As the rooms began to fill with company, costumed in every variety that taste, fancy, or absurdity could devise, many were surprised that neither was there a host to bid them welcome, nor was there any lady to perform the accustomed honors of reception. The nature of the entertainment, to a certain extent, took off from the awkwardness of this want. In a masquerade, people either go to assume a part, or to be amused by the representation of others, and are less dependent on the attentions of the master or mistress of the house; so that, however struck at first by the singularity of a fête without the presence of the giver, pleasure, ministered to by its thousand appliances, overcame this feeling, and few ever thought more of him beneath whose roof they were assembled.
The rooms were splendid in their decoration, lighted a giomo, and ornamented with flowers of the very rarest kind. The music consisted of a celebrated orchestra and a regimental band, who played alternately; the guests, several hundred in number, were all attired in fancy costumes, in which every age and nation found its type; while characters from well-known fictions abounded, many of them admirably sustained, and dressed with a pomp and splendor that told the wealth of the wearers.
It was truly a brilliant scene; brilliant as beauty, and the glitter of gems, and waving of plumes, and splendor of dress could make it. The magic impulse of pleasure communicated by the crash of music; the brilliant glare of wax-lights; the throng; the voices; the very atmosphere, tremulous with sounds of joy,—seemed to urge on all there to give themselves up to enjoyment. There was a boundless, lavish air, too, in all the arrangements. Servants in gorgeous liveries served refreshments of the most exquisite kind; little children, dressed as pages, distributed bouquets, bound round with lace of Valenciennes or Brussels, and occasionally fastened by strings of garnets or pearls; a jet d'eau of rose-water cooled the air of the conservatory, and diffused its delicious freshness through the atmosphere. There was something princely in the scale of the hospitality; and from every tongue words of praise and wonder dropped at each moment.
Even Lady Janet, whose enthusiasm seldom rose much above the zero, confessed that it was a magnificent fête, adding, by way of compensation for her eulogy, “and worthy of better company.”
Mrs. White was in ecstasies with everything, even to the cherubs in pink gauze wings, who handed round sherbet, and whom she pronounced quite “classical.” The Kenny-fecks were in the seventh heaven of delight, affecting little airs of authority to the servants, and showing the strangers, by a hundred little devices, that all the magnificence around was no new thing to them. Miss Kennyfeck, as the Queen of Madagascar, was a most beautiful savage; while Olivia appeared as the fair “Gabrielle,”—a sly intimation to Sir Harvey, whose dress, as Henry IV., won universal admiration. Then there were the ordinary number of Turks, Jews, Sailors, Circassians, Greeks, Highland Chiefs, and Indian Jugglers,—“Jim” figuring as a Newmarket “Jock,” to the unbounded delight and wonderment of every “sub” in the room.
If in many quarters the question ran, “Where is Mr. Cashel?” or, “Which is he?” Lady Janet had despatched Sir Andrew, attired as a “Moonshee,” to find out Linton for her. “He is certain to know every one here; tell him to come to me at once,” said she, sitting down near a doorway to watch the company.
While Lady Janet is waiting for him who, better than any other, could explain the mysterious meaning of many a veiled figure, unravel the hidden wickedness of every chance allusion, or expound the secret malice of each calembourg or jest, let us track his wanderings, and follow him as he goes.
Throwing a large cloak over his brilliant dress, Linton made his way by many a by-stair and obscure passage to the back of the theatre, by which the secret approach led to Cashel's dressing-room. Often as he had trod that way before, never had he done so in the same state of intense excitement. With the loss of the papers, he saw before him not alone the defeat of every hope he nurtured, but discovery, shame, and ruin! He whose whole game in life was to wield power over others, now saw himself in the grasp of some one, to whom he had not the slightest clew. At one moment his suspicions pointed to Cashel himself, then to Tiernay, and lastly to Phillis. Possibly rage has no bitterer moment than that in which an habitual deceiver of others first finds himself in the toils of treachery. There was over his mind, besides, that superstitious terror that to unbelieving intellects stands in place of religion, which told him that luck had turned with him; that fortune, so long favorable, had changed at last; and that, in his own phrase, “the run had set in against him.” Now a half-muttered curse would burst from his lips over the foolhardiness that had made him so dilatory, and not suffered him to reap the harvest when it was ripe; now a deep-breathed vow, that if fate were propitious once again, no matter bow short the interval, he would strike his blow, come what might of it Sometimes he blamed himself for having deserted the safe and easy road to ruin by play, for the ambitious course he had followed; at other times he inveighed against his folly for not carrying off Mary Leicester before Cashel had acquired any intimacy at the cottage. Burning and half-maddened with this conflict of regrets and hopes, he touched the spring, moved back the panel, and entered Cashel's room.
His first care was to see that the door from the corridor was secured on the inside; his next, to close the shutters and draw the curtains. These done, he lighted the candles on the table, and proceeded to make a systematic search through the entire chamber. “It is my last visit here,” said he to himself; “I must take care to do my work cleanly.” A mass of papers had been that morning left behind him by Cashel, most of them legal documents referring to his transactions with Hoare; but some were memoranda of his intentions respecting Corrigan, and plainly showing that Cashel well remembered he had never completed his assignment to Linton. “If Keane's hand has not faltered,” muttered he, “Master Roland's memory will not be taxed in this world at least; but where to discover the deed? that is the question.” In his anxiety on this bead, he ransacked drawers and cabinets with wild and furious haste, strewing their contents around him, or wantonly throwing them on the fire. With false keys for every lock, he opened the most secret depositories,—scarce glancing at letters which at any other time he had devoured with interest. Many were from Lady Kil-goff, warning Cashel against him; his own name, seen passingly, would arrest his attention for a second, but the weightier interest soon intervened, and he would throw the papers from him with contempt. “How shrewd! how very cunning!” muttered he, once or twice, as his glance caught some suspicion, some assumed clew to his own motives, in her well-known handwriting. Baffled by the unsuccessful result of his search, he stood in the midst of the floor, surrounded by open boxes, the contents of which were strewn on every side; rage and disappointment were depicted in his features; and, as his clenched hand struck the table, his whole expression became demoniac. Curses and deep blasphemies fell from his half-moving lips as he stood insensible to everything save the wreck of his long-cherished hope.
Let us turn from him to another, in whose fortunes we are more interested. Roland Cashel, after parting with Enrique, hastened on towards Tubbermore; his thoughts engaged on every topic save that which might be supposed to occupy the mind of a host at such a time. Pleasure assuredly held a weaker hold upon him than the thirst for vengeance, and the ardent longing to throw off the thraldom of that servitude he had endured too long.
It was only by observing the long string of carriages, whose lamps flashed and disappeared at intervals among the trees, that he remembered anything of the fête, and bethought him of that character of entertainer he, at the moment, should have been performing. There seemed to him a terrible inconsistency between his own thoughts and that scene of pleasure,—between the object in pursuit of which so many were hastening with furious speed, and that to which his slower steps were leading him!
“There can be but one amende for such infamous conduct,” muttered he; “he shall pay it with his life's blood.” And as he spoke, he opened the documents which Enrique had given him, and endeavored to read them; the dusky shadows of the fast-falling night prevented him, and he stood for some minutes lost in thought.
One of the papers, he was aware, bore the forged signature of his name; the other, whose antique form and massive seal bespoke an importance far greater, he tried again and again to decipher, but in vain. As he was thus occupied, he chanced to look up, and suddenly perceived that a stream of light issued from beneath the shutters of his own dressing-room, the door of which he had himself locked at his departure, taking the key along with him. Enrique's words flashed across his memory at once. It was Linton was there! “At his old work again,” muttered he, in deep anger; “but it shall be for the last time.” A moment of coming peril was all that Cashel needed to elicit the resources of his character. The courage tried in many a danger supplied him with a calm foresight, which the ordinary occasions of life rarely or never called forth. He bethought him that it were best at such a conjuncture to deposit the sealed document in some place of safety ere he went forth upon an enterprise the result of which must be doubtful; for all purposes of confronting Linton it were sufficient to take the forged deed along with him. These were conclusions formed as rapidly as they occurred, and acted upon no less speedily; for, folding up the parchment, he inserted it into a cleft in an aged elm-tree, noting well the spot, and marking all the signs by which he would be able to return to it. His next thought was how to reach his chamber: to enter the house at such a time undiscovered was of course out of the question; he would be seen and recognized at once, and then there would be an end forever of all the secrecy by which he hoped to cover the proceedings with Linton.
It neither suited his inclinations nor his plans that the world should be a party to his vengeance. “Let them discover it when it is over,” said he, “but let them not be able to interfere with its course.” All approach to his dressing-room through the house being thus impracticable, nothing remained but to reach it from without. The chamber was in the second story of the building, at a great height from the ground; but the walls were here covered with thick ivy of ancient growth, and by this Cashel resolved to make the attempt.
The act was not devoid of danger; but there are times when peril is a relief to the mad conflict of thought, and this was such a moment to Cashel. In an instant he made himself ready for the attempt, and with an activity that many a danger had tested, began the ascent. There are occasions when rashness is safety, and now, the headlong intrepidity of Roland's attempt proved its security, for at each step, as the ivy gave way beneath his grasp or his footing, by an upward spring he reached another spot, which in its turn broke with his weight: every instant the danger increased, for the frail tendrils grew weaker as he ascended, and beneath him the jagged and drooping branches hung down in ruinous disorder. By one bold spring he reached the window-sill, and after a momentary struggle, in which his athletic frame saved him from certain death, he gained a footing upon the stone, and was able to see what was passing within the room.
At a table covered with papers and open letters Linton sat, searching with eager haste for the missing documents; open boxes and presses on every side, rifled of their contents, were seen, some of which lay in disordered masses upon the floor, some in charred heaps within the fender. As the light fell upon his features, Cashel remarked that they were lividly pale,—the very lips were colorless; his hands, too, trembled violently as they moved among the papers, and his mouth continued to be moved by short convulsive twitches. To Roland these signs of suffering conveyed a perfect ecstasy of pleasure. That careworn, haggard face, that tremulous cheek and lustreless eye, were already an instalment of his vengeance.
There was one box which contained many of Cashel's early letters, when he was following the wild buccaneering life of the West; and this, secured by a lock of peculiar construction, Linton had never succeeded in opening. It stood before him, as with a last effort he tried every art upon it. The hinges alone seemed to offer a prospect of success, and he was now endeavoring to remove the fastenings of these. With more of force than skill, for defeat had rendered him impatient, Linton had already loosened the lid, when Cashel burst open the sash with one vigorous blow, and leaped into the room.
The terrible crash of the shattered window made Linton spring round; and there he stood, confronted with the other,—each, motionless and silent. In Cashel's steady, manly form there was a very world of indignant contempt; and Linton met the gaze with a look of deadly hatred. All the dissimulation by which he could cover over a treachery was at an end; his deceit was no longer of use, and he stood forth in the full courage of his scoundrelism,—bold, steady, and assured.
“This admits of no excuse, no palliation,” said Cashel, as he pointed to the open letters and papers which covered the floor; and although the words were uttered calmly, they were more disconcerting than if given with passionate vehemence.
“I never thought of any,” replied Linton, collectedly.
“So much the better, sir. It seems to me frankness is the only reparation you can make for past infamy!”
“It may be the only one you will be disposed to ask for,” said Linton, sneeringly.
Cashel grew fiery red. To taunt him with want of courage was something so unexpected—for which he was so totally unprepared—that he lost his self-possession, and in a passionate tone exclaimed,—
“Is it you who dare to say this to me—you, whose infamy has need but to be published abroad, to make every one who calls himself 'gentleman' shun your very contact!”
“This punctilious reverence for honor does infinite credit to your buccaneer education,” said Linton, whose eyes sparkled with malignant delight at the angry passion he had succeeded in evoking. “The friendship of escaped felons must have a wondrous influence upon refinement.”
“Enough, sir!” said Cashel. “How came you into the room, since the key of it is in my pocket?”
“Were I to inform you,” said Linton, “you would acknowledge it was by a much more legitimate mode than that by which you effected your entrance.”
“You shall decide which is the pleasanter then!” cried Cashel, as he tore open the window, and advanced in a menacing manner towards the other.
“Take care, Cashel,” said Linton, in a low, deliberate voice; “I am armed!”
And while he spoke, he placed one hand within the breast of his coat, and held it there. Quick as was the motion, it was not sudden enough to escape the flashing eye of Roland, who sprang upon him, and seized his wrist with a grasp that nearly jammed the bones together.
“Provoke me a little further,” cried he, “and, by Heaven! I 'll not give you the choice or chance of safety, but hurl you from that window as I would the meanest housebreaker.”
“Let me free,—let me loose, sir,” said Linton, in a low weak voice, which passion, not fear, had reduced to a mere whisper. “You shall have the satisfaction you aim at, when and how you please.”
“By daylight to-morrow, at the boat-quay beside the lake.”
“Agreed. There is no need of witnesses,—we understand each other.”
“Be it so. Be true to your word, and none shall hear from me the reasons of our meeting, nor what has occurred here this night.”
“I care not if all the world knew it,” said Linton, insolently; “I came in quest of a lost document,—one which I had my reasons to suspect had fallen into your possession.”
“And of whose forgery I have the proofs,” said Cashel, as opening the deed, he held it up before Linton's eyes. “Do you see that?”
“And do you know, Cashel,” cried Linton, assuming a voice of slow and most deliberate utterance, “that your own title to this property is as valueless and as worthless as that document you hold there? Do you know that there is in existence a paper which, produced in an open court of justice, would reduce you to beggary, and stamp you, besides, as an impostor? It may be that you are well aware of that fact; and that the same means by which you have possessed yourself of what was mine has delivered into your hands this valuable paper. But the subtlety is thrown away; I am cognizant of its existence; I have even shown it to another; and on me it depends whether you live here as a master, or walk forth in all the exposure of a cheat.”
The nature of this announcement, its possible truth, added to the consummate effrontery of him who made it, contributed to render Cashel silent, for he was actually stunned by what he heard. Linton saw the effect, but mistook its import. He believed that some thought of a compromise was passing through a mind where vengeance alone predominated; and in this error he drew nearer to him, and in a voice of cool and calm persuasion, added,—
“That you could pilot the course through all these difficulties, no one knows better than yourself to be impossible. There is but one living able to do so, and I am that one.”
Cashel started back, and Linton went on,—
“There is no question of friendship between us here. It is a matter of pure interest and mutual convenience that binds us. Agree to my terms, and you are still the owner of the estate; reject them, and you are as poor as poverty and exposure can make you.”
“Scoundrel!” said Cashel. It was all that he could utter; the fulness of his passion had nearly choked him, as, taking a heavy riding-glove from the table, he struck Linton with it across the face. “If there be any manhood in such a wretch, let this provoke it!”
Linton's hand grasped the weapon he carried within his coat, but with a quick, short stroke, Cashel struck down his arm, and it fell powerless to his side.
“You shall pay dearly for this—dearly, by heaven!” cried Linton, as he retired towards the door.
“Go, sir,” said Cashel, flinging it wide open, “and go quickly, or I may do that I should be sorry for.”
“You have done that you will be sorry for, if it costs me my life's blood to buy it.” And with these words, delivered in a voice guttural from rage, Linton disappeared, and Cashel stood alone in the centre of the room, overwhelmed by the terrible conflict of his passions.
The room littered with papers, the open boxes scattered on every side, his own hands cut and bleeding from the broken glass of the window, his dress torn from the recent exertion, were evidences of the past; and it seemed as though, without such proofs, he could not credit his memory, as to events so strange and stunning.
To restore something like order to his chamber, as a means of avoiding the rumors that would be circulated by the servants; to write some letters,—the last, perhaps, he should ever indite; to dress and appear among his company; to send for some one with whom he might confer as to his affairs,—such were the impulses that alternately swayed him, and to which he yielded by turns; now seating himself at his table; now hastening hither and thither, tossing over the motley livery of distasteful pleasure, or handling, with the rapture of revenge, the weapons by which he hoped to wreak his vengeance. The only fear that dwelt upon his mind was, lest Linton should escape him,—lest, by any accident, this, which now appeared the great business of his life, should go unacquired. Sometimes he reproached himself for having postponed the hour of vengeance, not knowing what chances might intervene, what accidents interrupt the course of his sworn revenge. Fortune, wealth, station, love itself had no hold upon him; it was that mad frame of mind where one sole thought predominates, and, in its mastery, makes all else subordinate. Would Linton be true to the rendezvous?—Could such a man be a coward?—Would he compass the vengeance he had threatened by other means? were questions that constantly occurred to his mind.
If the sounds of music and the clangor of festivity did break in upon this mood from time to time, it was but to convey some indistinct and shadowy impression of the inconsistency between his sad brooding and the scene by which he was surrounded,—between the terrible conflict within him and the wild gayety of those who wasted no thought upon him.
It was past midnight, and the scene within the walls of Tubbermore was one of the most brilliant festivity. All that could fascinate by beauty,—all that could dazzle by splendor, or amuse by fancy, or enliven by wit, were there, stimulated by that atmosphere of pleasure in which they moved. Loveliness elevated by costume, gayety exalted into exuberant joyousness by the impulse of a thousand high-beating hearts, passed and repassed, and mingled together, till they formed that brilliant assemblage wherein individuality is lost, and the memory carries away nothing but dreamy images of enjoyment, visions of liquid eyes and silky tresses, of fair rounded arms and fairy feet, with stray syllables that linger on the ear and vibrate in the heart for many a long year to come.
It would have been difficult to imagine that one, even one, amid that gorgeous throng, had any other thought than pleasure, so headlong seemed the impulse of enjoyment.' In vain the moralist might have searched for any trace of that care which is believed to be the unceasing burden of humanity. Even upon those who sustained no portion of the brilliancy around them, pleasure had set its seal. Lady Janet herself wondered, and admired, and stared, in an ecstasy of delight she could neither credit nor comprehend. It was true, Linton's absence—“unaccountable,” as she called it—was a sad drawback upon her enjoyment. Yet her own shrewdness enabled her to penetrate many a mystery, and detect beneath the dusky folds of more than one domino those who a few moments previous had displayed themselves in all the splendor of a gorgeous costume.
In vain did Lord Charles Frobisher cover his Tartar dress with a Laplander's cloak and hood, to follow Miss Meek unnoticed. In vain did Upton abandon his royalty as Henry IV. for a Dominican's cowl, the better to approach a certain fair nun with dark blue eyes; Lady Janet whispered, “Take care, Olivia,” as she passed her. Even Mrs. Leicester White, admirably disguised as a Gypsy Fortune-teller, did not dare to speculate upon Lady Janet's “future”—possibly, out of fear of her “present.” Mr. Howie alone escaped detection, as, dressed to represent the Obelisk of the “Luqsor,” he stood immovable in the middle of the room, listening to everybody, and never supposed to be anything but an inanimate ornament of the saloon.
It was only when a minuet was about to be formed, and a question arose as to whether the obelisk could not be removed, that the Egyptian monument was seen slowly sidling off amidst the company, to the great amusement of all who had not opened their confidences beneath its shadow. For an instant, the laughter that circulated in many a distant group was directed to this quarter, and bursts of merriment were excited by the absurdity of the incident. With that mysterious instinct by which moods of joy or grief are perpetuated from heart to heart, till each in a crowded assembly is moved as is his neighbor, the whole room shook with convulsive laughter. It was just then—at the very moment when boundless pleasure filled every avenue of feeling—a terrible cry, shrill and piercing, burst upon the air. All was still—still as a lone church at midnight. Each gazed upon the other, as if silently asking, had he heard the sound? Again it came, louder and nearer; and then a long, loud, swelling chant rang out, wild and frantic as it rose, till it died away in a cadence of the very saddest and dreariest meaning.
“What is it?—what can it be?” were uttered by many in broken voices; while others, too much terrified to speak, sank half fainting upon their seats, their colorless cheek and livid lips in terrible contrast to their gay attire.
“There! listen to it again!—Good Heaven! what can it be?”
“It's a death 'keen'!” said a country gentleman, a magistrate named Goring; “something must have happened among the people?”
And now, none knew from what quarter arising, or by whom spoken, but the dreadful word “Murder” was heard through the room. Many issued forth to ask for tidings; some stayed to assure and rally the drooping courage of others; some, again, divested of the “motley,” moved hurriedly about, seeking for this one or that. All was terror, confusion, and dismay.
“Oh, here is Mr. Linton!” cried several, as, with his domino on his arm, pale, and like one terror-struck, he entered the room. “What is it, Mr. Linton? Do you know what has happened?”
“Get Mrs. Kennyfeck and the girls away,” whispered he to a friend, hurriedly; “tell them something—anything—but take them from this.”
“What!” exclaimed Meek, to whom Linton had whispered something, but in a voice too low to be clearly audible.
“Kennyfeck is murdered!” said Linton, louder.
As if the terrible tidings had floated on the air, in an instant it was on every tongue, and vibrating in every ear; and then, in heartrending screams of passionate grief, the cry of the widow and her children burst forth, cry following cry in wild succession. Seized with an hysteric paroxysm, Mrs. Kennyfeck was carried to her room; while of her daughters, the elder sat mute, speechless and, to all seeming, insensible; the younger struggling in convulsive passion to go to her father.
What a scene was that! How dreadful to mark the symbols of levity—the decorations by which pleasure would mock the stern realities of life—surrounded as they now were by suffering and sorrow! to see the groups as they stood; some ministering to one who had fainted, others conversing in low and eager whispers. The joyous smiles, the bright glances were gone, as though they had been by masks assumed at will; tears furrowed their channels through the deep rouge, and convulsive sobs broke from beneath corsets where joy alone had vibrated before. While in the ballroom the scene was one of terror and dismay, a few had withdrawn into a small apartment adjoining the garden, to consult upon what the emergency might require. These were drawn together by Linton, and included Sir Andrew MacFarline, the Chief Justice, Meek, and a few others of lesser note. In a few words Linton informed them that he heard the tidings as he passed through the hall; that a peasant, taking the mountain path to Scariff, had come upon the spot where the murder was committed, and found the body still warm, but lifeless—“he also found this weapon, the bore of which was dirty from a recent discharge as he took it up.”
“Why, this pistol is Mr. Cashel's!” exclaimed Sir Andrew, examining the stock closely; “I know it perfectly—I have fired with it myself a hundred times.”
“Impossible, my dear Sir Andrew!” cried Linton, eagerly. “You must be mistaken.”
“Where is Mr. Cashel?” asked the Chief Justice.
“No one seems to know,” replied Linton. “At a very early hour this morning he left this in company with poor Kennyfeck. It would appear that they were not on the best of terms together; at least, some of the servants overheard angry words pass between them as they drove away.”
“Let us call these people before us,” said Sir Andrew.
“Not at present, sir. It would be premature and indiscreet,” interposed the judge., Then, turning to Linton, he added, “Well, sir, and after that?”
“After that we have no tidings of either of them.”
“I'll swear to the pistol, onyhow,” said Sir Andrew, who sat staring at the weapon, and turning it about in every direction.
“Of what nature were the differences between Cashel and Kennyfeck supposed to be?” asked Meek of Linton.
“It is impossible to collect, from the few and broken sentences which have been reported; possibly, dissatisfaction on Cashel's part at the difficulty of obtaining money; possibly, some misunderstanding about his intentions regarding one of the girls, whom the Kennyfecks were silly enough to suppose he was going to marry.”
A slight tap at the door here arrested their attention. It was Mr. Phillis, who came to say that footsteps had been heard in Mr. Cashel's dressing-room, although it was well known he himself had not returned.
“Might he not have returned and entered the room unseen, sir?” said the Chief Justice, who cast a shrewd and piercing look upon the valet.
“Scarcely, my Lord, since he is known to every servant in the house, and people are passing and repassing in every direction.”
“But there is every reason to believe that he has not returned at all,” interposed Linton. “It is some one else has been heard in his dressing-room.”
“Would it not be as well to despatch messengers to Drumcoologan,” said Meek, “and assure ourselves of Cashel's safety? Up to this we are ignorant if he have not shared the fate of poor Kennyfeck.”
“The very suggestion I was about to make. I 'll take Phillis along with me, and set out this instant,” cried Linton.
“We shall miss your assistance greatly here, sir,” said the Chief Justice.
“Your Lordship overvalues my poor ability; but I will hasten to the utmost, and be soon back again.” And thus saying, he left the room, followed by Phillis.
“There must be an inquest at once,” said the Chief Justice. “The coroner has power to examine witnesses on oath; and it seems to me that some clew to the affair will present itself.”
“As to this room, don't you think it were proper to inquire if any one be really within it?” asked Meek.
“Yes; we will proceed thither together,” replied the judge.
“I canna be mistaken in the pistol; I 'll swear to that,” chimed in Sir Andrew, whose whole thoughts were centred on that object.
“Well, Mr. Goring,” said Meek, as that gentleman advanced to meet them in the corridor, “have you obtained any clew to this sad affair?”
The magistrate drew near, and whispered a few words in the other s ear. Meek started, and grasped the speaker's arm convulsively; then, after a pause, said, “Tell the Chief Justice.” Mr. Goring approached, and said something in a low voice to the judge.
“Be cautious, sir; take care to whom you mention these circumstances, lest they be bruited about before we can examine into them,” said the Chief Justice; then retiring into a window with Sir Andrew and Meek, he continued: “This gentleman has just informed me that the impress of a boot with a high heel has been discovered near the spot where the murder was committed; which boot exactly tallies with that worn by Mr. Cashel.”
“The pistol is his; I'll tak' my oath on that,” muttered Sir Andrew.
“Here's Phillis coming back,” said Meek. “What's the matter, Phillis?”
“Mr. Linton sent me back, sir, to say that the ivy which covered the wall on the east end of the house has been torn down, and seems to infer that some one must have climbed up it, to reach my master's dressing-room.”
“This is a very important circumstance,” said the Chief Justice. “Let us examine the room at once.” And so saying, he led the way towards it.
Not a word was spoken as the party passed along the corridor and ascended the stairs; each feared, even by a syllable, to betray the terrible suspicions that were haunting his mind. It was a solemn moment; and so their looks and gestures bespoke it. The house itself had suddenly become silent; scarce a sound was beard within that vast building, which so late had rung with revelry and joy. A distant door would clap, or a faintly heard shriek from some one still suffering from the recent shock; but all else was hushed and still.
“That is the room,” said Meek, pointing to a door, beneath which, although it was now daybreak, a stream of light issued; and, slight as the circumstance was, the looks exchanged among the party seemed to give it a significance.
The Chief Justice advanced and tapped at the door. Immediately a voice was heard from within that all recognized as Cashel's asking,—
“Who's there?”
“We want you, Mr. Cashel,” said the judge, in an accent which all the instincts of his habit had not rendered free from a slight tremor.
The door was immediately thrown wide, and Roland stood before them. He had not changed his dress since his arrival, and his torn sleeve and blood-stained trousers at once caught every eye that was fixed upon him. The disorder, too, was not confined to his own haggard look; the room itself was littered with papers and letters, with clothes strewn carelessly in every direction; and conspicuously amid all, an open pistol-case was seen, from which one of the weapons was missing. A mass of charred paper lay within the fender, and a great heap of paper lay, as it were, ready for burning, beside the hearth. There was full time for those who stood there to notice all these particulars, since neither spoke, but each gazed on the other in terrible uncertainty. Cashel was the first to break the silence.
“Well, sirs,” said he, in a voice that only an effort made calm, “are my friends so very impatient at my absence that they come to seek me in my dressing-room?”
“The dreadful event that has just occurred, sir,” said the judge, “makes apology for our intrusion unnecessary. We are here from duty, Mr. Cashel, not inclination, still less caprice.”
The solemnity of manner in which he spoke, and the grave faces around him on every side, seemed to apprise Roland that bad tidings awaited him, and he looked eagerly to each for an explanation. At length, as none spoke, he said,—
“Will no one vouchsafe to put an end to this mystification? What, I pray, is this event that has happened?”
“Mr. Kennyfeck has been murdered,” said the judge.
Roland staggered backwards, and grasped a chair for support. “When?—How?—Where?” said he, in a low voice, every accent of which trembled.
“All as yet is hidden in mystery, sir. We know nothing beyond the fact that his dead body was discovered in the Gap of Ennismore, and that a pistol-shot had penetrated his brain.” Sir Andrew grasped the weapon more tightly as these words were uttered.
“You left this in his company, Mr. Cashel?” asked Goring.
“Yes; we set out at daybreak for Drumcoologan, where an affair of business required our presence. We spent the whole of the day together, and as evening drew nigh, and our business had not been completed, I resolved to hasten back here, leaving him to follow whenever he could.”
“You have been on the best terms together, I believe?” said Goring.
“Stay—I cannot permit this,” interposed the Chief Justice, authoritatively. “There must be nothing done here which is not strictly honorable as well as legal. It is right that Mr. Cashel should understand that when an event of this nature has occurred, no one, however high his station, or umblemished his fame, can claim exemption from that scrutiny which the course of justice demands; and the persons latest in the company of the deceased are more peculiarly those exposed to such inquiry. I would, therefore, caution him against answering any questions here, which may be prejudicial hereafter.”
“Do I understand you aright, my Lord?” said Cashel, whose whole frame trembled with agitation as he spoke. “Do your words imply that I stand here in the light of a suspected party?”
“I mean to say, sir,” replied the judge, “that so long as doubt and obscurity veil the history of a crime, the accusation hangs over the community at large among whom it was enacted, and that those who were last seen in the presence of the victim have the greatest obligation to disconnect themselves with the sad event.”
“But you stopped me while about to do so,” cried Roland, angrily.
“I cautioned you, rather, against any disclosures which, whatever your innocence, might augment suspicion against you,” said the judge, mildly.
“These distinctions are too subtle for me, my Lord. The insult of such an accusation ought to be enough, without the aggravation of chicanery.” Then, turning to Meek, Roland went on: “You, at least, are above this meanness, and will listen to me patiently. Look here.” He took a sheet of paper as he spoke, and proceeded with a pen to mark out the direction of the two roads from Drumcoologan to Tubbermore. “Here stands the village; the road by which we travelled in the morning takes this line, skirting the base of the mountain towards the north: the path by which I returned follows a shorter course, and after crossing a little rivulet here, comes out at Ennismore, somewhere about this point.”
Just as Roland's description reached thus far, a large drop of blood oozed from his wounded hand, and fell heavily upon the paper. There seemed something so terribly significant in its falling exactly on the very spot where the murdered body was found, that each looked at the other in anxious dread; and then, as if with a common impulse, every eye was bent on Cashel, who, heart-sick with indignant anger, stood unable to utter a word.
“I pray you, sir, do not misconstrue my advice,” said the judge, mildly, “nor resent a counsel intended for your good. Every explanation you may offer, hereafter, will be serviceable to your case; every detail you enter into, now, necessarily vague, and unsupported as it must be by other testimony, will only be injurious to you.”
Cashel seated himself in a chair, and crossing his arms, seemed to be lost in thought; then, suddenly starting to his feet, he cried,—
“Is all this a deep-laid scheme against my honor and my life, or do you, indeed, desire to trace this crime to its author? If so, let us mount our horses and scour the country; let us search every cabin; let us try if some discovery of a weapon—”
“Ech, sirs, we hae the weapon!” said Sir Andrew, with a sardonic grin; “an' it's muckle like to its brither yonder,” pointing to the open pistol-case.
Roland turned suddenly, and now for the first time perceived that one of his pistols was missing from the case. Up to this moment his anger at the suspicions directed towards him was mingled with a degree of contemptuous disregard of them; but now, suddenly, a terrible fear shot through his heart that he was in the meshes of some deep-laid scheme for his ruin; and his mind ran over in eager haste every circumstance that seemed to point towards guilt. His presence with Kennyfeck on the mountain; his departure from Drumcoologan alone-, his unexplained reappearance in his own chamber, disordered and littered as it stood; his torn dress; his bleeding fingers; and lastly, the missing pistol,—arose in terrible array before him; and with a heart-sick sigh, he laid his forehead on the table, and never uttered a word.
It was at this juncture that a groom, splashed and heated from a hard ride, placed a small bit of twisted paper in Mr. Goring's hand. It was written with pencil, and ran thus:—
Goring handed the note to the Chief Justice, who, having read it, passed it on to Meek. A nod from the latter, as he refolded the paper, seemed to accord concurrence with the counsel.
“Would it not be better to defer this till after the inquest?” he whispered.
“Are ye certain o' findin' him when ye want him?” dryly remarked Sir Andrew.
The Chief Justice conferred for a few seconds with Meek apart, and then approaching Cashel, addressed him in a tone inaudible to all but himself,—
“It would be excessively painful to us, Mr. Roland Cashel, to do anything which should subject you to vulgar remark or impertinent commentary; and as, until some further light be thrown upon this sad catastrophe, your detention is absolutely necessary, may I ask that you will submit to this rigor, without compelling us to any measures to enforce it?”
“Am I a prisoner, my Lord?” asked Roland, growing lividly pale as he spoke.
“Not precisely, sir. No warrant has been issued against you; but as it is manifestly for your advantage to disprove any suspicions that may attach to you in this unhappy affair, I hope you will see the propriety of remaining where you are until they be entirely removed.”
Roland bowed coldly, and said,—
“May I ask to be left alone?”
“Of course, sir; we have neither the right nor the inclination to obtrude ourselves upon you. I ought to mention, perhaps, that if you desire to confer with any friends—”
“Friend!” echoed Cashel, in bitter derision; “such friends as I have seen around my table make the selection difficult.”
“I used the phrase somewhat technically, sir, as referring to a legal adviser,” said the judge, hastily.
“I thank you, my Lord,” replied Roland, haughtily. “I am a plain man, and am well aware that in your trade truth is no match for falsehood.” He walked to the window as he spoke, and by his gesture seemed to decline further colloquy.
The Chief Justice moved slowly away, followed by the others; Meek withdrawing last of all, and seeming to hesitate whether he should not say something as he went. At last he turned and said,—
“I sincerely trust, Mr. Cashel, that you will not connect me with this most painful suspicion; your own good sense will show you how common minds may be affected by a number of concurring circumstances; and how, in fact, truth may require the aid of ingenuity to reconcile and explain them.”
“I am not certain that I understand your meaning, sir,” said Cashel, sternly; “but when a number of 'concurring circumstances' seemed to point out those with whom I associated as blacklegs, parasites, and calumniators, I gave them the benefit of a doubt, and believed them to be gentle-men; I almost expected they might return the favor when occasion offered.”
For a second or two Meek seemed as if about to reply; but he moved noiselessly away at last and closed the door, leaving Roland alone with his own distracted thoughts.