Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“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.”

“I will be as explicit as you can desire, sir. Your communication was gratifying to me in so far that it showed me how my old and esteemed friend, Mr. Corrigan, had thrown off the delusion in which he had indulged regarding you, and saw you as I have always thought you, – a clever worldly man, without scruples as to his means when an object had once gained possession of his wishes, and who never could have dreamed of making Miss Leicester his wife were there not other and deeper purposes to be attained by so doing.”

“You are candor itself, sir,” said Linton; “but I cannot feel offence at a frankness I have myself asked for. Pray extend the favor, and say what could possibly be these other and deeper purposes you allude to? What advantages could I propose myself by such an alliance, save increased facilities of conversation with Dr. Tiernay, and more frequent opportunities of indulging in ‘tric-trac’ with Mr. Corrigan?”

Tiernay winced under the sarcasm, but only said, —

“To divine your motives would be to become your equal in skill and cleverness. I have no pretensions to such excellence.”

“So that you are satisfied with attributing to another objects for which you see no reason and motive, and of which you perceive no drift?”

“I am satisfied to believe in much that I cannot fathom.”

“We will pursue this no further,” said Linton, impatiently. “Let us reverse the medal. Mr. Corrigan’s refusal of me, coupled with his uncourteous conduct, may lead to unpleasant results. Is he prepared for such?”

“I have never known him to shrink from the consequences of his own conduct,” replied Tiernay, steadfastly.

“Even though that conduct should leave him houseless?” whispered Linton.

“It cannot, sir, while I have a roof.”

“Generously spoken, sir,” said Linton, while he threw his eyes over the humble decorations of his chamber with an expression of contempt there was no mistaking.

“Humble and poor enough it is, sir,” said Tiernay, answering the glance, “but the fruit of honest industry. Neither a father’s curse, nor a mother’s tear, hovers over one of the little comforts around me.”

“An ancient Roman in virtue!” exclaimed Linton, affectedly. “How sad that our degenerate days so ill reward such excellence!”

“You are wrong there, sir. Even for merits poor and unobtrusive as mine, there are tributes of affection more costly than great men know of. There are those on every hand around me who would resign health, and hope, and life itself, to do me service. There are some who, in their rude zeal, would think little of making even Mr. Linton regret his having needlessly insulted me. Ay, sir, I have but to open that window and speak one word, and you would sorely repent this day’s proceeding.”

Linton sat calm and collected under this burst of anger, as though he were actually enjoying the outbreak he had provoked. “You have a lawless population here, it would seem, then,” said he, smiling blandly, as he rose from his seat. “I think the Government is badly rewarded by bestowing its resources on such a neighborhood. A police-barracks would suit you better than an hospital, and so I shall tell Mr. Downie Meek.”

Tiernay grew suddenly pale. The threat was too papable to be mistaken, nor was he sufficiently conversant with the world of policy to detect its fallacy.

“Two hundred pounds a year,” resumed Linton, “can be of no moment to one who is surrounded by such generous devotion; while some respect for law or order will be a good ‘alterative,’ – is n’t that the phrase, doctor?”

Tiernay could not utter a word. Like many men who pass their lives in seclusion, he had formed the most exaggerated ideas of the despotism of those in power; he believed that for the gratification of a mere whim or passing caprice they would not scruple at an act of oppression that might lead to ruin itself; he felt shocked at the peril to which a hasty word had exposed him. Linton read him like a book, and, gazing fixedly at him, said, “Your craft has taught you little of worldly skill, Dr. Tiernay, or you would have seen that it is better to incur a passing inconvenience than run the risk of a severe and perhaps fatal misfortune. Me-thinks that a science of expediencies might have instilled a few of its wise precepts into every-day life.”

The doctor stared, half in astonishment, half in anger, but never spoke.

“Reflect a little upon this point,” said Linton, slowly; “remember, too, that a man like myself, who never acts without an object, may be a very good associate for him who has neither courage nor energy for action at all; and lastly, bethink you that the subtlety and skill which can make a useful friend, can become very readily the materials of a dangerous enemy.”

Linton knew well the force and significance of vagueness, either in threat or promise; and no sooner had he done speaking than he left the room and the house; while Tiernay, bewildered and terrified, sat down to think over what had passed.

“He ‘ll come to terms, I see that!” cried Linton to himself, as he entered the park of Tubbermore. “A little time, a sleepless night or two, the uncertainty of that future which to every man past fifty gets another tinge of black with each year, will do the business, and I ‘ll have him suing for the conditions he would now reject.”

Never yet, however, had time been a greater object with Linton. The host of creditors whom he had staved off for some months back – some by paying large sums on account; others by the assurance that he was on the eve of a rich marriage – would, at the very first semblance of his defeat, return and overwhelm him. Many of his debts were incurred to hush up play transactions, which, if once made public, his station in society would be no longer tenable. Of his former associates, more than one lived upon him by the mere menace of the past. Some were impatient, too, at the protracted game he played with Roland, and reproached him with not “finishing him off” long before, by cards and the dice-box. Others were indignant that they were not admitted to the share of the spoil, with all the contingent advantages of mixing in a class where they might have found the most profitable acquaintances. To hold all these in check had been a difficult matter, and few save himself could have accomplished it To restrain them much longer was impossible. With these thoughts he walked along, scarce noticing the long string of carriages which now filled the avenue, and hastened towards the house. Occasionally a thought would cross his mind, “What if the bullet had already done its work? What if that vast estate were now once more thrown upon the wide ocean of litigation? Would Corrigan prefer his claim again, or would some new suitor spring up? – and if so, what sum could recompense the possession of that pardon by which the whole property might be restored to its ancient owners?” Amid all these canvassings, no feeling arose for the fate of him who had treated him as a bosom friend, – not one regret, not so much as one sensation of pity. True, indeed, he did reflect upon what course to adopt when the tidings arrived. Long did he vacillate whether Tom Keane should not be arrested on suspicion. There were difficulties in either course, and, as usual, he preferred that coming events should suggest their own conduct.

At last he reached the great house, but instead of entering by the front door, he passed into the courtyard, and gained his own apartment unobserved. As he entered he locked the door, and placed the key in such a manner that none could peep through the keyhole. He then walked leisurely around the room; and although he knew there was no other outlet, he cast a glance of scrutinizing import on every side, as if to ensure himself that he was alone. This done, he opened a small cupboard in the wall behind his bed, and took forth the iron box, in which, since its discovery, he had always kept the pardon, as well as the forged conveyance of Tubber-beg.

Linton placed the box before him on the table, and gazed at it in a kind of rapture. “There,” thought he, “lies the weapon by which at once I achieve both fortune and revenge. Let events take what turn they will, there is a certain source of wealth. A great estate like this will have its claimants; with me it rests who shall be the successful one.”

A hurried knocking at the door interrupted the current of these musings; and Linton, having replaced the casket in the press, unlocked the door. It was Mr. Phillis, who, in all the gala of full dress, and with a rare camellia in his button-hole, entered.

“Well, Phillis, is all going on as it ought?” said Linton, carelessly.

“Scarcely so, sir,” said the soft-voiced functionary; “the house is filling fast, but there is no one to receive the company; and they are walking about staring at each other, and asking who is to do the honors.”

“Awkward, certainly,” said Linton, coolly; “Lady Kilgoff ought to have been the person.”

“She is gone, sir,” said Phillis.

“Gone! gone! When, and where?”

“I cannot say, sir; but my Lord and her Ladyship left this morning early, with post-horses, taking the Dublin road.”

Linton did not speak, but the swollen vein in his forehead, and the red flush upon his brow, told how the tidings affected him. He had long speculated on witnessing the agonies of her grief when the hour of his revenge drew nigh; and this ecstasy of cruelty was now to be denied him.

“And my Lord – had he regained any consciousness, or was he still insensible?”

“He appeared like a child, sir, when they lifted him into the carriage.”