Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

The old man shook his head and made a gesture of refusal.

“Nay,” said he, “I am so unfitted for such scenes, and so grown out of the world’s ways, that I am going to play hermit, and be churlish enough to lock the wicket that leads down to the cottage during the stay of your visitors – not against you, however. You’ll always find the key at the foot of the holly-tree.”

“Thanks – I’ll not forget it,” said Linton; and he took a cordial leave of his friends, and returned to the house, wondering as he went who were the punctual guests whose coming had anticipated his expectations.

He was not long in doubt upon this point, as he perceived Mr. Phillis, who, standing on the terrace before the chief entrance, was giving directions to the people about, in a tone of no small authority.

“What, Phillis! has your master arrived?” cried Linton, in astonishment.

“Oh, Mr. Linton!” cried the other, obsequiously, as hat in hand he made his approaches, “there has been such a business since I wrote – ”

“Is he here? Is he come?” asked Linton, impatiently.

“No, sir, not yet; nor can he arrive before to-morrow evening. You received my letter, I suppose, about the result of the yachting-party and Lady Kilgoff?”

“No! I know not one word about it,” said Linton, with a firmness that showed how well he could repress any trace of anxiety or excitement. “Come this way, out of the hearing of these people, and tell me everything from the beginning.”

Phillis obeyed, and walked along beside him, eagerly narrating the whole story of Cashel’s departure, to the moment when the yacht foundered, and the party were shipwrecked off the coast of Wexford.

“Well, go on,” said Linton, as the other came to a full stop. “What then?”

“A few lines came from Mr. Cashel, sir, with orders for certain things to be sent down to a little village on the coast, and directions for me to proceed at once to Tubbermore and await his arrival.”

Linton did not speak for some minutes, and seemed totally occupied with his own reflections, when by hazard he caught the words “her Ladyship doing exactly as she pleases – ”

“With whom?” asked he, sternly.

“With Mr. Cashel, sir; for it seems that notwithstanding all the terror and danger of the late mishap, Mr. Sickleton has been despatched to Cowes to purchase the ‘Queen of the Harem,’ Lord Wellingham’s new yacht, and this at Lady Kilgoff’s special instigation. Mr. Sickleton slept one night at our house in town, and I took a look at his papers; there was nothing of any consequence, however, except a memorandum about ‘Charts for the Mediterranean,’ which looks suspicious.”

“I thought, Phillis, I had warned you about the Kilgoff intimacy. I thought I had impressed you with the necessity of keeping them from him.”

“So you had, sir; and, to the very utmost of my power, I did so; but here was a mere accident that foiled all my care and watchfulness.”

“As accidents ever do,” muttered Linton, with suppressed passion. “The game of life, like every other game, is less to skill than chance! Well, when can they be here?”

“To-morrow afternoon, sir, if not delayed by something unforeseen; though this is not at all unlikely, seeing the difficulty of getting posters. There are from thirty to forty horses engaged at every stage.”

“Whom have we here?” cried Linton, as a large travelling-carriage suddenly swept round the drive, and entered the court.

“Sir Andrew MacFarline’s baggage, sir; I passed them at the last change. One would say, from the preparations, that they speculate on a somewhat lengthy visit. What rooms are we to assign them, sir?”

“The four that look north over the billiard-room and the hall; they are the coldest and most cheerless in the house. Your master will occupy the apartments now mine; see, here is the plan of the house; Lord and Lady Kilgoff have 4, 5, and 6. These that are not marked you may distribute how you will. My quarters are those two, beyond the library.”

Linton was here interrupted by the advance of a tall, stiff-looking old fellow, who, carrying his hand to his hat in military guise, stood straight before him, saying, in a very broad accent, “The gen’ral’s mon, sir, an’t please ye.”

“Well, friend, and what then?” replied Linton, half testily.

“I ‘ve my leddy’s orders, sir, to tak’ up a good position, and a warm ane, in the hoos yonder, and if it’s no askin’ too much, I ‘d like to speer the premises first.”

“Mr. Phillis, look after this, if you please,” said Linton, turning away; “and remember my directions.”

“Come with me, friend,” said Phillis; “your mistress, I suppose, does not like cold apartments?”

“Be ma saul, if she finds them so, she ‘ll mak’ the rest of the hoos over warm for the others,” said he, with a sardonic grin, that left small doubt of his sincere conviction.

“And your master?” said Phillis, in that interrogatory tone which invites a confidence.

“The gen’ral ‘s too auld a soldier no to respec deescepline,” said he, dryly.

“Oh, that’s it, Sanders.”

“Ma name’s Bob Flint, and no Saunders, – gunner and driver i’ the Royal Artillery,” said the other, drawing himself up proudly; “an’ if we are to be mair acquaint, it’s just as well ye ‘d mind that same.”

As Bob Flint possessed that indescribable something which would seem, by an instinct, to save its owner from impertinences, Mr. Phillis did not venture upon any renewed familiarity, but led the way into the house in silence.

“That’s a bra’ cookin’ place ye’ve got yonder,” said Bob, as he stopped for a second at the door of the great kitchen, where already the cooks were busied in the various preparations; “but I’m no so certain my leddy wad like to see a bra’ giggot scooped out in tha’ fashion just to mak’ room for a wheen black potatoes inside o’ it;” – the operation alluded to so sarcastically being the stuffing of a shoulder of mutton with truffles, in Provencal mode.

“I suppose her Ladyship will be satisfied with criticising what comes to table,” said Phillis, “without descending to the kitchen to make objections.”

“If she does, then,” said Flint, “she’s mair ceevil to ye here than she was in the last hoos we spent a fortnight, whar she discharged twa maids for no making the beds as she’d taw’d them, forbye getting the coachman turned off because the carriage horses held their tails ower high for her fancy.”

“We’ll scarce put up with that here,” said Phillis, with offended dignity.

“I dinna ken,” said Bob, thoughtfully; “she made her ain nephew carry a pound o’ dips from the chandler’s, just, as she said, to scratch his pride a bit. I ‘d ha’ ye mind a wee hoo ye please her fancy. You ‘re a bonnie mon, but she’ll think leetle aboot sending ye packing.”

Mr. Phillis did not deign a reply to this speech, but led the way to the suite destined for her Ladyship’s accommodation.

CHAPTER XXXII. HOW THE VISITORS FARED

They come – they come!

    – Harold.

Linton passed the greater part of the night in letter-writing. Combinations were thickening around him, and it demanded all the watchful activity he could command to prevent himself being overtaken by events. To a confidential lawyer he submitted a case respecting Corrigan’s title, but so hypothetically and with such reserve that it betrayed no knowledge of his secret – for he trusted no man. Mary Leicester’s manuscript was his next care, and this he intrusted to a former acquaintance connected with the French press, entreating his influence to obtain it the honor of publication, and, instead of remuneration, asking for some flattering acknowledgment of its merits. His last occupation was to write his address to the constituency of his borough, where high-sounding phrases and generous professions took the place of any awkward avowals of political opinion. This finished, and wearied by the long-sustained exertion, he threw himself on his bed. His head, however, was far too deeply engaged to permit of sleep. The plot was thickening rapidly – events, whose course he hoped to shape at his leisure, were hurrying on, and although few men could summon to their aid more of cold calculation in a moment of difficulty, his wonted calm was now disturbed by one circumstance – this being, as he called it to himself – Laura’s treachery. No men bear breaches of faith so ill as they who practise them with the world. To most persons the yacht voyage would have seemed, too, a chance occurrence, where an accidental intimacy was formed, to wane and die out with the circumstance that created it. Not so did he regard it. He read a prearranged plan in every step she had taken – he saw in her game the woman’s vanity to wield an influence over one for whom so many contended – he knew, too, how in the great world an “éclat” can always cover an “indiscretion” – and that, in the society of that metropolis to which she aspired, the reputation of chaperoning the rich Roland Cashel would be of incalculable service.

If Linton had often foiled deeper snares, here a deep personal wrong disturbed his powers of judgment, and irritated him beyond all calm prudential thoughts. Revenge upon her, the only one he had ever cared for, was now his uppermost thought, and left little place for any other.

Wearied and worn out, he fell asleep at last, but only to be suddenly awakened by the rattling of wheels and the quick tramp of horses on the gravel beneath his window. The one absorbing idea pervading his mind, he started up, muttering, “She is here.” As he opened his window and looked down, he at once perceived his mistake – Mrs. Kennyfeck’s well-known voice was heard, giving directions about her luggage – and Linton closed the casement, half relieved and half disappointed.

For a brief space the house seemed astir. Mrs. Kennyfeck made her way along the corridor in a mingled commentary on the handsome decorations of the mansion and Mr. Kennyfeck’s stupidity, who had put Archbold’s “Criminal Practice” into her bag instead of Debrett’s “Peerage,” while Linton could overbear a little quizzing conversation between the daughters, wherein the elder reproached her sister for not having the politeness to bid them “welcome.” The slight commotion gradually subsided, all became still, but only for a brief space. Again the same sound of crashing wheels was heard, and once more Linton flung open his window and peered out into the darkness. It was now raining tremendously, and the wind howling in long and dreary cadences.

“What a climate!” exclaimed a voice Linton knew to be Downie Meek’s. His plaint ran thus: —

“I often said they should pension off the Irish Secretary after three years, as they do the Chief Justice of Gambia.”

“It will make the ground very heavy for running, I fear,” said the deep full tone of a speaker who assisted a lady to alight.

“How you are always thinking of the turf, Lord Charles!” said she, as he rather carried than aided her to the shelter of the porch.