Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

As Linton unlocked the bag and emptied its contents before him, his face suddenly grew dark and angry, for none of the letters, as he turned them over, were for himself; they were all addressed Roland Cashel, Esq., and marked “private.” At last he saw one with his own name, and, motioning to Keane to leave him undisturbed, he sat down to read it. It came from his correspondent, Mr. Phillis, and was of the briefest:

Sir, – All has gone wrong. R. C. sailed last night on a yachting excursion with Lord and Lady K., some say for Wales, others for the Isle of Wight. The truth I cannot ascertain. The persons invited to Tubbennore are all preparing to set out, but eagerly asking where C. is to be found. There has been something like a breach at K.‘s, and I fancy it is about Lady Kilgoffs going in the yacht, which, although seeming accident, must have been planned previously. If you had been here the matter might have taken another turn, as C. appears very tired of K.‘s agency, and the difficulty of obtaining money from him.

I have received a few lines from C., dated from “the harbor,” to order a “fourgon” to be got ready; but I shall pretend not to have received the note, and leave this, if you desire it, for Tubbermore on hearing from you.

Yours, in duty,

R. Phillis.

Linton crashed the note passionately in his fingers, and with a cheek almost purple, and swollen knotted veins about the forehead and temples, he hastily walked to and fro in the apartment. “So, madam,” said he, “is this, then, the reason of your compliance? Was this the source of that yielding to my wishes that induced you to come here? And to dare this towards me!” A fiendish laugh burst from him as he said, “Silly fool; so long as you played fair, the advantage was all on your own side. Try to cheat, and you ‘ll see who’s the victor! And that cub, too,” added he, with a hoarse passion, “who ventures a rivalry with me! Hate has an inspiration that never deceives; from the first moment I saw him I felt that for him.”

“You say you wanted the masons, sir,” said Keane, opening the door, where he had been endeavoring, but ineffectually, to catch the clew of Linton’s words.

“Yes, let them come here,” said he, with his ordinary composure. “You are to break a door there,” said he, as the men entered, “and I wish to have it done with all speed. You ‘ll work all night, and be doubly paid.” As he spoke, he sauntered out to muse over the late tidings he had received, and plan within himself the coming campaign.

Thus loitering and reflecting, time slipped by and evening drew near.

“We must have a light here,” said one of the masons. “This room is never very bright, and now it is almost dark as night. But what have we here?” And at the moment his hammer sent forth a ringing sound as if it had struck upon metal.

“What can it be?” said the other; “it seems like a plate of iron.”

Linton now drew nigh, as he overheard these words, and stationing himself at a small window, beheld the two men as they labored to detach what seemed a heavy stone in the wall.

“It’s not a plate of iron, but a box,” cried one.

“Hush,” said the other, cautioning silence; “if it’s money there ‘s in it, let us consider a bit where we ‘ll hide it.”

“It sounds empty, anyhow,” said the first, as the metal rang clearly out under the hammer. Meanwhile Linton stood overwhelmed at the strange connection between the dream and the discovery. “It is a box, and here’s the key fastened to it by a chain,” cried the former speaker. He had scarcely succeeded in removing the box from the wall, when Linton was standing, unseen and noiseless, behind him.

“We ‘ll share it fair, whatever it is,” said the second.

“Of course,” said the other. “Let us see what there is to-share.” And so he threw back the lid, and beheld, to his great dismay, nothing but a roll of parchment fastened by a strap of what had once been red leather, but which crumbled away as he touched it.

“‘T is Latin,” said the first, who seemed the more intelligent of the two, after a vain effort to decipher the heavily engrossed line at the top.

“You are right,” said Linton; and the two men started with terror on seeing him so near. “It is Latin, boys; it was the custom of the monks to bury their prayers in that way once, and to beg whoever might discover the document to say so many masses for the writer’s soul; and Protestant though I be, I do not think badly of the practice. Let us find out the name.” And thus saying, he took up the roll and perused it steadily. For a long time the evening darkness, the difficulty of the letters, and the style of the record, impeded him; but as he read on, the color came and went in his cheek, his hand trembled with agitation, and had there been light enough to have noted him well, even the workmen must have perceived the excitement under which he labored.

“Yes,” said he, at last, “it is exactly as I said; it was written by a monk. This was an old convent once, and Father Angelo asks our prayers for his eternal repose, which assuredly he shall have, heretic that I am! Here, boys, here’s a pound-note for you; Father Rush will tell you how to use it for the best. Get a light and go on with your work, and if you don’t like to spend the money in masses, say nothing about the box, and I ‘ll not betray your secret.”

A dry laugh and a significant leer of the eye showed that he had accurately read his hearers’ inmost thoughts, and Linton sat down as if to await their return; but no sooner had they left the spot than he hastened with all speed to the inn, to con over his newly discovered treasure, and satisfy himself as to its importance and authenticity.

Drawing close the curtains of his windows, and locking the door of his room, like one who would be alone, he again opened the casket, and took out the scroll. With bent-down head and steady gaze, he perused it from end to end, and then sat with riveted eyes fixed upon the signature and massive seal which were appended to the foot of the document. “That this should have been revealed in a dream,” said he, at length, “is almost enough to shake one’s faith in the whole! Am I myself awake, and is it real what I see before me?” He walked the room with uncertain steps, then opened wide the window, then closed it again, once more took up the paper and studied it. In fact, it was clear to see that a sceptical nature, the very habit of doubt, had indisposed him to believe in even that which his very senses corroborated.

“What would I give for some lawyer’s craft at this moment!” said he, as the drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead, and his clenched hands were clasped together in strong emotion; “what would I give for the keenness that could pierce through every line of this, and see it free of flaw – ay, that is the point! And then, Master Roland,” – here his voice grew full and round, – “and then we should see who is the master and who the dependent, if with a word – with one word – I could unmake you, and from the insolence of your sudden wealth bring you down once more to your fitting station! Never did Fortune stand by me like this! Let me, however, not lose the game from over-strength; caution is needed here. Before Corri-gan shall know himself the rightful owner of Tubbermore, he must be satisfied to see Tom Linton his son-in-law. A glorious hit that deals vengeance on every hand. Ay, my lady, we shall acquit our debt to you also!” From the heat of overwhelming passion he again turned to the document which lay open on the table. “What if it were only a copy? But this is scarce possible; the signatures look real, and the seal cannot be counterfeit. Whom could I trust to inspect it? With whom dare I place it for a day, or even an hour? No! I ‘ll never suffer it out of my own keeping! I know not if the power to strike is not the very acme of revenge!”

As he walked the room in deepest agitation he chanced for an instant to catch a glimpse of Tubbermore, which, in the bright light of a newly-risen moon, could be seen above the trees.

“So then it may chance that I have not expended my labor in vain, and that this same house may be yet my own. Mine!” cried he, in ecstasy, – “mine those swelling woods, that princely park; the high position which wealth bestows, and the power that I could speedily accomplish in political life. There may be many who have more ambition to strive for: I ‘ll swear there are few men living have more grudges to pay off.”

And with this speech, uttered in an accent of withering hate and scorn, he again returned to gaze at the open parchment. The document, surmounted by the royal arms, and engrossed in a stiff old-fashioned hand, was a free pardon accorded by his Majesty George the Second to Miles Hardress Corrigan, and a full and unqualified restoration to his once forfeited estates. Certain legal formalities were also enjoined to be taken, and certain oaths to be made, as the recognition of this act of his sovereign’s grace.

Such was the important document on which now he gazed, reading and re-reading it, till every word became riveted on his memory.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE GUESTS BEGIN TO ARRIVE

“Hark they come! they come!”

An unusual bustle and commotion in the little inn awoke Linton early on the following morning. These were caused by the arrival of a host of cooks, coachmen, grooms, footmen, and scullions, with a due proportion of the other sex, all engaged in London, and despatched – “as per order” – to form the household of Tubbermore.

As Linton proceeded with his dressing, he overheard the multifarious complaints and lamentations of this town-reared population over the dirt and destitution of their newly adopted land, – criticisms which, as they scrupled not to detail aloud, evoked rejoinders not a whit more complimentary to the Saxon; the hostess of the Goat – being an energetic disciple of that great authority who has pronounced both the land and its people as the paragons of creation – leading the van of the attack, and certainly making up for any deficiencies in her cause by the force of her eloquence.

“Arrah! who wanted ye here at all?” said she, addressing the circle, stunned into silence by her volubility. “Who axed ye? Was it to plaze us, or to fill yer pockets with the goold of ould Ireland, ye kem? Oh, murther! murther! – is n’t it the sin and the shame to think how the craytures is eatin’ us up! Faix! maybe ye ‘ll be sorry enough for it yet. There’s more than one amongst you would like to be safe home again, afore long! A set of lazy thieves, no less. The heavens be my bed, but I never thought I ‘d see the day they ‘d be bringing a ‘naygur’ to Ireland to teach us music!”

This singular apostrophe, which seemed to fill the measure of her woe, so far attracted Linton’s curiosity to comprehend it, that he opened the window and looked out, and at once discovered, by the direction of the eyes of the circle, the object of the sarcasm. He was a well-built man, of a dark swarthy complexion and immense beard and mustache, who sat on a stone bench before the door, occupied in arranging the strings of his guitar. The air of unmoved tranquillity showed that he did not suspect himself to be the butt of any sarcasm, and he pursued his task with a composure that vouched for his ignorance of the language.

“Who is our friend?” said Linton, addressing the coachman, and pointing to the musician.

“We calls him Robinson Crusoe, sir,” replied the other; “we took him up on the road from Limerick. We never seed him afore.”

“So, then, he doesn’t belong to our force. I really had begun to fear that Mr. Gunter had pushed enlistment too far.”

Meanwhile the stranger, attracted by the voice, looked up, and seeing Linton, immediately removed his cap, with an air of quiet courtesy that was not lost upon the shrewd observer to whom it was tendered.

“You are a sailor, I perceive?” said Tom, as he walked out in front of the inn. The other shook his head dubiously.

“I was asking,” said Linton, changing his language to French, “if you had been a sailor?”

“Yes, sir,” replied he, again removing his cap, “a sailor from Trieste.”

“And how came you here?”

“Our vessel was lost off the Blasquets, sir, on Wednesday night. We were bound for Bristol with fruit from Sicily, and caught in a gale; we struck, and all were lost, except myself and another, now in hospital in the large city yonder.”

“Were you a petty officer, or a common seaman?” said linton, who had been scanning with keen eye the well-knit frame and graceful ease of the speaker.

“A common sailor, sir,” rejoined he, modestly.

“And how comes it that you are a musician, friend?” asked Linton, shrewdly.

“Every one is in my country, sir – at least, with such humble skill as I possess.”

“What good fortune it was to have saved your guitar from shipwreck!” rejoined Linton, with an incredulous twinkle of his gray eyes.

“I did not do so, sir,” said the sailor, who either did not, or would not, notice the sarcasm. “My good friends here” – pointing to the servants – “bought this for me in the last town we came through.”

Linton again fixed his eyes upon him; it was evident that he was hesitating between belief and an habitual sense of distrust, that extended to everything and everybody. At last he said, —

“And what led you hither, my friend?”