Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“I believe it’s safer to have nothin’ to do with it,” muttered Keane.

“As you please, friend,” replied Linton; “I never squeeze any man’s conscience. You know best what your own life is.”

“Hard enough, that’s what it is,” said the other, bitterly.

“You can also make a guess what it will be in future, when you leave this.”

A deep groan was all that he gave for answer.

“For all that I know, you may have many friends who ‘ll not see your wife and children begging along the roads, or sitting in a hole scooped out of a clay ditch, without food or fire, waiting for the fever to finish what famine has begun. You have n’t far to seek for what I mean; about two hundred yards from that gate yonder there ‘s a group exactly like it.”

“Ye ‘re a terrible man, that’s the truth,” said Tom, as he wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead. “Be gorra, I never seed your like afore!”

“I told you that I was a determined man,” said Linton, sternly; “and I’m sorry to see that’s not what I should say of you.” He moved a step or two as he spoke, and then turning carelessly back, added, “Leave that money for me at ‘The house’ this evening; I don’t wish to carry gold about me on the roads here.” And with this negligent remark he departed.

Linton sauntered carelessly away; nothing in his negligent air and carriage to show that he was not lounging to kill the weary hours of a winter’s day. No sooner, however, had he turned an angle of the road than he entered the wood, and with cautious steps retraced his way, till he stood within a few paces of where Keane yet sat, still and motionless.

His worn hat was pressed down upon his brows, his hands were firmly clasped, and his head bent so as to conceal his features; and in this attitude he remained as rigidly impassive as though he were seized with a catalepsy. A few heavy drops of rain fell, and then a low growling roar of thunder followed, but he heeded not these signs of coming storm. The loud cawing of the rooks as they hastened homeward filled the air, but he never once lifted his head to watch them! Another crash of thunder was heard, and suddenly the rain burst forth in torrents. Swooping along in heavy drifts, it blackened the very atmosphere, and rushed in rivulets down the gravel walk; but still he sat, while the pelting storm penetrated his frail garments and soaked them through. Nor was it till the water lay in pools at his feet that he seemed conscious of the hurricane. Then rising suddenly, he shook himself roughly, and entered the house.

Linton’s eyes were earnestly fixed upon the stone – he crept nearer to observe it. The money was gone.

CHAPTER XXIII. LINTON IS BAFFLED – HIS RAGE AT THE DISCOVERY

The mask is falling fast. – Harold.

The day of the great masquerade arrived; and, from an early hour, the whole household was astir in preparing for the occasion. The courtyard was thronged with carriages of various sorts. Confectioners from London, table-deckers from Paris, were there, accompanied by all the insignia of their callings. Great lumbering packing-cases were strewn about; while rich stuffs, rare exotics, and costly delicacies littered the stone benches, and even lay upon the pavement, in all the profusion of haste and recklessness. To see the rare and rich articles which were heaped on every side, almost suggested the notion that it was some gorgeous mansion which was put to pillage. There was that, too, in the lounging insolence of the servants, as they went, that favored the illusion. The wanton waste exhibited everywhere was the very triumph of that vulgar and vindictive spirit which prompts the followers of a spendthrift master to speed the current of his ruin. Such would seem to be the invariable influence that boundless profusion exercises on the mind; and it is thus that affluence, unchastened by taste, unruled by principle, is always a corrupter!

A light travelling-carriage, with a few articles of travelling use attached, stood in the midst of this confusion; and shortly after day-dawn two gentlemen issued from the house, and taking their seats, drove hastily forth, and at full speed passed down the avenue towards the high-road.

These were Cashel and Mr. Kennyfeck, who had made an appointment to meet Mr. Hoare at Killaloe, and proceed with him to Drumcoologan, on which portion of the estate it was proposed to raise a considerable sum by mortgage.

Some observation of Mr. Kennyfeck upon the wasteful exhibition of the scene in the courtyard, was met by a sharp and angry reply from Cashel; and these were both overheard as they issued forth, – vague words, spoken thoughtlessly at the time, but to be remembered afterwards with a heavier significance than the speakers could have anticipated! As they hastened along, little was said on either side; the trifling irritation of the first moment created a reserve, which deepened into actual coldness, as each following out his own thoughts took no heed of his companion’s.

Kennyfeck’s mind was full of sad and gloomy forebodings. The reckless outlay he had witnessed for weeks back was more than a princely fortune could sustain. The troops of useless servants, the riotous disorder of the household, the unchecked, unbridled waste on every side, demanded supplies to raise which they were already reduced to loans at usurious interest. What was to come of such a career, save immediate and irretrievable ruin?

As for Cashel, his reveries were even darker still. The whirlwind current of events seemed to carry him onward without any power of resistance. He saw his fortune wasted, his character assailed, his heart-offered proposal rejected – all at once, and as if by the influence of some evil destiny. Vigorous resolutions for the future warred with fears lest that they were made too late, and he sat with closed eyes and compressed lips, silent and sunk in meditation.

Leaving them, therefore, to pursue a journey on which their companionship could scarcely afford much pleasure to the reader, let us turn to one who, whatever his other defects, rarely threw away the moments of his life on unavailing regrets: this was Mr. Linton. If he was greatly disappointed by the information he gleaned when overhearing the conversation between Cashel and the doctor, he did not suffer his anger either to turn him from his path, or distract him from his settled purpose.

“To-day for ambition!” said he, “to-morrow revenge!”

Too well accustomed to obstacles to be easily thwarted, he recognized life as a struggle wherein the combatant should never put off his armor.

“She must and shall accept me as her husband; on that I am determined. A great game, and a glorious stake, shall not be foiled for a silly girl’s humor. Were she less high-flown in her notions, and with more of the ‘world’ about her, I might satisfy her scruples, that, of her affections – her heart, as she would call it – there is no question here. Je suis bon prince, – I never coerce my liege’s loyalty. As to the old man, his dotage takes the form of intrepidity, so that it might be unsafe to use menace with him. The occasion must suggest the proper tactic.”

And with this shrewd resolve he set forth to pay his visit at the cottage. If in his step and air, as he went, none could have read the lover’s ardor, there was that in his proud carriage and glancing eye that bespoke a spirit revelling in its own sense of triumph.

While Mr. Linton is thus pursuing his way, let us use the privilege of our craft by anticipating him, and taking a peep at that cottage interior in which he is so soon to figure. Old Mr. Corrigan had arisen from his bed weary and tired: a night of sleepless care weighed heavily on him; and he sat at his untasted breakfast with all the outward signs of a sick man.

Mary Leicester, too, was pale and sad-looking; and although she tried to wear her wonted smile, and speak with her accustomed tones, the heavy eyelids and the half-checked sighs that broke from her at times betrayed how sad was the spirit from which they came.

“I have been dreaming of that old nunnery at Bruges all night, Mary,” said her grandfather, after a long and unbroken silence; “and you cannot think what a hold it has taken of my waking thoughts. I fancied that I was sitting in the little parlor, waiting to see you, and that, at last, a dark-veiled figure appeared at the grille, and beckoned me to approach. I hastened to do so, my heart fluttering with I know not what mixture of hope and fear, – the hope it might be you, and then the fear, stronger than even hope, that I should read sadness in that sweet face – sorrow, Mary – regret for leaving that world you never were to see more.”

“And was it me, dearest papa?”

“No, Mary,” said he, with a lower and more meaning tone, “it was another, one whom I never saw before. She came to tell me that – that” – he faltered, and wiping a tear from his eyes, made an effort to seem calm – “that I had lost you, darling! lost by a separation darker and more terrible than even the iron bars of a nunnery can make. And although I bethought me that you had but gone there, whither I myself was hastening, I felt sorrow-struck by the tidings. I had clung so long to the hope of leaving you behind me here, to enjoy that world of which all your affectionate care has denied you enjoyment – to know how, amidst its troubles and reverses, there are healing springs of love that recompense its heaviest inflictions – I cherished this wish so long, so ardently, that I could not face the conviction which told me it should never be.”

“Dearest papa, remember this was but a dream; bethink you, for an instant, that it was all unreal; that I am beside you, my hand in yours, my head upon your shoulder; that we are not parted, nor ever shall be.”

The tone of deep fervor in which she spoke drew tears from the old man’s eyes, and he turned away to hide them.

“It was but a dream, as you say, Mary; but do not my waking thoughts conjure up a future to the full as gloomy? A few months, at furthest, a year or so more – less sanguine prophets would perhaps say weeks – and where shall I be? and where you, Mary?”

The old man’s grief could no longer be restrained, and it was in a perfect burst of sorrow the last words came forth. She would have spoken, but she knew not from what source to draw consolation. The future, which to his eyes looked dark and lowering, presented an aspect no less gloomy to her own; and her only remedy against its depressing influence was to make her present cares occupy her mind, to the exclusion of every other thought.

“And yet, Mary,” said he, recovering something of his habitual tone, “there is an alternative – one which, if we could accept of it from choice as freely as we might adopt it from convenience, would solve our difficulties at once. My heart misgives me, dearest, as I approach it. I tremble to think how far my selfishness may bias you – how thoughts of me old and worthless as I am, may rise uppermost in your breast and gain the mastery, where other and very different feelings should prevail. I have ever been candid with you, my child, and I have reaped all the benefit of my frankness; let me then tell you all. An offer has been made for your hand, Mary, by one who, while professing the utmost devotion to you, has not forgotten your old grandfather. He asks that he should be one of us, Mary – a new partner in our firm – a new member in the little group around our hearth. He speaks like one who knew the ties that bind us most closely – he talks of our home here as we ourselves might do – he has promised that we shall never leave it, too. Does your heart tell you whom I mean, Mary? If not, if you have not already gone before me in all I have been saying, his visions of happiness are baseless fabrics. Be candid with me, as I have ever been with you. It is a question on which everything of the future hangs; say if you guess of whom I speak.”

Mary Leicester’s cheek grew scarlet; she tried to speak, but could not; but with a look far more eloquent than words, she pressed the old man’s hand to her lips, and was silent.

“I was right then, Mary; you have guessed him. Now, my sweet child, there is one other confession you must make me, or leave me to divine it from that crimson cheek. Have his words found an echo in your heart?”

The old man drew her more closely to his side, and passed his arm around her as he spoke; while she, with heaving bosom and bent-down head, seemed struggling with an agitation she could not master. At last she said, —

“You have often told me, papa, that disproportion of fortune was an insurmountable obstacle to married happiness; that the sense of perfect equality in condition was the first requisite of that self-esteem which must be the basis of an affection free and untrammelled from all unworthy considerations.”

“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, —