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.
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?”
“Chance,” said the man, shrugging his shoulders. “I could have no preferences for one road over another—all were strange—all unknown to me. I hoped with the aid of my guitar, to get some clothes once more together, and then to find some vessel bound for the Adriatic.”
“What can you do besides that?” said Linton, “for it strikes me a fellow with thews and sinews like yours was scarcely intended to thrum catgut.”
“I can do most things where a steady eye, and a strong; hand, and a quick foot are needed. I 've been a hunter in the forests of Dalmatia—herded the half-wild cattle on the Campagna at Rome—sailed a felucca in the worst Levanters of the gulf—and to swim in a high sea, or to ride an unbroken horse, I'll yield to but one man living.”
“And who may he be?” said Linton, aroused at the southern enthusiasm so suddenly excited.
“A countryman of mine,” said the sailor, sententiously; “his name is not known to you.”
“How sad such gifts as these should have so little recompense in our days,” said Linton, with an affected sincerity. “There was a time, in your own country, too, when a fellow like yourself would not have had long to seek for a patron.”
The Italian's cheek grew deeper in its flush, and his dark eyes seemed almost to kindle beneath the shaggy brows; then correcting, as it seemed, the passionate impulse, he said: “Ay, true enough, sir; there were many who had the gold to squander, who had not the hand to strike, and, as you say, fellows like me were high in the market.”
“And no great hardship in it, either,” said Linton. “There is a justice surer and quicker than the law, which I, for one, think right well of.”
Either not following the import of the speech, or not caring to concur in it, the Italian did not reply.
“I have a notion that we may find out some employment for you here,” said Linton. “What name are we to call you?”
“Giovanni,” said the sailor, after a moment's hesitation, which did not escape the shrewdness of his questioner.
“Giovanni be it,” said Linton, easily; “as good as another.”
“Just so,” rejoined the Italian, with a hardihood that seemed to sit easily upon him.
“I think, friend,” said Linton, drawing nearer to him—and, although the foreign language in which he spoke effectually prevented the others from understanding what passed, instantly his voice dropped into a lower and more confidential tone—“I think, friend, we shall soon understand each other well. You are in want of a protector; I may yet stand in need of an attached and zealous fellow. I read people quickly, and it seems to me that we are well met. Stay here, then; we shall soon have a large company arriving, and I 'll try and find out some exercise for your abilities.”
The Italian's dark eyes flashed and twinkled as though his subtle nature had already enlarged upon the shadowy suggestions of the other, and he made a significant gesture of assent.
“Remember, now, in whose service you are,” said Linton, taking out his purse, and seeking among its contents for the precise piece of coin he wanted—“remember, that I am not the master here, but one who has to the full as much power, and that I can prove a strong friend, and, some say, a very dangerous enemy. Here is the earnest of our bargain,” said he, handing him a guinea in gold; “from this hour I count upon you.”
The Italian nodded twice, and pocketing the money with a cool audacity that told that such contracts were easily comprehended by him, touched his cap, and sauntered away, as though to follow out some path of his own choosing. Linton looked after him for a moment, but the next his attention was taken off by seeing that Mr. Corrigan and his granddaughter were advancing hastily towards him.
“So you have really accepted my suggestion,” said Mary, with a flush of pleasure on her cheek; “the door has been opened, and the vista is exactly as my dream revealed it.”
“In all save the chief ingredient,” replied Linton, laugh-. ing; “we want the monk and the casket.”
“Hush!” said she, cautiously; “grandpapa is a firm believer in all dreams and visions, and would not hear them spoken of irreverently.”
“Assuredly, I never was less in the mind to do so,” replied Linton, with a degree of earnestness that made Mary smile, little suspecting at the time to what his speech owed its fervor.
“We've come to take a last look at the 'Hall,' Mr. Linton,” said the old man. “Tom Keane tells me that your gay company will soon arrive; indeed, rumor says that some have already reached Limerick, and will be here to-morrow.”
“This is more than I knew of,” said Linton; “but here comes the redoubted Tom himself, and with a full letter-bag, too.” Hastily unlocking the leather sack, Tom Linton emptied its contents upon a grassy bench, where the party seated themselves to learn the news. “There are no secrets here,” said Linton, tossing over the letters, with nearly all of whose handwriting he was familiar; “help me, Miss Leicester, I beg, to get through my task. Pray break some of the seals, and tell us who our dear friends are whose presence is so soon to charm and enliven us. And will you, too, sir, bear your part?” Thus invited, old Mr. Corrjgan put on his spectacles, and slowly prepared to assist in the labor.
“That's the Dean's hand, Miss Leicester—the Dean of Drumcondera. I hope he 's not coming; I 'm sure he was never invited.”
“He regrets he cannot be with you this week, but will certainly come next, and take the liberty of presenting his distinguished friend, the Hofrath von Dunnersleben, professor of Oriental Literature at Hochenkanperhausen.”
“This is painting the lily with a vengeance; 'color on color' is bad heraldry, but what shall we say of the taste that brings 'bore upon bore'?”
“'Mrs. Leicester White has prevailed upon Mr. Howie to defer his departure from Ireland—'”
“This is too bad,” interrupted Linton. “What fortune have you, sir? I hope better tidings than Miss Leicester.”
“This is a strange kind of scrawl enough,” said the old man; “it runs thus:—'Dear Tom, we are starting for your wild regions this evening—two drags and a mail phaeton. I have sent Gipsy and the white fetlocked colt by Hericks, and will bring Tom Edwards with me. The mare looks well, but fleshy; you must look to it that we haven't heavy ground—'”
“Oh, I know who that's from,” said Linton, hastily taking the letter from Corrigan's hand; “it's Lord Charles Frobisher,—a silly fellow, that never thinks of anything but horse-racing and training.”
“He would seem to speculate on something of the kind here,” said Corrigan; “at least, it looks very like premeditation, this sending off grooms and racers.”
“He does so everywhere he goes,” said Linton, affecting to laugh; “a surgeon would no more travel without his lancets, than Charley without some chance of a 'match;' but what's this?
“Dear Mr. Cashel,—I and my little girl are already en route for your hospitable castle, too happy to assist in the celebration of your house-warming—”
“Oh, that's Meek,” said Linton. “And now for this rugged little hand here.
“Lady Janet and Sir Andrew MacFarline—”
“Strange style,—the lady first,” interposed Miss Leicester.
“She is always so,” said Linton, continuing the perusal—
—“will reach Tubbermore by Tuesday, and have only to request that their apartments may not have a north aspect, as Lady J. has still a heavy cold hanging over her. Sir A.'s man, Flint, will arrange the rooms himself and, with Mr. Cashel's permission, give directions about double doors—if there be none.
“Sir A. has taken the liberty of mentioning to Gordon that the sherry is far too hot and acrid, and hopes Mr. Cashel will pardon his having ordered some dozens of 'Amontillado' for trial. Lady J. asks, as a favor, that plants and flowers may be banished from the house during her brief stay, Dr. Grimes positively forbidding all herbaceous odors; and if the cook could make the 'cuisine' particularly simple, it would also oblige her, as Dr. G. says she ought not to be exposed to the irritation of tempting viands, even to see them at table.
“Lady J. hopes that the society will be cheerful without dissipation, and gay without debauch; above all, she stipulates for early hours, and trusts that by eleven, at latest, the house will have retired to rest. Lady Janet has no objection to meeting any one Mr. Cashel may honor with his invitation, but leaves it to Mr. C.'s discretion not to abuse this liberality. Were she to particularize, she should merely suggest that the Kennyfecks, except perhaps the elder girl, are odious—Mrs. White a perfect horror—the Meeks something too atrocious—and that rather than meet the Kilgoffs and their set, Lady J. would almost prefer to relinquish all her much-anticipated pleasure. Mr. Linton can be, and very often is, gentlemanlike and amusing, but 'Lintonism,' as occasionally practised, is intolerable.
“Lady Janet has ventured on these remarks, far less for her own convenience than in the discharge of what she feels to be a duty to a very young and inexperienced man, whose unsuspecting nature will inevitably expose him to the very insidious attacks of selfishness, cunning, and to that species of dictation that sooner or later ends in debasing and degrading him who permits himself to be its subject.
“Janet MacFarline.”
“What a chaste specimen of disinterestedness her Ladyship's own letter,” said Mary. “Is she a near relative, or a very old friend of Mr. Cashel's family?”
“Neither; a mere acquaintance, undistinguished by anything like even a passing preference.”
“She is a Lady Janet,” interposed old Corrigan, “and it is surprising what charms of influence pertain to those segments of great families, as they descend a scale in society, and live among the untitled of the world; besides that, whatever they want in power, they 'take out' in pretension, and it does quite as well.”
“She is 'mauvaise langue,'” said Linton; “and there are few qualities obtain such sway in society. But who comes here in such haste? It is Tom Keane. Well, Tom, what has happened—is the Hall on fire?”
“No, sir; but the company 's comin' rowlin' in as fast as 'pays' down the big avenue, and into the coort; there was three coaches all together, and I see two more near the gate.”
“Then we shall leave you to your cares of host,” said Corrigan, rising; “but don't forget that when affairs of state permit, we shall be delighted to see you at the cottage.”
“Oh, by all means, Mr. Linton. I have acquired the most intense curiosity to hear about your fine company and their doings—pray compassionate my inquisitiveness.”
“But will you not join us sometimes?” said Linton; “can I not persuade you to make part of our little company? for I trust we shall be able to have some society worth showing you.”
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.
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.