Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

Linton did not wait for the reply, but shut the window, and again lay down.

In that half-waking state, where sleep and fatigue contest the ground with watchfulness, Linton continued to hear the sound of several arrivals, and the indistinct impressions became commingled till all were lost in heavy slumber. So is it. Childhood itself, in all its guileless freedom, enjoys no sounder, deeper sleep than he whose head is full of wily schemes and subtle plots, when once exhausted nature gains the victory.

So profound was that dreamless state in which he lay, that he was never once aware that the door by which his chamber communicated with the adjoining one had been opened, while a select committee were debating about the disposition of the furniture, in total ignorance that he made part of it.

“Why couldn’t Sir Andrew take that small room, and leave this for me? I like an alcove vastly,” said Lady Janet, as, candle in hand, she took a survey of the chamber.

“Yes, my leddy,” responded Flint, who, loaded with cloaks, mantles, and shawls, looked like an ambulating wardrobe.

“You can make him a kind of camp-bed there; he’ll do very well.”

“Yes, my leddy.”

“And don’t suffer that impertinent Mr. Phillis to poke his head in here and interfere with our arrangements. These appear to me to be the best rooms here, and I ‘ll take them.”

“Yes, my leddy.”

“Where’s Sir Andrew?”

“He’s takin’ a wee drap warm, my leddy, in the butler’s room; he was ower wat in the ‘dickey’ behind.”

“It rained smartly, but I ‘m sure the country wanted it,” dryly observed Lady Janet. – “Well, sir, you here again?” This sharp interrogatory was addressed to Mr. Phillis, who, after a vain search for her Ladyship over half the house, at length discovered her.

“You are not aware, my Lady,” said he, in a tone of obsequious deference, that nearly cost him an apoplexy, “that these rooms are reserved for my master.”

“Well, sir; and am I to understand that a guest’s accommodation is a matter of less importance than a valet’s caprice? for as Mr. Cashel never was here himself, and consequently never could have made a choice, I believe I am not wrong in the source of the selection.”

“It was Mr. Linton, my Lady, who made the arrangement.”

“And who is Mr. Linton, sir, who ventures to give orders here? – I ask you, who is Mr. Linton?” As there was something excessively puzzling to Mr. Phillis in this brief interrogatory, and as Lady Janet perceived as much, she repeated the phrase in a still louder and more authoritative tone, till, in the fulness of the accents, they fell upon the ears of him who, if not best able to give the answer, was, at least, most interested in its nature.

He started, and sat up; and although, from the position of his bed in a deep alcove he was himself screened from observation, the others were palpable enough to his eyes.

“Yes,” cried Lady Janet, for the third time, “I ask, who is Mr. Linton?”

“Upon my life, your Ladyship has almost made me doubt if there be such a person,” said Tom, protruding his head through the curtains.

“I vow he’s in the bed yonder!” said Lady Janet, starting back. “Flint, I think you are really too bad; this is all your doing, or yours, sir,” turning to Phillis with a face of anger.

“Yes, my Leddy, it’s a’ his meddlin’.”

“Eh, Leddy Janet, what’s this?” said Sir Andrew, suddenly joining the party, after a very dangerous excursion along dark corridors and back stairs.

“We’ve strayed into Mr. Linton’s room, I find,” said she, gathering up various small articles she had on entering thrown on the table. “I must only reserve my apologies for a more fitting time and place, and wish him ‘good-night.’”

“I’ve even dune something o’ the same wi’ Mrs. Kannyfack,” said Sir Andrew. “She was in bed, though, and so I made my retreat undiscovered.”

“I regret, Lady Janet,” said Linton, politely, “that my present toilet does not permit me to show you to your apartment, but if you will allow Mr. Phillis – ”

“Dinna get up, man,” broke in Sir Andrew, as he half pushed the invading party out of the door; “we’ll find it vara weel, I ‘ve na doubt.” And in a confused hubbub of excuses and grumblings they withdrew, leaving Linton once more to court slumber, if he could.

“I beg pardon, sir,” said Phillis, popping in his head the minute after, “but Mr. Downie Meek’ has taken the rooms you meant for Lady Janet; they’ve pillaged all the chambers at either side for easy-chairs and cushions to – ”

“With all my heart; let them settle the question between them, or leave it to arbitration. Shut the door, pray.”

“Mrs. White, too, and a large party are in the library, and I don’t know where to show them into.”

“Anywhere but here, Phillis. Good-night; there’s a good man, good-night.”

“They ‘re all asking for you, sir; just tell me what to say.”

“Merely that I have passed a shocking night, and request I may not be disturbed till late in the afternoon.”

Phillis retired with a groan, and soon a confused hum of many voices could be heard along the corridor, in every accent of irritation and remonstrance. Self-reproaches on the mistaken and abused confidence which had led the visitors to journey so many miles to “such a place;” mutual condolences over misfortune; abuse of the whole establishment, and “that insufferable puppy the valet” in particular, went round, till at last, like a storm that bad spent its fury, a lull succeeded; one by one the grumblers slipped away, and just as day was breaking, the house was buried in the soundest sleep.

About an hour later, when the fresh-risen son was glistening and glittering among the leaves, lightly tipped with the hoar-frost of an autumnal morning, a handsomely-appointed travelling-carriage, with four posters, drove rapidly up to the door, and an active-looking figure, springing from the box, applied himself to the bell with a vigorous hand, and the next minute, flinging open the carriage-door, said, “Welcome, – at last, I am able to say, – welcome to Tub-bermore.”

A graceful person, wrapped in a large shawl, emerged, and, leaning on his arm, entered the house; but in a moment he returned to assist another and a far more helpless traveller, an old and feeble man, who suffered himself to be carried, rather than walked, into the hall.

“This is Tubbermore, my Lord,” said the lady, bending down, and with a hand slightly touching his shoulder seeming to awake his attention.

“Yes – thank you – perfectly well,” said he, in a low soft voice, while a smile of courteous but vacant meaning stole over his sickly features.

“Not over-fatigued, my Lord?” said Roland, kindly.

“No, sir – we saw the ‘Lightship’ quite near us.”

“Still thinking of that dreadful night,” said her Ladyship, as she arranged two braids of her fair brown hair more becomingly on her forehead; and then turning to a very comely personage, who performed a series of courtesies, like minute guns, at intervals, added, “If you please, then, we’ll retire to our apartment. Your housekeeper, I suppose, Mr. Cashel?”

“I conclude so,” said Roland; “but I am equally a stranger here with yourself.”

“Mrs. Moss, at your service, sir,” said the housekeeper, with another courtesy.

“Mrs. Moss, then,” said Roland, in an undertone, “I have only to remark that Lord and Lady Kilgoff must want for nothing here.”

“I understand, sir,” said Mrs. Moss; and whether the words, or the look that accompanied them, should bear the blame, but they certainly made Cashel look half angry, half ashamed.

“Then good-night – or good-morrow, I believe it should be,” said Lady Kilgoff. “I’m sure, in charity, we should not keep you from your bed a minute longer. You had a severe night outside.”

“Good-night – good-night, my Lord,” said Cashel; and the handsome form of the lady moved proudly on, while the servant assisted the poor decrepid husband slowly after.

Roland looked after them for an instant, and whether from some curiosity to see the possessions which called him master, or that he felt indisposed to sleep, he passed out into the lawn and stood some minutes gazing at the strange and somewhat incongruous pile before him.

Perhaps something of disappointment mingled with his thoughts – perhaps it was only that strange revulsion which succeeds to all long-excited expectation, when the moment of satisfying it has come, and speculation is at an end forever – but he was turning away, in half sadness, when he caught sight of a hand waving to him a salute from one of the windows. He had just time to answer the gesture, when the shutter was closed. There was one other saw the motion, and noted well the chamber from whence it came. Linton, awoke by the arrival of the carriage, had watched every step that followed, and now sat, with half-drawn curtains, eagerly marking everything that might minister to his jealous anger.

As for Cashel, he sauntered on into the wood, his mind wandering on themes separated by nearly half the world from where his steps were straying.

CHAPTER XXXIII. ROLAND’S INTRODUCTION TO MR. CORRIGAN