“Eh, Charley! that's the toast we 'Chevaliers Modernes' should drink before the health of the royal family.”
“The royal family!” sneered Frobisher; “I never observed that loyalty was a very remarkable trait in your character.”
“The greater injustice yours, then,” said Linton. “I conceived a very early attachment to monarchy, on learning the importance of the king at écarte.”
“I should have thought the knave had more of your sympathy,” said the other.
“Inasmuch as he follows the queen, I suppose,” said Linton, good-humoredly, laughing. “But come, don't look so grave, old fellow; had I been a political intrigant, and devoted these goodly talents of mine to small state rogueries in committees and adjourned debates, I'd have been somebody in these dull times of aspiring mediocrity; but as my ambitions have never soared beyond the possession of what may carry on the war of life, irrespective of its graver honors, you moralists—Heaven bless the mark!—rather regard me distrustfully. Now, let me tell you a secret, and it's one worth the knowing. There's nothing so fatal to a man's success in life as 'a little character;' a really great one may dispense with every kind of ability and acquirement. Get your name once up in our English public, and you may talk, preach, and write the most rank nonsense with a very long impunity; but a little character, like a small swimming bladder, only buoys you up long enough to reach deep water and be drowned. To journey the road of life with this is to 'carry weight' Take my advice,—I give it in all sincerity; you are as poor a man as myself; there are thousands of luxuries you can afford yourself, but this is too costly an indulgence for a small fortune. Your 'little character' is a kind of cankering conscience, not strong enough to keep you out of wickedness, but sufficiently active to make you miserable afterwards. An everlasting suggester of small scruples, it leaves a man no time for anything but petty expedients and devices, and you hang suspended all your life between desire and denial, without the comfort of the one or the credit of the other.”
“Is the sermon over?” said Lord Charles, rather affectedly than really feeling tired of the “tirade,” “or are you only rehearsing the homily before you preach it to Roland Cashel?”
“Quite wrong there, my Lord,” said Linton, with the same imperturbable temper. “Cashel is rich enough to afford himself any caprice, even a good name, if he like it You and I take ours as we do railway tickets, any number that's given us!” And with this speech, delivered in an air of perfect quietude, but still emphatically slow, he settled his hat on before the glass, arranged his whiskers, and walked away.
Lord Charles, for a second, seemed disposed to make an angry reply, but, correcting the impulse, he walked to the window in silence. “I have half a mind to spoil your game, my worthy friend,” muttered he, as the other passed across the court-yard; “one word to Cashel would do it To be sure it is exploding the mine with one's own hand to the fusee; that's to be thought of.” And, so saying, he lay down on the sofa to ruminate.
When Linton had determined within himself to make Cashel “his own,” his first care was to withdraw him from the daily society of the Kennyfecks, by whose familiar intercourse a great share of influence was already enjoyed over their young guest. This was not so easy a task as he had at first imagined. Cashel had tasted of the pleasant fascination of easy intimacy with two young and pretty girls, eagerly bent on being agreeable to him. He was in all the full enjoyment of that rare union, the pleasure of being at home and yet an honored guest; and it was only when Linton suggested that late hours and irregular habits were but little in accordance with the decorous propriety of a family, that Cashel yielded, and consented to remove his residence to a great furnished house in “Stephen's Green,” where some bygone Chancellor once held his state.
Linton well knew that if “Necessity” be the mother of invention, “Propinquity” is the father of love; that there is nothing so suggestive of the tender passion as that lackadaisical state to which lounging at home contributes, and the chance meetings with a pretty girl. The little intercourse on the stairs going down to breakfast, the dalliance in the conservatory, the chit-chat before dinner, are far more formidable than all the formal meetings under the blaze of wax-lights, and amid the crush of white satin.
“If I leave him much longer among them,” said he to himself, “he 'll marry one of these girls; and then adieu to all influence over him! No more écarté,—no more indiscriminate purchases of everything I propose,—no more giving 'the odds against the field.' A wife and a wife's family are heavy recognizances against a bachelor friend's counsels.”
Cashel was really sorry to leave the house where his time had passed so pleasantly. The very alternation of his interest regarding the two sisters had kept his mind in a state of pleasant incertitude, now seeing something to prefer in this, now in that, while at the same time suggesting on their part greater efforts to please and amuse him. If Mr. Kennyfeck deemed Cashel's removal a very natural step, and one which his position in some sort demanded, not so his wife. She inveighed powerfully against the dangerous intimacy of Linton, and the ruinous consequences such an ascendancy would lead to. “You should tell Mr. Cashel who this man is,” said she, imperiously.
“But that is exactly what nobody knows,” meekly responded Mr. Kennyfeck.
“Pshaw! every one knows all about him. You can tell him how he ruined young Rushbrook, and in less than two years left him without a shilling.”
Mr. Kennyfeck shook his head, as though to say that the evidence was by no means conclusive on that count.
“Yes, you may affect not to believe it,” said she, angrily, “but did n't George Lawson see the check for eight thousand paid to Linton at La touche's bank, and that was one evening's work.”
“There was a great deal of high play, I 've heard, among them.”
“Oh, indeed! you've heard that much,” said she, scornfully; “probably, too, you've heard how Linton paid seventy thousand pounds for part of the Dangwood estate,—he that had not sixpence three months previous. I tell you, Mr. Kennyfeck, that you have labored to very little purpose to establish this young man's claim if you are to stand by and see his property portioned among sharpers. There! don't start and look so frightened; there 's nobody listening, and if there were, too, I don't care. I tell you, Mr. Kennyfeck, that if it weren't for your foolish insufficiency Cashel would propose for Olivia. Yes! the thing is plain as possible. He fell in love with her the very night he arrived; every one saw it. Jane Lyons told me how it was remarked the day the company dined here. Leonard told all over Dublin how she chose the diamonds, and that Cashel distinctly referred to her before buying them. Then they were seen together driving through the streets. What more would you have? And now you suffer all this to be undone for the selfish objects of Mr. Linton; but I tell you, Mr. Kennyfeck, if you 're a fool, I am not!”
“But really I don't see—”
“You don't see! I'm sure you do not. You'd see, however, if it were a case for an action in the courts,—a vulgar appeal to twelve greasy jurors,—you 'd see then. There is quite enough for a shabby verdict! But I regard the affair very differently, and I tell you frankly, if I see Cashel draw off in his attentions, I 'll send for my cousin O'Gorman. I believe you can assure your young client that he 'll find there's no joking with him.”
Now this was the “most unkindest cut of all;” for if report spoke truly, Mr. Kennyfeck had himself experienced from that gentleman a species of moral force impulsion which left the most unpleasant reminiscences behind.
“I beseech you to remember, Mrs. Kennyfeck, that this agency is one of the best in Ireland.”
“So much the more reason to have the principal your son-in-law.”
“I 'd have you to reflect how little success coercion is like to have with a person of Mr. Cashel's temper.”
“Peter is the best shot in Ballinasloe,” rejoined Mrs. Kennyfeck, sententiously.
Mr. Kennyfeck nodded a full assent, but seemed to hazard a doubt as to the efficiency of such skill.
“I repeat, sir, I'll send for him. Peter knows pretty well what ought to be done in such matters, and it's a comfort to think there is some spirit on one side of the family, at least.” Whether to afford a practical illustration, albeit negatively, or that he dreaded a continuance of the controversy, Mr. Kennyfeck feigned a business appointment, and retired, leaving his spouse to ponder over her threat, and resolve with herself as to the advantage of Peter's alliance.
While this conjugal discussion engaged papa and mamma, Cashel was endeavoring to explain to the fair daughters the reasons for his departure, affecting to see that the multiplicity of his engagements and duties required a step which he owned was far from agreeable to his feelings.
“I suspected how soon you would weary of us,” said Olivia, in a half whisper.
“We ought to have remembered, Livy,” said the elder sister, “how little would our claims upon Mr. Cashel appear when confronted with those of a higher station in the world.”
“I assure you, you wrong both yourselves and me. I never—”
“Oh, I 'm certain you never imagined this step. I can well believe that if it were not for advice—not very disinterested, perhaps—you would have still condescended to regard this as your home.”
“If I suspected that this removal would in the least affect the sentiments I entertain for my kind friends here, or in any way alter those I trust they feel for me, I 'd never have adopted, or, having adopted, never execute it.”
“We are really very much to blame, Mr. Cashel,” said Olivia bashfully, “in suffering our feelings to sway you on a matter like this. It was only too kind of you to come here at first; and perhaps even yet you will come occasionally to see us.”
“Yes, Mr. Cashel, Livy is right; we are very selfish in our wishes, and very inconsiderate besides. Your position in the world requires a certain mode of living, a certain class of acquaintances, which are not ours. It is far better, then, that we should resign ourselves to an interruption, than wait for an actual broach of intimacy.”
Cashel was totally at a loss to see how his mere change of residence could possibly imply a whole train of altered feelings and relations, and was about to express his astonishment on that score when Linton's phaeton drove up to the door, according to an appointment they had made the day before, to breakfast with the officers of a regiment quartered a short distance from town.
“There is your friend, Mr. Cashel,” said Miss Kennyfeck, with a marked emphasis on the word. Cashel muttered something about a rendezvous, and took up his hat, when a servant entered to request he would favor Mr. Kennyfeck with a brief interview before going out.
“Are we to see you at dinner to-day?” said Olivia, languidly.
“I hope so. Mrs. Kennyfeck has been kind enough to ask me, and I hope to have the pleasure.”
“Will Mr. Linton give leave?” said Miss Kennyfeck, laughing; and then, seeing a cloud on Cashel's brow, added, “I meant, if you had made no appointment with him.”
“I 'm self-willed enough to follow my own bent generally,” said he, abruptly, and left the room.
“You owe that gentleman a heavy grudge, Livy,” said Miss Kennyfeck, as she approached the window and looked out.
“Who do you mean, dear?”
“Mr. Linton. Were it not for him, I half think you might have succeeded.”
“I really cannot comprehend you,” said the younger, with well-assumed astonishment.
“Of course not, my dear. Still, it was a difficult game, even if left all to yourself. He was always likely to smash the tackle at the moment when almost caught. There, don't look so puzzled, dear; I was only following out a little reverie,—that's all.”
Meanwhile Cashel hastily descended the stairs, not over good-humoredly commenting on Mr. Kennyfeck's ill-chosen moment for a business conversation. “I can only stay a few minutes, or rather seconds,” cried he, as he opened the door of the study; and then checked himself as he perceived a short, stout elderly man, of venerable appearance, who rose respectfully from his chair as he came in.
“Doctor Tiernay, Mr. Cashel,” said Kennyfeck, presenting the stranger. “I have taken the liberty to delay you, sir, since it would be a great convenience if you could accord this gentleman a brief hearing at present; he has come above a hundred miles to crave it, and must leave Dublin by the afternoon mail.”
“Without it be Mr. Cashel's pleasure to detain me,” said the doctor, submissively.
“He is a tenant of your Tubbermore estate, sir,” resumed Kennyfeck, “a very near neighbor.”
“I regret that I am pressed for time at this moment, sir,” said Cashel, drawing on his gloves impatiently; “but I believe it is the less consequence, inasmuch as I really know nothing—absolutely nothing—and you, Mr. Kennyfeck, know everything about that property, and are by far the best person to hear and decide upon this gentleman's proposition, whatever it be.”
“It is a case that must be decided by yourself, sir,” said the doctor. “It is neither a matter of law nor right, but a simple question of whether you will do an act of great kindness to the oldest tenant on your property,—a man who, now overtaken by years and sickness, may not perhaps be alive at my return to hear of your benevolence.”
“It is about this renewal, sir,” interposed Kennyfeck, who saw Cashel's increasing impatience to be away. “Mr. Corrigan's lease expires on the 25th.”
“He is now struck by paralysis,” interrupted the doctor; “and his only prayer is to be suffered to die beneath the roof where he has lived for fifty years.”
“A tenant at will,” interposed Kennyfeck.
“Gracious Heaven! how could he suppose I should dream of dispossessing him?” cried Cashel. “Of course, sir, the house is his own so long as he pleases to hold it. Tell him so. Mr. Kennyfeck will tell him from me that he need not give the matter another thought. I am sincerely grieved that it should have already caused him so much anxiety.”
“Ah, sir,” cried the doctor, while two very dubious drops twinkled in his eyes, “you are indeed worthy of the good fortune that has befallen you. My poor old friend will bless you, with a prouder heart in his belief in human nature than even his gratitude could suggest. Farewell, sir, and may you long live to be as happy as you know how to make others.”
With an impulse of irrepressible warmth the old man seized Cashel's hand in both his own, and pressed it cordially, when the door suddenly opened, and Linton, dressed in a riding costume, appeared.
“What, Roland, at business so early. Do you know you 're an hour behind time?”
“I do; but I couldn't help it In fact, this was unexpected—”
“It was an act of benevolence, sir, detained Mr. Cashel,” interrupted the doctor. “I believe no appointment can be broken with a safer apology.”
“Ho! ho!” said Linton, throwing up his eyebrows, as if he suspected a snare to his friend's simplicity. “Which of the missions to convert the blacks, or what family of continuous twins are you patronizing?”
“Good-bye, sir,” said the doctor, turning towards Cashel. “I'd ask your pardon for the liberty I have already taken with you, if I were not about to transgress again.” Here he looked Linton fully in the face. “Mr. Cashel has done a kind and worthy action this morning, sir; but if he does many more such, and keep your company, he is not only a good man, but the strongest principled one I ever met with.”
As the last word was uttered, the door closed after him, and he was gone.
“So then, I 'm the Mephistopheles to your Faust,” said Linton, laughing heartily; “but what piece of credulous benevolence has cost you this panegyric and me this censure?”
“Oh, a mere trifle,” said Cashel, preparing to leave,—“a simple grant of renewal to an old tenant on my estate.”
“Only that,” said Linton, affecting the coolest indifference, while by a keen glance at Kennyfeck he revealed a profound consciousness of his friend's simplicity.
“Nothing more, upon my honor; that little cottage of Tubber-beg.”
“Not that fishing lodge beside the river, in an angle of your own demesne?” asked Linton, eagerly.
“The same. Why, what of it?”
“Nothing, save that your magnanimity is but one-sided, since only so late as Thursday last, when we looked over the map together, you gave me that cottage until such time as you should include the farm within the demesne.”
“By Jupiter, and so I did!” exclaimed Cashel, while a flush of shame covered his face and forehead; “what a confounded memory I have! What is to be done?”
“Oh, never fret about it,” said Linton, taking his arm, and leading him away; “the thing is easily settled. What do I want with the cottage? The old gentleman is, doubtless, a far more rural personage than I should prove. Let us not forget Aubrey's breakfast, which, if we wait much longer, will be a luncheon. The ladies well, Mr. Kennyfeck?” This was the first time he had noticed that gentleman.
“Quite well, Mr. Linton,” said he, bowing politely.
“Pray present my respects. By the way, you don't want a side-saddle horse, do you?”
“I thank you, we are supplied.”
“Whata pity! I 've got such a gray, with that swinging low cantering action Miss Kennyfeck likes; she rides so well! I wish she 'd try him.”
A shake of the head and a bland smile intimated a mild refusal.
“Inexorable father! Come, Cashel, you shall make the amende for having given away my cottage; you must buy Reginald and make him a present to the lady.”
“Agreed,” said Cashel; “send him over to-day; he's mine, or rather Miss Kennyfeck's. Nay, sir, really I will not be opposed. Mr. Kennyfeck, I insist.”
The worthy attorney yielded, but not without reluctance, and saw them depart, with grave misgivings that the old doctor's sentiment was truly spoken, and that Linton's companionship was a most unhappy accident.
“I must get into Parliament,” said Linton, as he seated himself beside Cashel in the phaeton, “if it were only to quote you as one of that much-belied class, the Irish landlord. The man who grants renewals of his best land on terms contracted three hundred years ago is very much wanted just now. What a sensation it would create in the House when they cry, 'Name, name,' and I reply that I am under a positive personal injunction not to name, and then Sharman Crawford, or one of that set, rises and avers that he believed the honorable and learned gentleman's statement to be perfectly unfounded. Amid a deluge of 'Ohs!' I stand up and boldly declare that further reserve is no longer possible, and that the gentleman whom I am so proud to call my friend is Roland Cashel, Esq., of Tubbennore. There 's immortality for you, for that evening at any rate. You 'll be toasted at Bellamy's at supper, and by the white-headed old gentlemen who sit in the window at the Carlton.”
“You'll not hint that I had already made a present of the lands when I displayed so much munificence,” said Cashel, smiling.
“Not a syllable; but I'll tell the secret to the Opposition, if you ever grow restive,” said Linton, with a laugh, in which, had Roland studied Lavater, he might have read a valuable lesson.
“A propos of Parliament, Kennyfeck persists in boring me about it, and that Mr. Downie Meek seems to have it at heart that I am to represent something or somebody, well knowing, the while, that I cannot possibly be supposed to understand anything of the interests whereon I should be called to vote and legislate.”
“That 's not so much consequence,” said Linton; “you 'd find a very strong section of the House very like yourself, but the thing would bore you; you would neither like the fatigue nor the slavery of it; and, positively, there is no excitement, save for the half-dozen who really contest the race. Meek, and others of the same stamp, will tell you that property should be represented in the Legislature. I agree fully with the sentiment, so it should. So also should a man's rents be collected, but that's no reason he should be his own agent, when he can find another, far more capable, ready for office.—Touch that off-side horse, he 'll skulk his collar when he can.—Now, if you have county or borough influence going a begging, send in your nominee, any fellow who 'll suit your views, and express your opinions,—myself, for instance,” said he, laughing, “for want of a better.—Those manes don't lie right; that near-sider's falls on the wrong side of the neck.—The great secret for any man situated as you are is to avoid all complications, political, social, and matrimonial. You have a glorious open country before you, if there be no cross-riding to spoil your run.”
“Well, I am not above taking advice,” said Cashel; “but really I must own that, from the little I've seen of the matter, it seems harder to go through life with a good fortune than without a shilling. I know that, as a poor man, very lately—”
“Come, come, you know very little of what poverty means; you 've been leading a gay life in a land where men do by one bold enterprise the work which costs years of slow toil in our tamer regions. Now, I should have liked that kind of thing myself. Ay, you may smile, that a man who devotes a large share of each day to the tie of his cravat, and the immaculate elegance of his boots, should venture to talk of prairie life and adventure. Take care! By Jove! I thought you were into that apple-stall.”
“Never say it twice,” cried Cashel, gayly. “I 'm beginning to feel confoundedly tired of this life here; and, if I don't find that it improves on acquaintance, I 'll take a run down west, just to refresh my spirits. Will you come with me?”
“With my whole heart I join the proposal; but you are not serious; I know you are merely jesting in all this.”
“Perfectly serious. I am decidedly weary of seven o'clock dinners and morning calls. But here we are.”
As he spoke, they drove into the barrack-yard, where groups of lounging officers, in every variety of undress, were seen in all the insipid enjoyment of that cigar-smoking existence which forms the first article in our military code of education.
The gallant —th Light Dragoons were a “fast regiment,” and the inventors of that new locomotive on the road to ruin called a “mess breakfast,”—a meal where champagne flows with a profusion rarely seen at dinner, and by which men begin the day in a frame of mind that would not be very decorous even when concluding it. Cashel, being an honored guest, drank wine with every one, not to speak of participating in various little bibatory trios and quartets, so that when the entertainment drew to a close he was very far from that self-possession and command which, with all his high spirits, seldom deserted him.
A tremendous fall of rain, that showed no prospect of ceasing, had just set in, so that the party agreed to repair to the major's rooms, and make a pool at écarté. After some talking about play in general, and some quizzing about not being able to bet a sum such as Cashel would care to play for, the game began.
Notwithstanding the apologies, the play was high, so much so, that Cashel, never a very shrewd observer, could not help remarking that several of the players could not conceal the anxiety the game inspired.
Roland himself joined less from inclination than fellowship, and far better pleased to be at liberty to chat with some of the others than to be seated at the table, he arose each time he lost, well content to pay for freedom by his gold. His natural indifference, added to a perfect carelessness about money, induced him to accept any bet that was offered, and these were freely proposed, since, in play parlance, “the run was against him;” so that, ere the trumpet-call announced the time to dress for the mess, he had lost heavily.
“You have no idea how much you have lost?” said Linton, in a low voice, and with a gravity of manner almost reproachful.
“Not the slightest,” said Cashel, laughing.
“I can tell you, then, for I have totted it up. This morning's work has cost you seven thousand some hundred pounds.”
“Indeed!” said Cashel, a flush rather of shame than displeasure mantling on his features. “I'll give it up in future.”
“No, no! not till you've had your revenge,” whispered Linton. “We 'll stay for the mess, and have at them again. The night is terrific, and no possibility of leaving.”
The mess followed, and although play was to succeed it, the party drank freely, and sat long over their wine; even Linton himself seemed to linger at the table, and leave it with regret.
As for Cashel, for the first time in his life he wished to play. No desire for money-getting, no mean passion for gain, suggested the wish, it was simply a piqued vanity at being beaten; a sense of indignity that his inferiority should seem to be implied, even in so trifling a matter, urged him on, and he was one of the first to vote for a return to écarté.
Except Linton, there was not probably one who could be called a good player in the party; but luck, which has more than the mastery over skill, supplied the place of knowledge, and Cashel was the only heavy loser of the whole assembly. Stung by continued failure, too, he betted madly and foolishly, so that as the day was breaking, and the stir in the barrack-yard announced the approaching parade, his losses reached more than double what they had been in the morning.
“I say, lads!” said the major, as they all arose from the table, “one word before you go.” So saying, he turned the key in the door, and stood with his back against it. “Before any one leaves the room, each must promise on his honor not to mention a syllable of this night's business. We all know that we have been playing far higher stakes than ever we've been in the habit of. The report, if it get abroad, would ruin the regiment.”
“Oh, we all promise not a word shall be said about it,” cried out several voices together. “There's the second trumpet!” So saying, they hastened pell-mell to dress for the parade, while Cashel, taking Linton's arm, set out homewards.
“I say, Tom!” said Roland, after they had walked on for some time in silence, “I am somewhat ashamed of this exploit of mine, and would not for a great deal that Kennyfeck should know it. Is there no way of getting this money by loan?—for if I draw now—”
“Make your mind quite easy; I'll arrange that for you. Don't worry yourself about it. It's a bore, of course, to lose a round sum like that; but you can afford it, my boy, that's one comfort. If it had been me, by Jove, the half of it would have drained the well!” This said, he hastily changed the topic, and they walked along chatting of everything save the late party.
“Good night, or rather good morrow,” said Linton, as he stood with Cashel on the steps of his newly taken residence.
Cashel made no reply; his thoughts were recurring to the scene of the late debauch, and in some pangs of self-reproach he was recalling the heavy sum he had lost. “You spoke of my being able to raise this money, Linton, without Kennyfeck's knowing; for I am really ashamed of the affair. Tell me how can it be done?”
“Nothing easier.”
“Nay, but when? for, if I must confess it, I can think of nothing else till it be arranged.”
“What a timid conscience yours must be,” said Linton, laughing, “that cannot sleep lest the ghosts of his I. O.'s should haunt him.”
“The fact is so, nevertheless. The very gloomy moments of my life have been associated with play transactions. This shall be the last.”
“What folly! You suffer mere passing impressions to wear deep into your nature,—you that should be a man of nerve and vigor. What can it possibly signify that you have thrown away a few hundreds, or a few thousands either?”
“Very little as regards the money, I own; but I'm not certain how long my indifference respecting play might last. I am not sure how long I could endure being beaten—for that is the sense losing suggests—without a desire to conquer in turn. Now up to this I have played to oblige others, without interest or excitement of any kind. What if I should change and become a gambler from choice?”
“Why, if you propound the question with that solemn air, you'll almost frighten me into believing it would be something very terrible; but if you ask me simply what would be the result of your growing fond of play, I 'll tell you fairly, it's a pleasure gained,—one of the few resources which only a rich man can afford with impunity, so much the more fascinating that it can be indulged in such perfect accordance with every humor of a man's mind. If you are so inclined, you play low, and coquet with fortune, or if lavishly given, you throw the reins loose and go free. Now it seems to me that nothing could better suit the careless, open-handed freedom of your habits than the vacillations of high play. It's the only way that even for a moment you can taste the sensation of being hard pressed, while in the high flood of luck you can feel that gushing sense of power that somehow seems to be the secret soul of gold!”
“Men must lose with a very different look upon their features before I can win with the ecstasy you speak of,” cried Cashel. “But where are we straying to,—what part of the town have we got into?”
“This is the cattle-market,” said Linton, “and I have brought you here because I saw you 'd not close your eyes till that silly affair was settled; and here we are now at Dan Hoare's counting-house, the man of all others to aid us. Follow me; I ought to know the stairs well, in daylight or dark.”
Cautiously following his guide, Cashel mounted a half-rotten, creaky stair, which passed up between two damp and mildewed walls, and entered a small chamber whose one window looked out in a dirty court. The only furniture consisted of two deal chairs and a table, on which various inscriptions made by penknives betokened the patience and zeal of former visitors.
Linton passed on to the end of the chamber, where was a narrow door, but suddenly halted as his eye caught a little slip of paper attached to a sliding panel, and which bore the word “Engaged.” “Ha!” cried he, “one here already! You see, early as it is, Dan is at work, discounting and protesting as usual. By the way, I have forgot one essential: he never gives a stamp, and so I must provide one. Wait for me here; there is a place in the neighborhood where they can be had, and I 'll be back presently.”
Cashel sat himself down in the cheerless little den, thinking of the many who might have waited there before, in so many frames of anxiety and torturing suspense. His own memory could recall a somewhat similar character in Geiz-heimer, and while he was thus remembering some features of the past he fell into a reverie, forgetting time and place together, the sound of voices from the adjoining room serving rather to lull than arouse his attention. At last a word caught his ear. He started suddenly, and, looking about him for a second, experienced almost a difficulty to remember where he was. Could it be possible, or was it mere fancy? but he believed he heard his name mentioned by some one within that room. Less caring to know how or by whom the name was spoken than if the fact were actually so, he leaned forward on his chair, and bent his ear to listen, when he heard, in a voice louder than had been used before, the following words:—
“It may be all as you say, sir; I won't pretend to throw a doubt upon your words; but, as a mere man of business, I may be permitted to say that this promise, however satisfactory to your friend's feelings, is not worth a sixpence in law. Corrigan asks for a renewal of his lease, and the other says, 'Keep your holding,—don't disturb yourself,'—and there he is, a tenant at will. Now, for the purposes you have in view towards me, that pledge goes for nothing. I cannot renew these bills upon such frail security. If the old man cannot find means to meet them, Leicester must, that's all.”
“Leicester is a villain!” cried another and a deeper voice, whose tones seemed not quite strange to Roland's ears. “He has ruined my poor old friend; he will soon leave him houseless, and he threatens to leave him almost friendless too.”
“He told me,” said the other, “he should certainly claim his daughter, and means to return next summer for that purpose.”
“I almost hope poor Con will never live to see that day,” said the former, with a heavy sigh.
“Well, to return to our own affair, sir, I tell you frankly, I don't consider Cashel's promise deserving of any consideration. He doubtless means to keep it; that's the very most anybody can say about it. But remember what a life he is leading: he has drawn about thirty thousand out of Latrobe's hands in three months,—no one knows for what. He has got among a set of men who play high, and cannot pay if they lose. Now, his estate is a good one; but it can't last forever. My notion is that the young fellow will end as he began, and become a buccaneer once more.”
“He has a long course to run ere that comes,” said the other.
“Not so long as you fancy. There are demands upon him from quarters you little suspect, or that, for the moment, he little suspects himself. It would surprise you to hear that he is in Leicester's hands too.”
“Roland Cashel—Mr. Cashel—in Leicester's hands! How do you mean?”
Just at this instant Linton's foot was heard ascending the stairs, and Cashel, whose eagerness to hear the remainder became a perfect torture of anxiety, was forced to lose the opportunity.
“What a hunt I have had!” said Linton, as he entered, flushed and weary-looking. “Our amount is rather above the ordinary mark, and I found it almost impossible to procure the stamps. Are you tired waiting?”
“No,—nothing to speak of,” said Cashel, confusedly.
“Well, I fancy our friend here has had much more than his share of an audience. I'll see, and unearth him.”
And so saying, Linton knocked with his cane at the door. A low murmuring of voices succeeded, the sound of feet followed, and soon after the door was opened, and a small, thin, pale-faced man in black appeared.
“Good morning, Mr. Hoare. Here have we been playing antechamber to your serene highness for full an hour. This is Mr. Roland Cashel, Mr. Hoare, who wishes to make your acquaintance.”
The little man turned his quick gray eyes towards Cashel with a most scrutinizing keenness; but, as suddenly withdrawing them, invited both to enter.
“Be seated, gentlemen. Pardon the humble accommodation of this place. Take a chair, Mr. Linton.”
“We want tin, Mr. Hoare,” said Linton, slapping his boot with his cane,—“that most universal and vulgar want My friend here desires to raise a sum without having recourse to his agent, and I believe no man can aid in a little secret-service transaction like yourself.”
“Is the sum a large one, sir?” said Hoare, addressing Cashel.
“I cannot tell you exactly,” said Cashel, in some confusion at the confession of his ignorance. “I fancy it must be close on ten or twelve thousand pounds.”
“More like twenty!” cried Linton, coolly. Then, turning to Hoare, he went on: “My friend here is, happily for him, very little skilled in affairs of this kind, and, as his security is about the best that can be offered, he need not buy his experience very dearly. Now just tell us, frankly, how, when, and on what terms he can have this money.”
“Money is scarce just now, sir,” said Hoare; “but as to securities, Mr. Cashel's bills are quite sufficient. There is no necessity for any legal expenses whatever. I need not say that the transaction shall be perfectly secret: in fact, I'll keep the bills in my own hands till due.”
“There, that's the man I told you he was,” cried Linton. “A Croesus in generosity as in gold. I would I were your son, or your son-in-law, Hoare.”
“Too much honor, Mr. Linton,” said the money-lender, whose slight flush did not betoken a concurrence in his own words. “Now to business,” continued he, addressing Cashel. “If you favor me with your name on four bills for five thousand each, and the accompanying charges for interest, discount, commission, and so on, I 'll engage that you have this money within the week.”
“Could it not be to-morrow? I should like greatly to have the whole off my mind; and as I mean not to play again—”
“Pooh, pooh,” said Linton, stopping an explanation he was by no means pleased Hoare should hear; “time enough for resolutions, and time enough for payment too. By the end of the week, Hoare, will do perfectly. You can bring the bills with you to my quarters, say on Saturday morning, and we 'll drive over to Mr. Cashel's.”
“Very well. I 'll be punctual. At eleven on Saturday expect me. May I bring that little thing of yours for two hundred pounds with it, Mr. Linton?”
“Of course you may not. Where do you expect me to find money for the debts of last year? My dear Hoare, I have no more memory for such things than I have for the sorrows of childhood.”
“Ah, very well, sir, we'll keep it over,” said Hoare, smiling.
“Let him bring it,” whispered Cashel, “and include it in one of my bills. There's nothing so worrying as an overhanging debt.”
“Do you think so?” replied Linton. “Bless me, I never felt that. A life without duns is like a sky without a cloud, very agreeable for a short time, but soon becoming wearisome from very monotony. You grow as sick of uninterrupted blue as ever you did of impending rain and storm. Let me have the landscape effect of light and shadow over existence. The brilliant bits are then ten times as glorious in color, and the dark shadows of one's mortgages only heighten the warmth of the picture. Ask Hoare, there, he'll tell you. I actually cherish my debts.”
“Very true, sir; you cannot bear to part with them either.”
“Well said, old Moses; the 'interest' they inspire is too strong for one's feelings. But hark! I hear some fresh arrivals without. Another boat-load of the d——d has crossed the Styx.”
“Thanks for the simile, sir,” said Hoare, smiling faintly,—“on Saturday.”
“On Saturday,” repeated Linton.
Cashel lingered as he left the room; a longing desire to speak one word, to ask one question of Hoare—who was this Leicester of whom he spoke?—was uppermost in his mind, and yet he did not dare to own he had heard the words. He could have wished, too, to communicate his thoughts to Linton, but a secret fear told him that perhaps the mystery might be one he would not wish revealed.
“Why so thoughtful, Roland?” said Linton, after traversing some streets in silence. “My friend Hoare has not terrified you?”
“No, I was not thinking of him,” said Cashel. “What kind of a character does he bear?”
“Pretty much that of all his class. Sharp enough, when sharpness is called for, and seemingly liberal if liberality pays better. To me he has been ever generous. Why, Heaven knows; I suppose the secret will out one of these days. I'm sure I don't ask for it.”
Linton's flippancy, for the first time, was distasteful to Cashel. If the school in which he was bred taught little remorse about the sin of incurring debt, it inculcated, however, a manly self-reliance to clear off the encumbrance by some personal effort, and he by no means sympathized with the cool indifference of Linton's philosophy. Linton, always shrewd enough to know when he had not “made a hit,” at once turned the conversation into another channel, by asking at what time Cashel proposed to receive his visitors at Tubbermore.
“Is the honor seriously intended me?” said Cashel, “or is it merely a piece of fashionable quizzing, this promised visit, for I own I scarcely supposed so many fine people would like to encounter the hard usage of such an old ruin as I hear this must be.”
“You'll have them to a certainty. I doubt if there will be a single apology. I know at this instant the most urgent solicitations have been employed to procure invitations.”
“With all my heart, then,” cried Cashel; “only remember the order of the course depends on you. I know nothing of how they ought to be entertained or amused. Take the whole affair into your own hands, and I shall concur in everything.”
“Originality is always better than imitation, but still, if one cannot strike out a totally new line, what do you think of taking old Mathews of Johnstown for our model, and invite all our guests with free permission to dine, breakfast, and sup at what hour and in what parties they please? This combines the unbridled freedom of an inn with the hospitality of a country house. Groups form as fancy dictates. New combinations spring up each day,—no fatigue, no ennui, can ensue with such endless changes in companionship, and you yourself, instead of the fatiguing duties of a host, are at liberty, like any of your guests, to join this party or that.”
“I like the notion immensely. How would our friends take it, for that is the point?”
“It would be popular with every one, for it will suit your people, who know and like to mix with every set in society, and at the same time gratify your 'exclusives,' who can form their own little coteries with all the jealous selection they love. Besides, it avoids another and a great difficulty. Had you received in ordinary fashion, you must have asked some lady friend to have done the honors for you. This would have been a matter of the greatest embarrassment. The Kennyfecks have not rank enough; old Lady Janet would have frightened every one away; Mrs. White would have filled the house with her own 'blues,' and banished every one else; and as for Lady Kilgoff, who, besides being a very pretty woman and well-mannered, has an exceedingly fascinating way with strangers, 'my Lord' is so jealous, so absurdly, madly jealous, that she dare not ask after the success of a shooting-party without his suspecting an allegorical allusion to Cupid and his shafts.”
“Well, then, let us resolve to receive 'en Mathews;' and now, when shall we name the day?”
“Let us wait till the result of the division be known in Parliament. A change of ministers is hinted at, and if it were to occur, you'll have every one hastening away to his county for the new election; by Saturday we shall learn everything, and that will be time enough.”
“In any case, I had better set off and see what can be done to put the house in a fit state to receive them.”
“Leave all that to me. I 'll take Popham, the architect, down with me, and you need never trouble your head about the matter. It's quite clear people who accept an invitation like the present must put up with a hundred small penalties on convenience. The liberty of such a house always repays whatever is wanting on the score of ceremonial and order, and your fine guests, who would perhaps give themselves airs towards the Kennyfecks and their set if meeting them elsewhere, will here affect, at least, a tone of good-natured equality, just as in revolutionary times people shake hands with their hairdresser.”
“But how to amuse or even occupy them! that is a great puzzle to me.”
“Leave them perfectly to their own devices. In fun there should be always free-trade. Protection ruins it. But all this is Egyptian to you, so go to bed and sleep soundly, and leave the cares of state to me.