Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“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?