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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.

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

 
And while the scene around them smiled,
With pleasant talk the way beguiled.
 

Haile: Rambles.

As Roland Cashel strolled along alone, he could not divest himself of a certain feeling of disappointment, that, up to the present, at least, all his wealth had so little contributed to realize those illusions he had so often fancied. The plots, the wiles and cunning schemes by which he had been surrounded, were gradually revealing themselves to his senses, and he was rapidly nearing the fatal “bourne” which separates credulity from distrust.

If we have passed over the events which succeeded the loss of the yacht with some appearance of scant ceremony to our reader, it is because, though in themselves not totally devoid of interest, they formed a species of episode which only in one respect bore reference to the current of our story. It is not necessary, no more than it would be gratifying, to us to inquire with what precise intentions Lady Kilgoff had sought to distinguish Roland by marks of preference. Enough, if we say that he was neither puppy enough to ascribe the feeling to anything but a caprice, nor was he sufficiently hackneyed in the world’s ways to suspect it could mean more.

That he was flattered by the notice, and fascinated by the charms of a very lovely and agreeable woman, whose dependence upon him each day increasing drew closer the ties of intimacy, is neither strange nor uncommon, no more than that she, shrewdly remarking the bounds of respectful deference by which he ever governed his acquaintance, should use greater freedoms and less restricted familiarity with him, than had he been one of those fashionable young men about town with whom the repute of a conquest would be a triumph.

It is very difficult to say on what terms they lived in each other’s society. It were easier, perhaps, to describe it by negatives, and say that assuredly if it were not love, the feeling between them was just as little that which subsists between brother and sister. There was an almost unbounded confidence – an unlimited trust – much asking of advice, and, in fact, as many of my readers will say, fully as much peril as need be.

From her, Cashel first learned to see the stratagems and schemes by which his daily life was beset. Too proud to bestow more than a mere passing allusion to the Kennyfecks, she directed the whole force of her attack upon that far more dangerous group in whose society Roland had lately lived. For a time she abstained altogether from even a chance reference to Linton; but at length, as their intimacy ripened, she avowed her fear of him in all its fulness. When men will build up the edifice of distrust, it is wonderful with what ingenuity they will gather all the scattered materials of doubt, with what skill arrange and combine them! A hundred little circumstances of a suspicious nature now rushed to Roland’s memory, and his own conscience corroborated the history she drew of the possible mode by which Linton acquired an influence over him.

That Linton had been the “evil genius” of many, Cashel had often heard before, but always from the lips of men; and it is astonishing, whether the source be pride, or something less stubborn, but the warning which we reject so cavalierly from our fellows, comes with a wondrous force of conviction from the gentler sex.

For the heavy sums he had lost at play, for all the wasteful outlay of his money, Cashel cared little; but for the humiliating sense of being a “dupe” and a “tool,” his outraged pride suffered deeply; and when Lady Kilgoff drew a picture, half real, half imaginary, of the game which his subtle associate was playing, Roland could scarce restrain himself from openly declaring a rupture, and, if need be, a quarrel with him.

It needed all her persuasions to oppose this course; and, indeed, if she had not made use of one unanswerable argument, could she have succeeded. This was the inevitable injury Linton could inflict upon her, by ascribing the breach to her influence. It would be easy enough, from such materials as late events suggested, to compose a history that would ruin her. Lord Kilgoff’s lamentable imbecility, the result of that fatal night of danger; Cashel’s assiduous care of her; her own most natural dependence upon him, – all these, touched on with a woman’s tact and delicacy, she urged, and at last obtained his pledge that he would leave to time and opportunity the mode of terminating an intimacy he had begun to think of with abhorrence.

If there be certain minds to whom the very air they breathe is doubt, there are others to whom distrust is absolute misery. Of these latter Cashel was one. Nature had made him frank and free-spoken, and the circumstances of his early life had encouraged the habit. To nourish a grudge would have been as repulsive to his sense of honor as it would be opposed to all the habits of his buccaneering life. To settle a dispute with the sword was invariably the appeal among his old comrades; and such arbitraments are those which certainly leave the fewest traces of lingering malice behind them. To cherish and store up a secret wrong, and wait in patience for the day of reckoning, had something of the Indian about it that, in Roland’s eyes, augmented its atrocity.

Oppressed with thoughts like these, and associating every vexation he suffered as in some way connected with that wealth whose possession he fancied was to satisfy every wish and every ambition, he sauntered on, little disposed to derive pleasure from the presence of those external objects which fortune had made his own.

“When I was poor,” thought he, “I had warm and attached friends, ready to exult in my successes, and sympathize with me in my sorrows. If I had enemies, they were brave fellows, as willing to defend their cause with the sword as myself. None flattered or frowned on him who was richer than the rest. No subtle schemes lay in wait for him whose unsuspecting frankness exposed him to deception; we were bons camarades, at least,” said he, aloud, “and from what I have seen of the great world, I ‘ve lived to prize the distinction.”

From this revery he was suddenly recalled by observing, directly in front of him, an elderly gentleman, who, in a stooping posture, seemed to seek for something among the dry leaves and branches beside a low wicket.

“This is the first fruit of our gay neighborhood,” said the old man, testily, as he poked the dead leaves with his cane; “we ‘re lucky if they leave us without more serious inconvenience.”

“Can I assist you in your search? – have you lost something?” said Cashel, approaching.

“There is a key – the key of the wicket – hid somewhere hereabouts, young man,” said the other, who, scarcely bestowing a look upon Roland, continued his investigation as busily as before.

Cashel, undaunted by the somewhat ungracious reception, now aided him in his search, while the other continued: “I ‘ve known this path for nigh forty years, and never remember this wicket to have been locked before. But so it is. My old friend is afraid of the invasion of this noisy neighborhood, and has taken to lock and key to keep them out. The key he promised to hide at the foot of this tree.”

“And here it is,” said Cashel, as he unlocked the wicket and flung it wide.

“Many thanks for your help, but you have a better reward than my gratitude, in eyes some five-and-thirty years younger,” said the old man, with the same half-testy voice as before. “Perhaps you ‘d like to see the grounds here, yourself; come along. The place is small, but far better kept than the great demesne, I assure you; just as many an humble household is more orderly than many a proud retinue.”

Roland was rather pleased by the quaint oddity of his new companion, of whom he thought, but could not remember where, he had seen the features before.

“You are a stranger in these parts, I conclude?” said the old man.

“Yes. I only arrived here about an hour ago, and have seen nothing save the path from the Hall to this spot.”

“There ‘s little more worth the seeing on yonder side of the paling, sir. A great bleak expanse, with stunted trees and a tasteless mansion, full of, I take it, very dubious company; but perhaps you are one of them?”

“I confess as much,” said Roland, laughing; “but as I have not seen them, don’t be afraid I ‘ll take up the cudgels for my associates.”

“Labor lost if you did,” said the other, bluntly. “I only know of them what the newspapers tell us; but their names are enough.”

“Are they all in the same category, then?” asked Cashel, smiling.

“Pigeons or hawks; dupes or swindlers, – an ugly alternative to choose from.”

“You are candid, certainly, friend,” said Cashel, half angrily; “but don’t you fancy there is rather too much of frankness in saying this to one who has already said he is of the party?”

“Just as he likes to take it,” said the old man, bluntly. “The wise man takes warning where the fool takes umbrage. There ‘s a fine view for you – see! there’s a glorious bit of landscape,” cried he, enthusiastically, as they came to an opening of the wood and beheld the wide expanse of Lough Deny, with its dotted islands and ruined tower.

Roland stood still, silently gazing on the scene, whose beauty was heightened by all the strong effect of light and shade.

“I see you have an eye for landscape,” said the old man, as he watched the expression of Cashel’s features.

“I ‘ve been a lover of scenery in lands where the pursuit was well rewarded,” said Roland, thoughtfully.

“That you may; but never in a country where the contemplation called for more thought than in this before you. See, yonder, where the lazy smoke rises heavily from the mountain side, high up there amid the fern and the tall heath, that is a human dwelling, – there lives some cottier a life of poverty as uncheered and unpitied as though he made no part of the great family of man. For miles and miles of that dreary mountain some small speck may be traced where men live and grow old and die out, unthought of and uncared for by all beside. This misery would seem at its full, if now and then seasons of sickness did not show how fever and ague can augment the sad calamities of daily life. There are men – ay, and old men too – who never have seen bread for years, I say, save when some gamekeeper has broken it to feed the greyhounds in a coursing party.”

“And whose the fault of all this?” said Cashel, eagerly.

“It is easy to see, sir,” said the other, “that you are no landed proprietor, for not only you had not asked the question, but you had not shown so much emotion when putting it So it is,” muttered he to himself. “It is so ever. They have most sympathy with the poor who have least the power to help them.”

“But I ask again, whose the fault of such a system?” cried Cashel.

“Ask your host yonder, and you ‘ll soon have an answer to your question. You ‘ll hear enough of landlords’ calamities, – wrecking tenantry, people in barbarism, irreclaimably bad, sunk in crime, black in ingratitude. Ask the peasant, and he ‘ll tell you of clearances, – whole families turned out to starve and die in the highways; the iron pressure of the agent in the dreary season of famine and fever. Ask the priest, and he will say, it is the galling tyranny of the ‘rich man’s church’ establishment consuming the substance, but restoring nothing to the people. Ask the rector, and he ‘ll prove it is popery, – the debasing slavery of the very blackest of all superstitions; and so on. Each throws upon another the load which he refuses to bear his share of, and the end is, we have a reckless gentry and a ruined people; all the embittering hatred of a controversy, and little of the active working of Christian charity. Good-bye, sir. I ask pardon for inflicting something like a sermon upon you. Good-bye.”

“And yet,” said Cashel, “you have only made me anxious to hear more from you. May I ask if we are likely to meet again, and where?”

“If you should chance to be sick during your visit here, and send for the doctor, it’s likely they ‘ll fetch me, as there is no other here.”

Cashel started, for he at once remembered that the speaker was Dr. Tiernay, the friend of his tenant, Mr. Corrigan. As the doctor did not recognize him, however, Roland resolved to keep his secret as long as he could.

“There, sir,” said Cashel, “I see some friends accosting you. I ‘ll say good-bye.”

“Too late to do so now,” said the other, half sulkily. “Mr. Corrigan would feel it a slight if you turned back, when his table was spread for a meal. You ‘ll have to breakfast here.”

Before Roland could answer, Mr. Corrigan came forward from beneath the porch, and, with a hand to each, bid them welcome.

“I was telling this gentleman,” said Tiernay, “that he is too far within your boundaries for retreat. He was about to turn back.”

“Nay, nay,” said the old man, smiling; “an old fellow like you or me may do a churlish thing, but a young man’s nature is fresher and warmer. I tell you, Tiernay, you ‘re quite wrong; this gentleman will breakfast here.”

“With pleasure,” said Cashel, cordially, and entered the cottage.