Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

“Then, faith, the peril is fifty times greater and nearer than I suspected,” cried he, warmly. “When a man cracks on all that he can carry, and more than is safe, you at least give him credit for knowing the channel, and understanding its bearings; but when he tells you that he neither knows the course nor the soundings, why you set him down as mad.”

“I shall not be very far removed from that condition if you’ll not condescend to explain yourself more freely,” said Cashel, with some irritation of manner. “Where is this danger? and what is it?”

Sickleton looked at him for a second or two, then at the old peer; and, at last, with a scarcely perceptible movement of his head, motioned towards the door by which Lady Kilgoff had just passed out.

“You surely cannot mean – you do not suppose – ”

“No matter what I suppose; all I say is, there are worse breakers ahead of you just now than the ‘Lucciola’ had last night; haul your wind, and draw off while you have time. Besides, look yonder,” – and he pointed with a jerk of his thumb to Lord Kilgoff, who still sat with stolid gaze fixed upon the red embers of the fire, – “that would be a victory with but little honor!”

Cashel started to his feet, and, passing his hand over his forehead, seemed, as it were, trying to disabuse his mind of some painful illusion. His features, flushed and animated an instant before, had grown almost livid in pallor; and he stood, with one hand leaning on the chair from which he had risen, like one recovering from a fainting fit At last, and with a voice husky and hoarse from emotion, he said, “Sickleton, if I had thought this – if, I say, I even believed what you hint at possible – ”

“Pooh! pooh!” broke in the other; “why anchor in three fathoms when you ‘ve deep water beside you? You ‘ll not hug a lee-shore with a fresh breeze on your quarter; and all I ask is, that you ‘d not risk the loss of that noble craft merely that you may spoil the wreck.”

Cashel grasped the rough seaman’s hand in both his own, and shook it with warmth.

“I can only say this,” said the bluff lieutenant, rising, “if such be the object of your cruises, you must seek another shipmate than Bob Sickleton; and so good-night.”

“Are you going?” said Cashel, with a sorrowful voice. “I wish you were not about to leave thus.”

“I have given you your bearings; that ought to be enough for you. Good-night, once more.” And with this the honest-hearted lieutenant threw his boat-cloak around him, and sallied forth to the door, before which a chaise was in waiting to convey him to Dublin.

As for Roland, his agitated and excited mind banished all desire for sleep, and he wandered out upon the beach, where, resolving many a good intention for the future, he walked to and fro till day was breaking.

CHAPTER XXX. MISS LEICESTER’S DREAM AND ITS FULFILMENT

Old walls have mouths as well as ears.

    The Convent: a Play.

To us of the present day, who see what Genii are guineas, fairy tales are mere allegories. Your true sorcerer is a credit “on Coutts,” and anything may be esteemed within his power who reckons by tens of thousands.

Tom Linton was experimenting on this problem somewhat largely at Tubbermore, where the old, misshapen, ugly house had undergone such a series of transformations inside and out that the oldest inhabitant might have failed to recognize it. Roman cement and stucco – those cosmetics of architecture – had given to the front a most plausible air; and what with a great flagged terrace beneath and a balustrade parapet above, the whole had put on a wonderful look of solidity and importance. French windows and plate-glass, stuccoed architraves and richly traceried balconies, from which access was had to various terraces and flower-plats, contributed an appearance of lightness to the building; and what was lost in architectural elegance, was fully recompensed by convenience and facility of enjoyment.

Within, the arrangements were excellent, and, as regarded the object in view, perfect; various suites of apartments, so separated as to be actually like residences, abounded throughout, so that the guests might either indulge their solitude undisturbed, or mix in the wide circle of the general company. For the latter, a magnificent suite of rooms led along the entire basement story. Here, considering the shortness of the time and the difficulties encountered, Linton’s skill was pre-eminently distinguished. Painting was too slow a process for such an emergency, and accordingly the walls were hung with rich silks and stuffs from the looms of Lyons, draped in a hundred graceful fashions, while the floors, laid down in the rough, were concealed by the massive texture of Persian carpets, the most costly ever brought to this country. The air of comfort and “livableness” – if we may coin a word – depicted on every side, took away the reproach of ostentatious splendor, which perhaps might have been applied to rich decorations and gorgeous details in a mere country house. And this was managed with no mean skill; and he must have been a stern critic who could have canvassed too rigidly the merit of appliances so manifestly provided for his own enjoyment. Books and pictures – the Penates of domesticity – were there, and everything possible was done to give a semblance of long habitation to that which but a few weeks back had been a dreary ruin.

A critical eye might have detected in many instances the evidences of a more refined taste than Mr. Linton’s, and so was it Miss Leicester had frequently aided him by her advice and suggestions, and every day, when the weather permitted, saw old Mr. Corrigan and his granddaughter repair to Tubbermore, whose progress they watched with a degree of interest only felt by those whose retirement admits few sources of amusement There was a secret cause of pride, too, in seeing the old residence of the family – marred as had been its proportions by frequent and tasteless additions – resume something of its once grandeur. Mary, whose earliest lessons in infancy had been the tales of her powerful ancestors, who lorded over an almost princely tract, entered heart and soul into a course which favored so many of fancy’s pleasantest fictions. Her greatest delight, however, was in the restoration of one part of the building, which all former innovators had apparently despaired of, and left as a species of storehouse for every kind of lumber. This was a great square tower, with an adjoining chapel, the floor of which was formed by the tombstones of her earliest ancestors. One compartment of a stained-glass window showed “the helmet and torch,” the arms of the O’Regans, from which the family, by a corruption, took the name of Corrigan; and various other mementos abounded to prove the high station they had once supported.

Strongly imbued with a knowledge of the tales and customs of the period, Mary restored the chapel to all the emblazoned splendor of the sixteenth century. The rich carvings that modern research has discovered and carried away from the châteaux of the Low Countries were adapted to the place, and speedily the interior put on an air of highly preserved and cherished antiquity.

The tower adjoining was also converted into a great chamber of audience, – a “Ritter-Saal,” – hung round with weapons of the chase and war, while great buffets displayed a wealth of antique plate and china, of gem-wrought cups and massive flagons, that lent a lustre to its otherwise too stern appearance. Lighted by a range of stained windows far from the ground, the tempered sunlight cast a mellow glance on every object; and here, in the silence of the noon, when the workmen had gone to dinner, Mary used to sit alone, some strange spell fascinating her to a spot where echoes had once awoke to the tramp of her own kinsmen’s footsteps.

“Tell me, Mr. Linton,” said she, as he entered suddenly, and found her seated in her favorite place, “what part of the chapel adjoins the wall we see yonder?”

“That,” said Linton, musing for a second, – “that, if I mistake not, must be what you styled the crypt; the – ”

“Exactly!” cried she, with animation. “The crypt is somewhat lower than this chamber, two steps or so?”

“About as much.”

“How strange, how very strange!” she said, half to herself.

“What is strange!” said Linton, smiling at the intense preoccupation of her features.

“You will laugh outright,” said she, “if I tell you. It was a dream I had last night about this chamber.”

“Pray let me hear it,” said Linton, seating himself, and affecting a deep interest “I own to a most implicit confidence in dreams.”

“Which is more than I do,” said she, laughing. “This has, however, so much of truth about it, as the locality is concerned, and thus far it is curious. Are you certain that you never told me before that the crypt lay outside of that wall?”

“Perfectly; since I only learned as much myself about an hour ago.”

“How singular!”

“Come, do not torture my curiosity further. Let us have your dream.”

“It was very short. I dreamed that I was sitting here musing and thinking over the lives and fortunes of some of those who once dwelt within these walls, and comparing their destiny with that of their descendants, only admitted, as it were, on sufferance, when suddenly a door opened slowly there, – there, in the very midst of that wall, – and I could see down into the crypt, and the chapel beyond it. On the altar there were candles lighted, and I thought the figure of a man crossed and recrossed below the steps, as if settling and arranging the books and cushions; and, at last, he turned round, and I perceived that he carried in his hands a small and strongly clasped box, and, as he came towards me, he seemed to hold this out for me to take; but, as I did not move or stir, he laid it down within the doorway, and, as he did so, the wall gradually closed up again, and no vestige of the door could be seen. Nay, so perfectly unshaken did all appear that I remember remarking a cobweb that stretched from the frame of a picture, and hung over the spot where the door seemed to be; and there,” cried she, starting up, – “there, Mr. Linton, as I live, there is the cobweb!”

“Which, without doubt, you observed yesterday,” said Linton, “and in your sleep the vision of our neglect was renewed.”

“No, no; I never saw it before. I am confident that I never noticed it yesterday. I am sorry I revealed my dream to you,” said she, perceiving that, in spite of all his tact, incredulity had lent a look of pitying compassion to his features.

“On the contrary, I beg of you to believe in all my interest for your recital; nay, I’ll prove it too.”

“How so?” said she, eagerly.

“Simply enough. I ‘ll give orders at once to have a door made here, and then we shall see if the view you describe of the crypt and the chapel can be seen from this point.”

“Why don’t you add, and of the figure with the casket, too?” said she, smiling; “for I see you regard them all as alike veracious.”

“In any case,” cried Linton, “if he lay down the treasure – and treasure it must be – here in the doorway, I ‘ll take care that the walls do not swallow it up again; we shall be able to find it in the morning.”

“And will you really have this done?”

“I ‘ll give the orders this very day.”

“I must not be so silly,” said she, after a pause; “the whole is too absurd. No, Mr. Linton, do not, I beg of you, do not take any notice of my folly.”

“At all events,” said Linton, “your dream is a most happy inspiration; a door here will be a great improvement, and if the vista takes in the chapel, so much the better. Remember, too,” added he, in a lower and more feeling voice, – “remember what I have told you so often, that whatever we do here has, so to say, no other reward than the pleasure it gives me the doing. Our great patron has about as much gratefulness in his composition as taste. He will neither feel thankful for our exertions, nor sensible of their success, and is just as likely to desecrate yon Ritter-Saal, by making it his smoking-room.”

“If I thought so,” said she, proudly, and then stopped suddenly. “But how can it concern me? I have only to wonder how you can accept of an intimacy so distasteful.”

This, in its very abruptness, was a home-thrust; and so much did Linton feel it that he reddened, at first with shame, and then with anger at his want of composure.

“There are many circumstances in life, Miss Leicester,” said he, gravely, “which demand heavy sacrifices of personal feeling; and happy if sometimes the recompense come in seeing that our self-devotion has worked well for others! I may one day explain myself more fully on this head.”

Before Mary could answer, a messenger came to say that her grandfather was waiting to return with her to the cottage, and she bid Linton good-bye with a degree of interest for him she had never felt before. Linton stood in a window and watched her as she went, nor did his eye quit the graceful form till it disappeared in the covering of the trees. “Yes,” said he to himself, “I have struck the right chord at last! She neither is to be dazzled by the splendor nor excited by the ambitions of the great world. The key to the mystery of her nature lies in the very fact of her position in life, – the indignant struggle against a condition she feels beneath her; she can sympathize with this. She is just the very girl, too, to awaken Laura’s jealousy, so brilliantly handsome, so much of elegance in mien and deportment Ay! the game will win; I may stake all upon it. Who is that?” said he, starting suddenly, as a door banged behind him, and he saw Tom Keane, who had been a silent listener to his soliloquy. Linton well knew that, shrewd as the man was, the words could have conveyed little or nothing to his intelligence, and carelessly asked what had the post brought.

“A heap of letters, yer honer,” said he, laying the heavily loaded bag on the table. “I never see so many come to the town afore.”