Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“I almost wish you had let him alone,” said the other, gruffly, and in evident discontent; “I foresee that the sympathy the scoundrel affected will be troublesome to us yet.”

“I have no fears on that head,” replied the other, confidently. “The facts are there, and Crankle’s speech to evidence ripped him up in a terrific manner.”

“Did he allude to the Spanish girl?”

“He did, and with great effect.”

“And the Kilgoff affair – did he bring ‘My Lady’ up for judgment?”

“No. The Attorney-General positively forbade all allusion to that business.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the other, with a savage sneer. “‘The Court’ was too sacred for such profanation.”

“I think he was right, too,” said Jones. “The statement could never have been brought to bear upon the case before the Court. It would have been a mere episode outside of the general history, and just as likely impress the Jury with the opinion that all the charges were trumped up to gain a conviction in any way.”

The other paused, and seemed to reflect for some minutes, when he said, “Well, what are they about now?”

“When I left, the Court had just refused Cashel’s demand to address the jury. The Chief Baron had ruled against him, and, of course, the charge is now being pronounced. As I know how this must run, I took the opportunity of coming over here to see you.”

“My name was but once mentioned, you tell me,” said the other, in an abrupt manner.

“It was stated that you were dangerously ill, without hope of recovery,” said Jones, faltering, and with evident awkwardness.

“And not alluded to again?” asked the other, whom there is no need of calling Mr. Linton.

“Yes, once passingly,” said Jones, still faltering.

“How do you mean, passingly?” asked Linton, in anger.

“The Crown lawyers brought forward that note of yours from Ennismore.”

Linton dashed his closed fist against the table, and uttered a horrible and blasphemous oath.

“Some bungling of yours, I’ll be sworn, brought this about,” said he, savagely; “some piece of that adroit chicanery that always recoils upon its projector.”

“I ‘ll not endure this language, sir,” said Jones. “I have done more to serve you than any man would have stooped to in my profession. Unsay those words.”

“I do unsay them. I ask pardon for them, my dear Jones. I never meant them seriously,” said Linton, in that fawning tone he could so well assume. “You ought to know me better than to think that I, who have sworn solemnly to make your fortune, could entertain such an opinion of you. Tell me now of this. Did Cashel say anything as the note was read?”

“Not a syllable.”

“How did he look?”

“He smiled slightly.”

“Ah, he smiled,” said Linton, growing pale; “he smiled! He can do that when he is most determined.”

“What avails all his determination now? No narrative of his can shake the testimony which the examination has confirmed. It was a masterstroke of yours, Mr. Linton, to think of supplying him with counsel.”

Linton smiled superciliously, as though he was accustomed to higher flights of treachery than this. “So then,” said he, at length, “you say the case is strong against him?”

“It could scarcely be stronger.”

“And the feeling – how is the feeling of the Court?”

“Variable, I should say; in the galleries, and among the fashionably dressed part of the assemblage, inclined somewhat in his favor.”

“How? Did not the charge of attempted bigamy tell against him with his fair allies?”

“Not so much as I had hoped.”

“What creatures women are!” said Linton, holding up his hands. “And how are they betting? What says Frobisher?”

“He affects to think it no case for odds; he says there ‘s a little fellow in the jury-box never was known to say ‘Guilty.’”

“A scheme to win money, – a stale trick, my Lord Charles!” muttered Linton, contemptuously; “but I’ve no objection to hedge a little, for all that.”

“I must be going,” said Jones, looking at his watch; “the charge will soon be over, and I must look to the proceedings.”

“Will they be long in deliberation, think you?” asked Linton.

“I suspect not; they are all weary and tired. It is now ten o’clock.”

“I thought it later,” said Linton, thoughtfully; “time lags heavily with him whose mind is in expectancy. Hark! there is some one below talking of the trial! What says he?”

“He speaks of Cashel as still addressing the Court. Can they have consented to hear him, after all?”

A fearful curse broke from Linton, and he closed the door noiselessly.

“See to this, Jones; see to it speedily. My mind misgives me that something will go wrong.”

“You say that you know him thoroughly, and that he never would – ”

“No, no,” broke in Linton, passionately; “he’ll not break one tittle of his word, even to save his life! When he promised me that all should be secret between us, he made no reservations, and you ‘ll see that he ‘ll not avail himself of such privileges now. I do know him thoroughly.”

“Then what, or whence, is your fear?”

Linton made no other answer than a gesture of his hand, implying some vague and indistinct dread. “But go,” said he, “and go quickly. You ought never to have left the court. Had you remained, perhaps this might have been prevented. If all goes right, you ‘ll be here by daybreak at furthest, and Keane along with you. Take care of that, Jones; don’t lose sight of him. If – if – we are unfortunate – and do you think such possible?”

“Everything is possible with a jury.”

“True,” said he, thoughtfully; “it is an issue we should never have left it to. But away; hasten back. Great Heaven! only to think how much hangs upon the next half-hour!”

“To Cashel, you mean?” said Jones, as he prepared himself for the road.

“No; I mean to me, I do know him thoroughly; and well I know the earth would be too narrow to live upon, were that man once more free and at liberty.”

In his eagerness for Jones’s departure, he almost pushed him from the room; and then, when he had closed and locked the door again, he sat down beside the low flickering fire, and as the fitful light played upon his features, all the appliances of disguise he wore could not hide the terrible ravages that long corroding anxiety had made in him. Far more did he resemble the arraigned criminal than he who now stood in the dock, and with a cheek blanched only by imprisonment, waited calm, collected, and erect – “Equal to either fortune.”