While Cashel continued his way homeward, a very joyous party had assembled in Lord Charles Frobisher's room, who were endeavoring, by the united merits of cigars, écarté, hazard, and an excellent supper, of which they partook at intervals, to compensate themselves for the unusual dulness of the drawing-room. It is well known how often the least entertaining individuals in general society become the most loquacious members of a party assembled in this fashion. The restraints which had held them in check before are no longer present; their loud speech and empty laughter are not any longer under ban, and they are tolerated by better men, pretty much as children are endured, because at least they are natural.
At a round table in the middle of the room were a group engaged at hazard. Upton was deep in écarté with his brother officer, Jennings, while Frobisher lounged about, sipping weak negus, and making his bets at either table as fancy or fortune suggested. The supper-table had few votaries; none, indeed, were seated at it save Meek, who, with a newspaper on his knee, seemed singularly out of place in the noisy gathering.
“Eleven's the nick—eleven! I say, Charley, have at you for a pony,” called out a boyish-looking dragoon, from the middle table.
“You're under age, young gentleman,” said Frobisher; “I can't afford to bet with you. Wait a moment, Upton, I 'll back you this time. Twenty sovereigns—will you have it?”
“Done!” said Jennings, and the game began.
“The King,” cried Upton; “I propose.”
“To which of them?” said a sharp-looking infantry captain, behind his chair.
“Olivia, of course,” slipped in Jennings.
“I 'd give fifty pounds to know if they have the money people say,” cried Upton.
“Meek can tell you; he knows everything. I say, Downie,” said Jennings, “come here for a moment, and enlighten us on a most interesting point.”
“Oh dear! what is it? This room is so very cold. Don't you think, Frobisher, that a double door would be advisable?”
“A green one, with a centre pane of glass, would make it devilish like a 'hell,'” said Upton; upon which the company all laughed approvingly.
“What is it you want?” said Meek, approaching, glass in hand.
“Play out the game, and have your gossip afterwards,” said Frobisher, who felt far more anxious about the fate of his twenty pounds than for the result of the conversation.
“A queen of hearts,” said Upton, leading; then, turning to Meek, said, “These Kennyfeck girls—can you tell what the figure is?”
“Poor dear things,” said Meek, piteously; “they should be very well off.”
“I score two!” said Upton. “Well, have they twenty thousand each?”
“I should say more. Oh dear me! they must have more! Kennyfeck holds a heavy mortgage on Kilgoff's estate, and has a great deal of other property.”
“Then it would be a good thing, Meek, eh?” said Jennings.
“Game!” cried Upton, showing his cards upon the table.
“There is so much chaffing about girls and their fortunes, one can't play his game here,” said Jennings, as he threw down a handful of gold on the board.
“Who was it ordered the post-horses for to-morrow?” said a youth at the supper-table. “The MacFarlines?”
“No; Lord Kilgoff.”
“I assure you,” cried a third, “it was the Kennyfecks. There has been a 'flare-up' about money between Cashel and him, and it is said he 'll lose the agency. Who 'll get it, I wonder?”
“Tom Linton, of course,” said the former speaker. “I 'd wager he is gone off to Dublin to furbish up securities, or something of that kind.”
“Who'd give Tom trust, or go bail for him?” said Frobisher.
A very general laugh did not sound like a contradiction of the sentiment.
“I heard a week ago,” said the cornet, “that Kilgoff would stand security to any amount for him.”
“Ah, that comes of my Lady's good opinion of him!” cried Jennings.
“Nay, don't say that, it looks so ill-natured,” sighed Meek; “and there is really nothing in it. You know she and Tom were old friends. Oh dear, it was so sad!”
“Where does Cashel get such execrable champagne?” said an infantryman, with a very wry expression of face.
“It's dry wine, that's all,” said Frobisher, “and about the best ever imported.”
“We 'd be very sorry to drink it at our mess, my Lord, I know that,” said the other, evidently nettled at the correction.
“Yours is the Fifty-third?” said a guardsman.
“No; the Thirty-fifth.”
“Aw! same thing,” sighed he; and he stooped to select a cigar.
“I wish the Kennyfecks were not going,” said Upton, drawing his chair closer to Meek's; “there are so few houses one meets them at.”
“You should speak to Linton about that,” whispered Meek.
“Here's Jim's health,—hip, hip, hurrah!” cried out a white-moustached boy, who had joined a hussar regiment a few weeks before, and was now excessively tipsy.
The laughter at this toast was increased by Meek's holding out his glass to be filled as he asked, “Of course,—whose health is it?”
“One of Frobisher's trainers,” said Upton, readily.
“No, it's no such thing,” hiccoughed the hussar. “I was proposing a bumper to the lightest snaffle hand from this to Doncaster—the best judge of a line of country in the kingdom—”
“That's me,” said a jolly voice, and at the same instant the door was flung wide, and Tom Linton, splashed from the road, and travel-stained, entered.
“I must say, gentlemen, you are no churls of your wit and pleasantry, for, as I came up the stairs, I could hear every word you were saying.”
“Oh dear, how dreadful! and we were talking of you too,” said Meek, with a piteous air that made every one laugh.
A thousand questions as to where he had been, whom with, and what for?—all burst upon Linton, who only escaped importunity by declaring that he was half dead with hunger, and would answer nothing till he had eaten.
“So,” said he, at length, after having devoted twenty minutes to a grouse-pie of most cunning architecture, “you never guessed where I had been?”
“Oh! we had guesses enough, if that served any purpose.”
“I thought it was a bolt, Tom,” said Upton; “but as she appeared at breakfast, as usual, I saw my mistake.”
“Meek heard that you had gone over to Downing Street to ask for the Irish Secretaryship,” said Jennings.
“I said you had been to have a talk with Scott about 'Regulator;' was I far off the mark?”
“Mrs. White suggested an uncle's death,” said Frobisher; “but uncles don't die nowadays.”
“Did you buy the colt?—Have you backed 'Runjeet Singh?'—Are you to have the agency?—How goes on the borough canvass?” and twenty similar queries now poured in on him.
“Well, I see,” cried he, laughing, “I shall sadly disappoint all the calculations founded on my shrewdness and dexterity, for the whole object of my journey was to secure a wardrobe for our fancy ball, which I suddenly heard of as being at Limerick; and so, not trusting the mission to another, I started off myself, and here I am, with materials for more Turks, Monks, Sailors, Watchmen, Greeks, Jugglers, and Tyrolese, than ever travelled in anything save a caravan with one horse.”
“Are your theatrical intentions all abandoned?” cried Jennings.
“I trust not,” said Linton; “but I heard that Miss Meek had decided on the ball to come off first.”
“Hip! hip! hip!” was moaned out, in very lachrymose tone, from a sofa where the boy hussar, very sick and very tipsy, lay stretched on his back.
“Who is that yonder?” asked Linton.
“A young fellow of ours,” said Jennings, indolently.
“I thought they made their heads better at Sandhurst.”
“They used in my time,” said Upton; “but you have no idea how the thing has gone down.”
“Quite true,” chimed in another; “and I don't think we 've seen the worst of it yet. Do you know, they talk of an examination for all candidates for commissions!”
“Well, I must say,” lisped the guardsman, “I believe it would be an improvement for the 'line.'”
“The household brigade can dispense with information,” said an infantry captain.
“I demur to the system altogether,” said Linton. “Physicians tell us that the intellectual development is always made at the expense of the physical, and as one of the duties of a British army is to suffer yellow fever in the West Indies and cholera in the East, I vote for leaving them strong in constitution and intact in strength as vacant heads and thoughtless skulls can make them.”
“Oh dear me! yes,” sighed Meek, who, by one of his mock concurrences, effectually blinded the less astute portion of the audience from seeing Linton's impertinence.
“What has been doing here in my absence?” said Linton; “have you no event worth recording for me?”
“There is a story,” said Upton, “that Cashel and Kennyfeck have quarrelled,—a serious rupture, they say, and not to be repaired.”
“How did it originate? Something about the management of the property?”
“No, no,—it was a row among the women. They laid some scheme for making Cashel propose for one of the girls.”
“Not Olivia, I hope?” said Upton, as he lighted a new cigar.
“I rather suspect it was,” interposed another.
“In any case, Linton,” cried Jennings, “you are to be the gainer, for the rumor says, Cashel will give you the agency, with his house to live in, and a very jolly thing to spend, while he goes abroad to travel.”
“If this news be true, Tom,” said Frobisher, “I 'll quarter my yearlings on you; there is a capital run for young horses in those flats along the river.”
“The house is cold at this season,” said Meek, with a sad smile; “but I think it would be very endurable in the autumn months. I should n't say but you may see us here again at that time.”
“I hope 'ours' may be quartered at Limerick,” said an infantryman, with a most suggestive look at the comforts of the apartment, which were a pleasing contrast to barrack-room accommodation.
“Make yourselves perfectly at home here, gentlemen, when that good time comes,” said Linton, with one of his careless laughs. “I tell you frankly, that if Cashel does make me such a proposal—a step which, from his knowledge of my indolent, lazy habits, is far from likely—I only accept on one condition.”
“What is that?” cried a dozen voices.
“That you will come and pass your next Christmas here.”
“Agreed—agreed!” was chorused on every side.
“I suspect from that bit of spontaneous hospitality,” whispered Frobisher to Meek, “that the event is something below doubtful.”
Meek nodded.
“What is Charley saying?” cried Linton, whose quick eye caught the glance interchanged between the two.
“I was telling Meek,” said Frobisher, “that I don't put faith enough in the condition to accept the invitation.”
“Indeed!” said Linton, while he turned to the table and filled his glass, to hide a passing sign of mortification.
“Tom Linton for a man's agent, seems pretty like what old Frederick used to call keeping a goat for a gardener.”
“You are fond of giving the odds, Frobisher,” said Linton, who, for some minutes, continued to take glass after glass of champagne; “now, what's your bet that I don't do the honors here next Christmas-day?”
“I can't say what you mean,” said Frobisher, languidly. “I've seen you do 'the honors' at more than one table where you were the guest.”
“This, I suppose, is meant for a pleasantry, my Lord?” said Linton, while his face became flushed with passion.
“It is meant for fact,” said Frobisher, with a steady coolness in his air and accent.
“A fact! and not in jest, then!” said he, approaching where the other sat, and speaking in a low voice.
“That's very quarrelsome wine, that dry champagne,” said Frobisher, lazily; “don't drink any more of it.”
Linton tried to smile; the effort, at first not very successful, became easier after a moment, and it was with a resumption of his old manner he said,—
“I 'll take you two to one in fifties that I act the host here this day twelvemonth.”
“You hear the offer, gentlemen?” said Frobisher, addressing the party. “Of course it is meant without any reservation, and so I take it.”
He produced a betting-book as he said this, and began to write in it with his pencil.
“Would you prefer it in hundreds?” said Linton.
Frobisher nodded an assent.
“Or shall we do the thing sportingly, and say two thousand to one?” continued he.
“Two thousand to one be it,” said Frobisher, while the least possible smile might be detected on his usually immovable features. “There is no knowing how to word this bet,” said he, at last, after two or three efforts, followed by as many erasures; “you must write it yourself.”
Linton took the pencil, and wrote rapidly for a few seconds.
“Will that do?” said he.
And Frobisher read to himself: “'Mr. Linton, two thousand to one with Lord C. Frobisher, that he, T. L., on the anniversary of this day, shall preside as master of the house Tubbermore, by due right and title, and not by any favor, grace, or sanction of any one whatsoever.”
“Yes; that will do, perfectly,” said Frobisher, as he closed the book, and restored it to his pocket.
“Was the champagne so strong as you expected?” whispered Upton, as he passed behind Frobisher's chair.
A very knowing nod of acquiescence was the only reply.
Indeed, it did not require the practised shrewdness of Lord Charles, or his similarly sharp-eyed friends, to see that Linton's manner was very different from his habitual calm collectedness, while he continued to drink on, with the air of a man that was resolved on burying his faculties in the excitement of wine.
Meek slipped away soon after, and, at Linton's suggestion a rouge-et-noir bank was formed, at which the play became high, and his own losses very considerable.
It was already daylight, and the servants were stirring in the house ere the party broke up.
“Master Tom has had a squeeze to-night,” said Jennings, as he was bidding Upton good-bye at his door.
“I can't understand it at all,” replied the other. “He played without judgment, and betted rashly on every side. It was far more like Roland Cashel than Tom Linton.”
“Well, you remember he said—to be sure, it was after drinking a quantity of wine—'Master Roland and I may change characters yet. Let us see if he can play “Linton,” as well as I can “Cashel.”'”
“He's so deep, that I wouldn't say but there is something under all this.” And so they parted, sadly puzzled what interpretation to put on conduct, the mere result of a passing intemperance; for so it is, your “cunning men” are never reputed to be so deep by the world as when by some accident they, have forgotten their craft.
An hour's sleep and a cold bath restored Linton to himself, and ere the guests of Tubbermore were stirring, he was up and ready for the day. He dressed with more than usual care, and having ordered a horse to be saddled and a groom to follow him, he sauntered out into the park, taking the road that led to the village.
The groom rapidly overtook him; and then, mounting, he rode at a brisk trot down the road, and drew up at the door of the doctor's house. To his question, “If Mr. Tiernay were at home?” he received for answer, that “He had set out for Limerick that morning;” nor did the servant know when he might be expected back.
For a moment this intelligence appeared to derange his plans; but he rallied soon, and turning his horse's head towards Tubbermore, muttered to himself, “As well,—perhaps better as it is.” He rode fast till he gained the wood, and then dismounting, he gave the horse to the groom, with directions to go home, as he would return on foot.
He stood looking after the horses as they retired, and it seemed as if his thoughts were following them, so intent was his gaze; but, long after they had disappeared, he remained standing in the same place, his features still wearing the same expression of highly-wrought occupation. The spot where he stood was a little eminence, from which the view stretched, upon one side, over the waving woods of the demesne, and, on the other, showed glimpses of the Shannon, as, in its sweeping curves, it indented the margin of the grounds. Perhaps not another point could be found which displayed so happily the extent and importance of the demesne, and yet concealed so well whatever detracted from its picturesque effect. The neighboring village of Derra-heeny—a poor, straggling, ruinous street of thatched hovels, like most Irish villages—was altogether hidden from view; while of the great house itself,—an object with few pretensions to architectural elegance,—only so much was visible as indicated its size and extent. The little cottage of Tubber-beg, however, could be seen entire, glittering in the morning's sun like a gem, its bright-leaved hollies and dark laurels forming a little grove of foliage in the midst of winter's barrenness.
If this was by far the most striking object of the picture, it was not that which attracted most of Linton's attention. On the contrary, his eye ranged more willingly over the wide woods which stretched for miles along the river's side, and rose and fell in many a gentle undulation inland. A commonplace observer, had such been there to mark him, would have pronounced him one passionately devoted to scenery,—a man who loved to watch the passing cloud-shadows of a landscape, enjoying with all a painter's delight the varying tints, the graceful lines, the sharp-thrown shadows, and the brilliant lights of a woodland picture; a deeper physiognomist would, however, have seen that the stern stare and the compressed lip, the intense preoccupation which every feature exhibited, did not denote a mind bent upon such themes.
“Tom Linton, of Tubbermore,” said he, at length,—and it seemed as if uttering the words gave relief to his overburdened faculties, for his face relaxed, and his habitual easy smile returned to his mouth,—“Linton, of Tubbermore; it sounds well, too.” And then the great game! that game for which I have pined so long and wished so ardently,—which I have stood by and seen others play and lose, where I could have won,—ay, won rank, honor, station, and fame. The heaviest curse that lies on men like me is to watch those who rise to eminence in the world, and know their utter shallowness and incapacity. There will soon be an end to that now.
“Stand by, gentlemen; make way, my Lords Charles and Harry; it is Tom Linton's turn—not Linton the 'adventurer,' as you were gracious enough to call him—not the bear-leader of a marquis, or the hanger-on of his grace the duke, but your equal in rank and fortune—more than your equal in other things; the man who knows you all thoroughly, not fancying your deficiencies and speculating on your shortcomings, as your vulgar adversaries, your men of cotton constituencies, are wont to do, but the man who has seen you in your club and your drawing-room, who has eaten, drunk, betted, played, and lived with you all! who knows your tactics well, and can expound your 'aristocratic prejudices better than ever a Quaker of them all!'—Not but,” said he, after a pause, “another line would satisfy me equally. The peerage, with such a fortune as this, is no inordinate ambition; a few years in the House, of that dogged, unmanageable conduct Englishmen call independence—a capriciousness in voting—the repute of refusing office, and so on. There's no originality in the thought, but it succeeds as well as if there were! Besides, if hard pressed, I can be a Romanist, and, as times go, with every party; that is a strong claim. And why not Lord Linton? I have no doubt”—and he laughed as he spoke this—“there is a peerage in the family already, if I only knew where to look for it!
“And now, sufficient of speculation! to open the campaign!” So saying, he descended the knoll and took the path which led to the cottage. As he drew near the wicket, he saw a man lounging beside it, in all that careless indifference which an Irish peasant can assume, and soon perceived it was Tom Keane, the gatekeeper.
“Good-morrow, Tom; how comes it you are up here so early?”
“'T is in throuble I am, your honer,” said he, taking off his hat, and putting on that supplicating look so characteristic of his class. “The master's going to turn me out of the little place beyant.”
“What for?”
“For nothing at all, your honer: that's just it; but ould Kennyfeck put him up to it.”
“Up to what? That seems the whole question.”
“Your honer may remimber, that when you came here first, the cattle of the neighbors was used to come and pick a mouthful of grass,—and poor grass it was,—bekase there was no way of keeping them out. Well, when the master came down, and all the people, by coorse the cows and pigs couldn't be let in as afore; for, as the agint said, it was a disgrace to see them under the nose of the quality, running about as if it was Donnybrook fair! 'Don't let them appear here again, Tom Keane,' says he, 'or it will be worse for you.' And sorra one ever I let in since that, till it was dark night. But ould Mr. Kennyfeck, the other evening, takes it into his head to walk into the park, and comes right into a crowd of two-year-old bulls, and did n't know a bit where he was, till a man called out, 'Lie down on your face, for the love of the Virgin, or you are a dead man! The bullsheens is comin'!' And down he lay, sure enough, and hard work they had to get him up afterwards, for the herd went over him as the man drov' them off; and what between bruises and fear, he kept his bed two days; but the worst of it was, the spalpeens said that they paid threepence apiece for the bullsheens every night for the grass, and it was to me they gave it.”
“Which, of course, was untrue?” said Linton, smiling knowingly.
“By coorse it was!” said Tom, with a laugh, whose meaning there was no mistaking; “and so, I 'm to be turned out of 'the gate,' and to lose my few acres of ground, and be thrun on the wide world, just for sake of an attorney!”
“It is very hard,—very hard indeed.”
“Is n't it now, your honer?”
“A case of destitution, completely; what the newspapers call 'extermination.'”
“Exactly, sir,—tarnination, and nothing less.”
“But how comes it that you are up here, on that account?”
“I was thinking, sir, if I saw Miss Mary, and could get her to spake a word to the master,—they say she can do what she plazes with him.”
“Indeed!—who says so?”
“The servants' hall says it; and so does Mr. Corrigan's ould butler. He towld me the other day that he hoped he 'd be claning the plate up at the big house before he died.”
“How so?” said Linton, affecting not to catch the intention of the remark.
“Just that he was to be butler at the hall when the master was married to Miss Mary.”
“And so, I suppose, this is very likely to happen?”
“Sure yer honer knows betther than ignorant craytures like us; but faix, if walking about in the moonlight there, among the flowers, and talking together like whisperin', is any sign, I would n't wonder if it came about.”
“Indeed! and they have got that far?”
“Ay, faith!” said Tom, with a significance of look only an Irishman or an Italian can call up.
“Well, I had no suspicion of this,” said Linton, with a frankness meant to invite further confidence.
“An' why would yer honer? Sure was n't it always on the evenings, when the company was all together in the great house, that Mr. Cashel used to steal down here and tie his horse to the wicket, and then gallop back again at full speed, so that the servants towld me he was never missed out of the room!”
“And does she like him,—do they say she likes him?”
“Not like him wid a place such as this!” said Tom, waving his hand towards the wide-spreading fields and woods of the demesne. “Bathershin! sure the Queen of England might be proud of it!”
“Very true,” said Linton, affecting to be struck by the shrewdness of the speaker.
“See, now,” said Tom, who began to feel a certain importance from being listened to, “I know faymales well, and so I ought! but take the nicest, quietest, and most innocent one among them, and by my conscience ye 'll see, 't is money and money's worth she cares for more nor the best man that ever stepped! Tell her 'tis silk she'll be wearin', and goold in her ears, and ye may be as ould and ogly as Tim Hogan at the cross roods!”
“You have n't a good opinion of the fair sex, Thomas,” said Linton, carelessly, for he was far less interested in his speculations than his facts. “Well, as to your own case,—leave that in my hands. I may not have all the influence of Miss Leicester, but I suspect that I can do what you want on this occasion.” And without waiting for the profuse expressions of his gratitude, Linton passed on and entered the garden, through which a little path led directly to the door of the cottage.
“At breakfast, I suppose?” said Linton to the servant who received him.
“The master is, sir; but Miss Mary isn't well this morning.”
“Nothing of consequence, I hope?”
“Only a headache from fatigue, sir.” So saying, he ushered Linton, whose visits were admitted on the most intimate footing, into the room where Mr. Corrigan sat by himself at the breakfast-table.
“Alone, sir!” said Linton as he closed the door behind him, and conveying in his look an air of surprise and alarm.
“Yes, Mr. Linton, almost the only time I remember to have been so for many a year. My poor child has had a night of some anxiety, which, although bearing well at the time, has exacted its penalty at last in a slight attack of fever. It will, I trust, pass over in a few hours; and you,—where have you been; they said you had been absent for a day or two?”
“A very short ramble, sir,—one of business rather than pleasure. I learned suddenly—by a newspaper paragraph, too—that a distant relative of my mother's had died in the East, leaving a considerable amount of property to myself; and so, setting out, I arrived at Limerick, intending to sail for Liverpool, when, who should I meet, almost the first person I saw, but my agent, just come in haste from London, to confer with me on the subject. The meeting was so far agreeable, that it saved me a journey I had no fancy for, and also put me in possession of the desired information regarding the property. My agent, speaking of course from imperfect knowledge, calls it a large—what a man like myself would style—a very large fortune.”
“I give you joy, with all my heart,” cried Corrigan, grasping his hand in both his, and shaking it cordially. “When wealth descends to men who have shown their ability to maintain an honorable station without it, the chances are greatly in favor of its being nobly and generously employed.”
“How I hope that I may not disgrace your theory,” said Linton, “for I am not ashamed to assert that I have fulfilled the first condition of the category. With little else but good birth and a fair education, I had to start in the race against others with every aid of fortune; and if I have not reached a more elevated position, I can say that the obstacle lay rather in my own scruples than my incapacity. I declined Parliamentary life because I would not be a nominee; I had a glancing suspicion that my time would come, too, when, without other check upon my motives than the voice of conscience, I should stand in the British Senate a free and independent member. If I have waited patiently for this hour, I hope I have not abused the leisure interval, and that I may bring to the public service something besides the zeal of one who feels the importance of his trust.”
“There is no failure with intentions pure and honorable as these,” said Corrigan, warmly. “It does not need your talents, Mr. Linton, to insure success in such a path; one half of your ability, so nobly backed, would reach the goal. And now tell me, if I be not indiscreet in asking some of your plans, what place do you mean to stand for?”
“Our good borough of Derraheeny,” said Linton, half smiling. “I am in a measure committed to continue my canvass there, and, indeed, have already entered into securities to keep my pledge. I see these words sound a little mysteriously, but I intend to explain them; only I must ask one favor of you. I hope, before I leave the room, to show that I have, if not a claim upon your generosity, at least a plea to warrant my request. My entreaty is this, that you will never divulge to any one what I shall now tell you.”
“Pray, my dear friend, consider for a moment what you are asking. Why make me the depositary of a secret? An old man, whose very years are like 'fissures in the strong keep,' where mysteries should be imprisoned.”
“Could I participate in your reasonings, my dear sir, there is yet enough in the present instance to make it an exception. This is a matter you ought to know for your sake, and to keep secret for mine.”
“Then you have my promise,” said Corrigan, frankly.
“I 'll be brief with my explanation,” said Linton. “When there was a design, some time back, of my accepting the representation of the borough, Cashel offered me his property of Tubber-beg, on terms which very nearly approached a gift. This—though at the time our relations were those of the closest friendship—I refused; but, as I had made some progress in my canvass of the borough, there was a difficulty in abandoning the position; and so the matter hung, each hoping that the other would suggest some arrangement that might satisfy both. This fortunate device, however, was not to be discovered, and as, for some time back, our intercourse had become gradually less intimate, the chance of such a solution diminished daily.
“In this way the affair stood, when, a couple of mornings since, I felt it my duty, as one who really felt an interest in him, to remonstrate with Roland on a circumstance which, without any affectation of prudery, would have gravely compromised himself, and, worse still, another person. It was a case,—I know not exactly how to touch upon a matter of such delicacy; enough if I say it was one where a persistence in his conduct must have ended in disgrace to him, ruin and misery to another. Poor thing! she is, indeed, to be pitied; and if there be extenuation for such cases, hers is one to claim it. I knew her as Laura Gardiner,—the handsomest creature I ever beheld. Well, well, it is a theme I must not linger on. Cashel, so far from receiving my counsel as I hoped, and indeed expected, resented it with anger and rudeness, and even questioned the degree of intimacy on which I presumed to give my unasked advice.
“I am fortunately a man of cool temper, and so I bore this ungenerous return better than most others might; and seeing that it would possibly be the last occasion I should ever have of giving even unwilling counsel, I spoke to him freely and openly. I told him that his mode of living, while derogatory to the hopes conceived of him, was one that must end at last in ruin; that no fortune could stand his losses at play, and the wasteful extravagance of his caprices. I pressed the matter as strongly as I was able, and represented that his habits bore no reference whatever to his income.
“'It is quite true,' said he, with a sneering tone; 'I cannot readily forget I am chargeable with all these wasteful ways you speak of, nor do I feel that I make any the slightest defence of myself, in regard to habits where my generosity has been as lavish as it has been ill-bestowed.'
“'I wish I knew if I understand you aright,' said I.
“'Your comprehension is of the quickest where there is question of a favor to be received.'
“I did not trust myself with any answer to this speech, which I well knew was a trait of his old buccaneer life. I withdrew, and hastening to his law-agent, Kennyfeck, I at once arranged for the purchase of this small property. The moment for me was propitious; they were in want of ready money, and the treaty was completed the same day. There is the title.”
As he spoke, he threw down the parchment deed upon the table, and lay back in his chair, watching with intense delight the expression of sadness and disappointment on Corrigan's features.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the old man at last, “how deceived I have been in him!”
“I confess that is what wounds me most in the whole transaction,” said Linton, with a mock emotion in his manner. “One is well accustomed through life to meet sordid motives in mere men of the world, and who deem their low-born subtilty cleverness; but to find a young fellow, beginning life with an ample fortune and a fair position, surrounded by all the blandishments that wealth charms up—”
“Hold!” cried Corrigan, laying his hand on Linton's arm, “I cannot bear this. It is not at my age, sir, that disappointments like these can be borne easily. I have too short a time before me here to hope to recover from such shocks.”
“I would not willingly give you pain, my dear sir; nor indeed, is this the topic on which I am most anxious to address you. Another and a very different interest led me hither this morning; and, although I have thought long and maturely on the subject, I am as far as ever from knowing how to approach it. My own unworthiness to what I aspire recoils upon me at every instant, and nothing but the indulgent kindness with which you have always regarded me could give me courage. Forgive me this prolixity; I am like one who fears to plunge, lest he should never rise again.”
“If my estimate of you be correct,” said the old man, laying his hand upon Linton's, “the goal must needs be high to which you dare not aspire.”
“It is indeed so!” cried Linton, as if carried away by an irresistible emotion. “To me it means station, hope, worldly success, happiness,—ay, life itself. I cannot longer tamper with your feelings, nor my own. The ambition of which I speak, is to be your son; not alone in the affectionate love which already I bear you, but by the closest and dearest ties, to be bound to you in the same chain by which she is, who owns all my heart and all my destiny.”
He stopped as if overcome; and Corrigan, compassionating the agitation he seemed to suffer, said,—
“Be calm, my dear friend; this takes me by surprise. I was not in any way prepared for such an announcement; nor have I courage to look at its consequences; poor, old, companionless as I should be—”
“Nay, such cruelty was not in my thoughts. It was with far other intentions I became possessed of the property; it was in the glorious hope that it would be our home,—yours and mine together; not to render your hearth desolate, but to give it another guest, whose duty would be his title to be there.”
“Let me think,—let me reflect on this,—let me separate my own selfish thoughts from the higher ones that should guide me. You have not spoken to my daughter?”
“No, sir; I deemed the more honorable course to have your sanction; or, if not that, to bury my sorrows in silence forever.”
“There is so much to consider, and I am so weak and infirm, so inadequate to decide. Your proposal is a proud one for any girl,—I know it; and we are proud, although poor. Ay, Mr. Linton, poor to very necessity! If her affections were engaged by you, if I saw that your high qualities had made the impression upon her that they have on me, I own this offer would delight me; but can you say this is the case?”
“I hope, sir, I am not indifferent to Miss Leicester. The humble fortune which has restrained me hitherto, and prevented my prosecuting an attachment to which I felt I had no claim, exists no longer. I am independent in means, as in opinion; and, however conscious of my personal unworthiness, in all that regards station and condition I 'm in a position to satisfy you. I only ask your sanction to address Miss Leicester, to know, in fact, that if I should prove acceptable to her, that you will not look unfavorably upon me.”
“This appears most candid and fair on your part; and it is a time when we must both use candor and fairness. Now, Mr. Linton, there are circumstances which at this moment involve me in considerable difficulty; I cannot enter into them just yet; but they may offer grave obstacles to what you propose. I will, therefore, beg of you not to press me for my answer. I see this delay is displeasing—”
“Nay, sir, I am ready to yield to anything you suggest; but is it not possible that my assistance and advice might be of service in these difficulties you speak of?”
“There is another point, Mr. Linton,—and I know you will think better of me for all my frankness. Are your friends—your family I mean—aware of this step of yours? are you certain of their concurrence in it?”
“I have few relatives living, sir,” said Linton, reddening; “but I can answer for their participation in all that so nearly concerns my happiness.”
“This evening, then; come to me this evening, then,” said Mr. Corrigan, “and you shall hear my sentiments.”
“This is most kind; I can ask for nothing more,” said Linton; and, with a most affectionate pressure of the old man's hand, departed.
Mr. Linton, like a large majority of the cunning people in this world, made the mistake of supposing that every one had an “after-thought,”—some secret mental reservation in all he said; that, in fact, no one told “the whole truth” on any subject. Now, judging Mr. Corrigan by this rule, he came to the conclusion that the old gentleman had not received his addresses with all the warmth that might be expected;—possibly, in the hope of a more advantageous offer; possibly, because, in his old Irish pride of family, he had got to learn who this Mr. Linton was, what his connections, and what position they held in the society of their own country.
In this way did Linton read the old man's inquiry as to the “concurrence of his relatives.” It was, to his thinking, a mere subtle attempt to ascertain who and what these same relatives were. “A clever stroke in its way,” thought Tom; “but I am not to be drawn out of my intrenchment so easily. Still, the theme will linger in his mind, and must be got rid of.”
Linton knew well how the influence of rank and title can smooth down difficulties of this kind, and ran over in his mind the names of at least a dozen peers, any one of whom, in such an emergency, would have owned him for a half-brother, or a cousin, at least.
It was provoking to think how many there were, at that dull season, listless and unemployed, who could, were he only able to summon them, stand sponsors to his rank and condition. Measuring Corrigan by what he had witnessed in other men of small fortune and retired lives, he deemed “a lord” was all-essential. Linton had seen a great deal of life, and a great deal of that submissive homage so readily conceded to nobility. A lord, at a wedding, is like a captain in a duel; they are the great ingredients which warrant that these events “come off” properly; they place beyond all cavil or question whatever may occur; and they are the recognizances one enters into with the world that he is “spliced” or shot like a gentleman. It is quite true Linton was above this vulgarity; but he was not above the vulgarity of attributing it to another.
The more he reflected on this, the more did he believe it to be the solution of the whole difficulty. “My kingdom for a lord!” exclaimed he, laughing aloud at the easy gullibility of that world which he had duped so often.
The reader is aware that of the pleasant company of Tub-bermore, Lord Kilgoff was the only representative of the peerage; and to him Linton's thoughts at once resorted as the last hope in his emergency. Of late his Lordship had been gradually mending: clear intervals broke through the mist of his clouded faculties, and displayed him, for the time, in all his wonted self-importance, irritability, and pertinacity. To catch him in one of these fortunate moments was the object, and so induce him to pay a visit to the cottage.
Could he but succeed in this, none better than the old peer to play the part assigned to him. The very qualities to make his society intolerable would be, here, the earnest of success; the imperturbable conceit, the pompous distance of his manner, would repel inquiry, and Linton saw that his oracle would not utter one word more than he ought.
“He will not,—I dare not ask him to call me his relative,” said he; “but I can easily throw a hazy indistinctness over our intimacy. He can be a friend of 'my poor father,'”—Tom laughed at the conceit,—“one who knew me from the cradle. With him for a foreground figure, I 'll soon paint an imaginary group around him, not one of whom shall be less than a marquis.
“With Mary this will not succeed. Laura, indeed, might do me good service in that quarter, but I cannot trust her. Were she more skilled in this world's ways, she would gladly aid me—it would be like drawing the game between us; but she is rash, headlong, and passionate. I doubt if even her fears would control her. And yet I might work well upon these! I have the will, and the way, both; the event shall decide whether I employ them.” With these thoughts passing in his mind he reached the house, and entering unobserved, since they were all at breakfast, repaired to his own room.
He immediately sat down and wrote a few lines to Lord Kilgoff, inquiring with solicitude after his health, and craving the favor of being permitted to wait upon him. This done, he amused himself by inventing a number of little political “gossipries” for the old peer,—those small nothings which form the sweepings of clubs and the whisperings of under-secretaries' offices; the pleasant trifles which every one repeats, but no one believes.
“My Lord will see Mr. Linton whenever he pleases,” was the answer of the valet; and Linton lost no time in availing himself of the permission.
“His Lordship is at breakfast?” said he to the servant, as he walked along.
“Yes, sir.”
“And her Ladyship?”
“My Lady breakfasts below stairs, sir.”
“As it ought to be; he is alone,” thought Linton, who, in his present incertitude of purpose, had no desire to meet her.
“If you 'll have the goodness to wait a moment, sir, I 'll tell my Lord you are here,” said the man, as he ushered Linton into a handsome drawing-room, which various scattered objects denoted to be her Ladyship's.
As Linton looked over the table, where books, drawings, and embroidery were negligently thrown, his eye caught many an object he had known long, long before; and there came over him, ere he knew it, a strange feeling of melancholy. The past rushed vividly to his mind,—that time when, sharing with her all his ambitions and his hopes, he had lived in a kind of fairy world. He turned over the leaves of her sketch-book,—she had done little of late,—an unfinished bit, here and there, was all he found; and he sat gazing at the earlier drawings, every one of which he remembered. There was one of an old pine-tree scathed by lightning, at the top, but spreading out, beneath, into a light and feathery foliage, beneath which they had often sat together. A date in pencil had been written at the foot, but was now erased, leaving only enough to discover where it had been. Linton's breathing grew hurried, and his pale cheek paler, as with his head resting on his hands he sat, bent over this. “I was happier, then,” said he, with a sigh that seemed to rise from his very heart,—“far happier! But would it have lasted? that is the question. Would mere love have compensated for thwarted ambition, delusive hope, and poverty? How should I have borne continued reverses?”
The door opened, and Lady Kilgoff entered; not seeing him, nor expecting any one in the apartment, she was humming an opera air, when suddenly she perceived him.
“Mr. Linton here? This is a surprise indeed!” exclaimed she, as, drawing herself proudly up, she seemed to question the reason of his presence.
“I beg you will forgive an intrusion which was not of my seeking. I came to pay my respects to Lord Kilgoff, and his servant showed me into this chamber until his Lordship should be ready to receive me.”
“Won't you be seated, sir?” said she, with an accent which it would be difficult to say whether it implied an invitation or the opposite.
Few men had more self-possession than Linton, fewer still knew better how to construe a mere accent, look, or a gesture; and yet, he stood now, uncertain and undecided how to act. Meanwhile Lady Kilgoff, arranging the frame of her embroidery, took her seat near the window.
“Penelope must have worked in Berlin wool, I 'm certain,” said Linton, as he approached where she sat. “These wonderful tissues seem never to finish.”
“In that lies their great merit,” replied she, smiling; “it is sometimes useful to have an occupation whose monotony disposes to thought, even when the thoughts themselves are not all pleasurable.”
“I should have fancied that monotony would dispose to brooding,” said he, slowly.
“Perhaps it may, now and then,” said she, carelessly. “Life, like climate, should not be all sunshine;” and then, as if wishing to change the theme, she added, “you have been absent a day or two?”
“Yes; an unexpected piece of fortune has befallen me. I find myself the heir of a considerable property, just as I have reached that point in life when wealth has no charm for me! There was a time when—but, no matter; regrets are half-brother to cowardice.”
“We can no more help one than the other, occasionally,” said she, with a faint sigh; and both were silent for some time.
“Is not that tulip somewhat too florid?” said he, stooping over her embroidery.
“That tulip is a poppy, Mr. Linton.”
“What a natural mistake, after all!” said he. “How many human tulips who not only look like, but are downright poppies! Is not this house intolerably stupid?”
“I 'm ashamed to own I think it pleasant,” said she, smiling.
“You were more fastidious once, if my memory serves me aright,” said he, meaningly.
“Perhaps so,” said she, carelessly. “I begin to fancy that odd people are more amusing than clever ones; and certainly they entertain without an effort, and that is an immense gain.”
“Do you think so? I should have supposed the very effort would have claimed some merit, showing that the desire to please had prompted it.”
“My Lord will see Mr. Linton at present,” said the servant.
Linton nodded, and the man withdrew.
“How long ago is it since you made this sketch?” said he, opening the book, as if accidentally, at the page with the pine-tree.
She turned, and although her bent-down head concealed her features, Linton saw the crimson flush spread over the neck as she answered, “About three years ago.”
“Scarcely so much,” said he. “If I mistake not, I wrote the date myself beneath it; but it has worn out.”
“You will excuse my reminding you, Mr. Linton, that Lord Kilgoff has not regained his habitual patience, and will be very irritable if you defer a pleasure such as a visit from you always affords him.”
“Happy conjuncture,” said he, smiling, “that can make my presence desired in one quarter, when my absence is wished for in another.” And with a low, respectful bow, he left the room.
Whatever the object of the hint, Lady Kilgoff had not exaggerated his Lordship's deficiency in the Job-like element, and Linton found him, on entering, interrogating the servant as to whether he “had conveyed his message properly, and what answer he had received.”
“That will do; leave the room,” said he. Then turning to Linton, “I have waited twelve minutes, sir,—nearly thirteen,—since my servant informed you I would receive you.”
“I am exceedingly sorry, my Lord, to have occasioned you even a moment of impatience. I was mentioning to Lady Kilgoff a circumstance of recent good fortune to myself, and I grieve that my egotism should have mastered my sense of propriety.”
“Twelve minutes, or thirteen, either, may seem a very unimportant fraction of time to men of mere pleasure, but to those whose weightier cares impose graver thoughts, is a very considerable inroad, sir.”
“I know it, my Lord. I feel it deeply, and I beg you to excuse me.”
“Life is too short, at least in its active period, to squander twelve minutes, Mr. Linton; and however you, in your station, and with your pursuits, may deem otherwise, I would wish to observe, that persons in mine think differently.”
Linton looked a perfect statue of contrition, nor did he utter another word. Perhaps he felt that continuing the discussion would be but an indifferent mode of compensating for the injury already incurred.
“And now, Mr. Linton, I conclude that it was not without a reason you sought an interview at this unusual hour.”
“The old story, my Lord; and as I came to ask a favor, I selected the petit lever as the most appropriate hour.”
“Indeed! you surprise me much how an individual so much forgotten as Lord Kilgoff can possibly be of service to that most promising gentleman, Mr. Linton!”
Linton never heeded the sarcastic discontent of the speech, but went on,—
“Yes, my Lord, you find me, as you have so often found me, a suppliant.”
“I have nothing to bestow, sir.”
“You can do all that I could ask, or even wish for, my Lord. My ambition is not very unmeasured; my greatest desire is to have the opportunity of frequent intercourse with you, and the benefit of that practical wisdom for which your Lordship s conversation is distinguished at home and abroad.”
“My valet is not going to leave me,” said the old man, with an insolence of look that tallied with the rude speech.
“My Lord!—”
“Nay, nay, you must not be offended; I was rather jesting on my own barrenness of patronage than upon your proposal.”
Linton saw by the slight advantage he had gained that the bold course was the more promising, and continued:—
“You will soon have a great deal of business on your hands, my Lord, and so, I will economize your time and your patience. You have not heard, I am aware, that Dollington has been recalled. The mission at Florence is to give away, and I am here to ask for the secretaryship. I know well that the appointment is a Foreign-Office one; but Blackwell, who gives me the present information, says, 'If you have interest with Kilgoff, push it now; his recommendation will, I know, be attended to.' He then goes on to say that Dollington is most anxious to know if you would take his house off his hands. He has been furnishing and arranging the interior most expensively, never dreaming of a recall.”
“When did this news come?” said Lord Kilgoff, sitting down and wiping his forehead, on which the perspiration now stood, from agitation.
“Yesterday. Blackwell sent a cabinet messenger to me, but with the strictest injunctions to secrecy. In fact, the rumor would call so many suitors in the field, that the Foreign Office would be besieged.”
“You can rely upon it, however?”
“Unquestionably. Blackwell writes me that the thing is done. You will receive the offer immediately after the recess.”
“You acted very properly, I must say,—very properly, indeed, in giving me this early notice of his Majesty's gracious intentions with regard to me; the more, as I shall have time to consider how far my views upon questions of foreign politics are in agreement with those of the Government.”
“Upon that point your Lordship's mind may be at rest. I gather from Blackwell that you will receive the widest discretion. The Secretary of State has named you as the man; of course interference is out of the question.”
“Of course it would be, sir, were I to accept the mission. Dollington's house, I conclude, is a suitable one, and we 'll think of it; and as to yourself, Linton, I really am at a loss what to say. Lady Kilgoff—it is best to be candid—is prejudiced against you. She thinks you satirical and sarcastic, as if,”—and here he raised his head, and threw forward his chin with most imposing dignity,—“as if the person who bore my name need fear such qualities anywhere; but besides this, it appears to me that your abilities are not diplomatic. You have neither that natural reserve nor that suave impressiveness 'the line' requires. You are a Club man,-and will probably make a very good House of Commons man; but diplomacy, Mr. Linton,—diplomacy is a high, I had almost said a sacred vocation! To all the prestige of family and ancient lineage must be added the most insinuating graces of manner. Personal advantages should be combined with a high cultivation, so that the Envoy may worthily mirror forth the Majesty he represents. It would be an inestimable benefit if the Eastern principle of 'caste' were observed in diplomacy, and the office of Ambassador be limited to certain families! Believe me, sir, you may say of such, 'Nascitur non fit.'”
As he spoke, his eyes flashed, and his cheek became flushed; the flutter of self-importance gave a fresh impulse to his circulation, and he walked back and forward in a perfect ecstasy of delight.
“Alas, my Lord! you have made me feel too deeply the presumption of my request. I confess, till I had listened to your eloquent exposition, I had formed other and very erroneous ideas upon this subject. I see, now, that I am quite unsuited to the career. The very fact that it becomes your Lordship is evidence enough how unfitted it would prove to me.”
“I will not say, that in Greece, or perhaps with some republican government, you might not be very eligible. We'll consider about it.”
“No, no, my Lord; I'll content myself with more humble fortunes. I suppose there is always a place for every capacity; and now, to a matter purely personal to myself, and in which, I hope, I may count upon your kind co-operation. I have thoughts of marriage, my Lord, and as I am a stranger in this country, unconnected with it by kindred or connection, I would ask of you to give me that sanction and currency which the honor of your Lordship's friendship confers. The lady upon whom I have fixed my choice is without fortune, but of a family which traces back to royalty, I fancy. This Irish pride of lineage, then, requires that I, upon my side, should not be deficient in such pretensions.”
“I am not a Clarencieux, nor Norroy, sir, to make out your genealogy,” said the old peer, with ineffable disdain.
Linton had more difficulty to control his laughter than his anger at this impertinent absurdity. “I was not thinking of 'the tree,' my Lord, but its last and most insignificant twig, myself; and, remembering how many kindnesses I owed you, how uniformly your patronage had befriended me through life, I still reckon upon the feeling to serve me once more.”
“Be explicit. What do you ask?” said he, leaning back and looking like a monarch whose will was half omnipotence.
“What I should like, my Lord, is this,—that you would permit me to drive you over some morning to the gentleman's house, where, presenting the family to your Lordship, I might, while enjoying the sanction of your intimacy and friendship, also obtain your opinion upon the merits of one with whom I would link my humble destinies. I have said that the lady has no fortune; but your Lordship has shown the noble example of selecting for far higher and more ennobling qualities than wealth.” This was said with a spice of that subdued raillery of which Linton was a master; and he saw, with delight, how the old peer winced under it.
“Very true, sir; your remark is just, except that the disparity between our conditions does not give the instance the force of example; nor am I certain the experiment will be always successful!” The irritation under which the last words were uttered spread a triumphant joy through Linton's heart, nor dare he trust himself to speak, lest he should reveal it!
“Perhaps a letter, Mr. Linton, would answer your object. It appears to me that the condescension of a visit is a step too far in advance. You are aware that, in a day or two, as his Majesty's representative, etiquette would require that I should never make the initiative in acquaintance.”
“Pardon my interrupting, my Lord; but that rule will only apply to you at the seat of your mission. Here, you have no other distinction than of being the well-known leader of the Irish peerage,—the great head of an illustrious body, who look up to you for guidance and direction.”
“You are right, perhaps, sir,—my station is what you have described it. I trust you have not mentioned to Lady Kilgoff anything of your Foreign-Office news?”
“Of course not, my Lord. It will always remain with your discretion when and how to make the communication.”
“It appears to me, sir, that her Ladyship has admitted many of the inmates here to a degree of intimacy quite inconsistent with their relative stations.”
“Her Ladyship's youth and amiability of manner offer great temptations to the inroads of obtrusiveness,” said Linton, with the air of one thinking aloud.
“I disagree with you, sir, entirely. I was young myself, sir, and, I am told, not quite destitute of those attractions you speak of; but I am not aware that any one ever took a liberty with me! This must be looked to. And now, your affair? When is it to come off? Your marriage, I mean?”
“That is by no means so certain, my Lord,” said Linton, who smiled in spite of himself at the careless tone in which his Lordship treated so very humble an event. “I may reckon on your Lordship's assistance, however?”
Lord Kilgoff waved his hand in token of acquiescence, and Linton took a formal leave, almost bursting with laughter at the ridiculous conceit he had himself contributed to create.
“Ay,” muttered he, as he descended the stairs, “as a democrat, an out-and-out democrat, I say, 'Long live' an Hereditary Peerage! 'I know nothing can equal it, in making the untitled classes the rulers.”