“To which of them?” said a sharp-looking infantry captain, behind his chair.

“Olivia, of course,” slipped in Jennings.

“I ‘d give fifty pounds to know if they have the money people say,” cried Upton.

“Meek can tell you; he knows everything. I say, Downie,” said Jennings, “come here for a moment, and enlighten us on a most interesting point.”

“Oh dear! what is it? This room is so very cold. Don’t you think, Frobisher, that a double door would be advisable?”

“A green one, with a centre pane of glass, would make it devilish like a ‘hell,’” said Upton; upon which the company all laughed approvingly.

“What is it you want?” said Meek, approaching, glass in hand.

“Play out the game, and have your gossip afterwards,” said Frobisher, who felt far more anxious about the fate of his twenty pounds than for the result of the conversation.

“A queen of hearts,” said Upton, leading; then, turning to Meek, said, “These Kennyfeck girls – can you tell what the figure is?”

“Poor dear things,” said Meek, piteously; “they should be very well off.”

“I score two!” said Upton. “Well, have they twenty thousand each?”

“I should say more. Oh dear me! they must have more! Kennyfeck holds a heavy mortgage on Kilgoff’s estate, and has a great deal of other property.”

“Then it would be a good thing, Meek, eh?” said Jennings.

“Game!” cried Upton, showing his cards upon the table.

“There is so much chaffing about girls and their fortunes, one can’t play his game here,” said Jennings, as he threw down a handful of gold on the board.

“Who was it ordered the post-horses for to-morrow?” said a youth at the supper-table. “The MacFarlines?”

“No; Lord Kilgoff.”

“I assure you,” cried a third, “it was the Kennyfecks. There has been a ‘flare-up’ about money between Cashel and him, and it is said he ‘ll lose the agency. Who ‘ll get it, I wonder?”

“Tom Linton, of course,” said the former speaker. “I ‘d wager he is gone off to Dublin to furbish up securities, or something of that kind.”

“Who’d give Tom trust, or go bail for him?” said Frobisher.

A very general laugh did not sound like a contradiction of the sentiment.

“I heard a week ago,” said the cornet, “that Kilgoff would stand security to any amount for him.”

“Ah, that comes of my Lady’s good opinion of him!” cried Jennings.

“Nay, don’t say that, it looks so ill-natured,” sighed Meek; “and there is really nothing in it. You know she and Tom were old friends. Oh dear, it was so sad!”

“Where does Cashel get such execrable champagne?” said an infantryman, with a very wry expression of face.

“It’s dry wine, that’s all,” said Frobisher, “and about the best ever imported.”

“We ‘d be very sorry to drink it at our mess, my Lord, I know that,” said the other, evidently nettled at the correction.

“Yours is the Fifty-third?” said a guardsman.

“No; the Thirty-fifth.”

“Aw! same thing,” sighed he; and he stooped to select a cigar.

“I wish the Kennyfecks were not going,” said Upton, drawing his chair closer to Meek’s; “there are so few houses one meets them at.”