Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

“I do not speak of ‘the Cottage,’” said Cashel, “but of the whole estate of Tubbermore, the ancient possession of your house – still yours. There is the proof.” And, as he spoke, he drew forth the pardon, and handed it to Corrigan.

The old man trembled in every limb as he perused the paper, which he now read over for the third time.

“A royal pardon to Miles Corrigan, my grandfather?” exclaimed he, gasping for breath; “and how came you by this, sir?”

“The story is soon told,” said Cashel, relating in a few words the singular steps of the discovery.

“And you have travelled throughout Europe for upwards of three years to disencumber yourself of £16,000 a year?” said the ambassador, smiling good-naturedly.

“I have done so to disencumber myself of the weight of an injustice.”

“And this is the youth you would accuse of deception?” said Lady Kilgoff, haughtily.

“Forgive me, Lady; forgive one who has suffered too heavily from the world not to fall into the error of thinking once unjustly of a benefactor.”

“I have no title to the name, sir,” said Cashel. “Nay, more. I am your debtor for wealth which I squandered, believing it my own.”

“I knew him better than any of you,” cried old Dr. Tiernay, rushing forward and grasping Cashel by both hands. “My own generous, high-hearted boy. Come here, Mary; tell him candidly that you, too, were always of my opinion. This is no time for coyness. Let us have a little honesty after all this deception.” He drew Cashel to one side, and, in a deep whisper, said, “What of that Spanish girl? – Are you married or not?”

Roland smiled at the eagerness of the old man’s manner, and, in half-sadness, said, “Poor Maritaña is now a fugitive – we know not where.”

A sudden commotion at the door, and a tumult of voices, interrupted the scene, and Rica rushed in, crying in ecstasy, “She is found – my child is found!”

The travellers of the diligence passing through the wood of Versailles had discovered the form of a sleeping girl at the foot of a tree, and carried her back with them to Paris. Enrique himself, being among them, recognized her at once, and soon succeeded in finding out Rica, into whose arms he restored her.

While Rica hurriedly poured forth this explanation, old Corrigan stood tremulous with agitation, and at last, advancing towards him, said, “Leicester, I am no longer afraid to meet you. Fortune has, at last, favored me. I am rich now, and can make you rich also.”

Rica started back: a sudden sickness came over him, and he fell powerless at the old man’s feet.

What a scene of heartfelt emotion followed, as Mary recognized her long-lost father; and the careworn, sorrow-struck man saw the warm affections of those whom, in a life long, he had injured.

“The end of this will be,” said Lady Kilgoff, laughing through tears, “that I shall have to proceed on my journey alone. I foresee that we shall not share in all the general joy at these discoveries.”

“I have a sister, too,” exclaimed Mary, with enthusiasm, “whom I am burning with impatience to see. Where is she? when are we to meet?”

“She is below – she is in my carriage at the door,” said Rica.

The ambassador heard the words and left the room, returning in a moment with Maritaña on his arm. Wearied and exhausted as she was, there was that in her native grace and beauty that caused a thrill of admiration as she entered.

“Here is your sister, Maritaña,” said Rica, leading her to where Mary stood, gazing with wistful eyes at the Spanish beauty. Maritaña looked steadily at the fair loveliness before her, where timidity and gentleness seemed impressed; and then, as if yielding to some sudden impulse, she sprang forward, and, clasping her hand, covered it with kisses, exclaiming with rapture, —

“Non! non la sua hermana, ma la sua esclava! – Not her sister, but her slave.”

Among the group who with admiring eyes gazed upon this little scene, there stood a dark, sombre-looking man, whose mean attire and travel-worn look could not conceal a certain dignity of air and manner. Cashel’s quick glance soon discovered him, and in a moment they were locked in a fast embrace. “My old, true-hearted comrade!” cried Roland.

“Yes, señora!” said Maritaña, as if answering the look of astonishment of Mary; “and for all that he seems now, he is a well-born caballero, and noble to boot.”

“Everything looks worse and worse for my prospects of companionship,” said Lady Kilgoff, poutingly. “Mr. Corrigan – Mary – are you both bent on desertion?”

“We are bound for Ireland, fair Lady; the little remnant of my life is a debt I owe my country.”

“Señor Rica and your lovely daughter, will you be our companions?”

“Our road lies westward, Lady. The New World must teach us to forget the Old one.”

“Mr. Cashel, am I to guess whither your steps will lead you?”

“It would save me the pain of deciding if you did,” said Roland, sadly.

“You come with us, Roland,” said Mr. Corrigan; “you once told me that you felt Tubber-beg a home. Let us see if time has not erased the impression.”

“And Maritaña, too!” cried Mary.

“And Enrique!” said Maritaña.

“Then I must be of the party,” said Dr. Tiernay. “I was never intended by nature for an embassy physician, but as a village doctor I still feel that I shall hold up my head with dignity.”

Rica, who meanwhile was in earnest conversation with Cashel, now advanced into the middle of the group, and said, “Mr. Cashel once contracted a solemn pledge to me, from which I feel no inclination to release him. I ask him before this assemblage if it be true he promised to marry my daughter?”

Roland grew deadly pale, but in a faint voice replied, “It is true.”

“Are you willing to keep your pledge?” said Rica, firmly.

Cashel made no answer but a slight motion of the bead.

“Then she is yours,” said Rica, placing Mary Leicester’s hand in his; while Maritaña, in a transport of feeling, fell into her father’s arms and sobbed aloud.

“Then we are all bound at once for Ireland,” cried Mr. Corrigan; “and I trust never to leave it more.”

“I will not promise,” said Cashel, as he drew Mary closer to him. “The memories I bear of the land are not all painless.”

“But you have seen nothing of Ireland that was Irish!” exclaimed Tiernay, boldly. “You saw a mongrel society made up of English adventurers, who, barren of hope at home, came to dazzle with their fashionable vices the cordial homeliness of our humbler land. You saw the poor pageantry of a mock court, and the frivolous pretension of a tinsel rank. You saw the emptiness of pretended statesmanship, and the assumed superiority of a class whose ignorance was only veiled by their insolence. But of hearty, generous, hospitable Ireland – of the land of warm impulses and kindly affections – you saw nothing. That is a country yet to be explored by you; nor are its mysteries the less likely to be unravelled that an Irish wife will be your guide to them. And now to breakfast, for I am famishing.”

Where the characters of a tale bear a share in influencing its catastrophe, the reader seems to have a prescriptive right to learn something of their ultimate destiny, even though the parts they played were merely subordinate. Many of ours here cannot lay claim to such an interest, and were seen but like the phantoms which a magic lantern throws upon the wall, – moving and grouping for a moment and then lost forever.

It is from no want of respect to our reader, if we trace not the current of such lives; it is simply from the fact that when they ceased to act, they ceased, as it were, to exist. Are we not, all of us in the world, acted upon and influenced by events and people, – purely passers-by, known to-day, seen perhaps for a week, or known for a month, and yet never after met with in all life’s journey? As on a voyage many a casual air of wind, many a wayward breeze helps us onward, and yet none inquire “whence it cometh or whither it goeth,” – so is it in the real world; and why not in the world of fiction, which ought to be its counterpart?

Of those in whom our interest centred, the reader knows all that we know ourselves. Would he, or rather she, care to learn that the elder Miss Kennyfeck never married, but became a companion to Lady Janet, who on the death of Sir Andrew, caused by his swallowing a liniment, and taking into his stomach what was meant for his skin, went abroad, and is still a well-known character in the watering-places of Germany, where she and her friend are the terror of all who tremble at evil-speaking and slandering?

Olivia married the Reverend Knox Softly, and seems as meek as a curate’s wife ought to be, nor bears a trace of those days when she smiled on cornets or mingled sighs with captains of hussars. If some of our characters have fared ill in this adventurous history, others have been more fortunate. The Dean is made a Colonial Bishop, and the distinguished Mr. Howie’s picture occupies a place in the last Exhibition!

Meek is still a placeman: bland, gentle, and conciliating as ever, he made at the close of the session a most affecting speech upon the sorrows of Ireland, and drew tears from the ventilator at his picture of her destitution!

Mrs. Kennyfeck and “Aunt Fanny” keep house together in the ancient city of Galway. Attracted to each other by a thousand antipathies, more cohesive than any friendship, they fight and quarrel unceasingly, and are never known to agree, save when the enthusiasm of their malevolence has discovered a common victim in the circle of their “friends.”

Here ends our history; nor need we linger longer with those whose happiness, so far as worldly prosperity can make it, is at last secured.

There is but one destiny of which we have to speak. Linton was never brought to trial; the day after his landing in England he was found dead in the cell of his prison, – no trace of violence, nor any evidence of poison to account for the circumstance; and whether through some agency of his own, or by the workings of a broken heart, the fact remains a mystery.