While the gay company at Tubbermore dined sumptuously, and enjoyed the luxuries of a splendid table with no other alloy to their pleasure than the ennui of people whose fastidiousness has grown into malady, Mr. Corrigan sat in council at the cottage with his ancient ally, the doctor. There was an appearance of constraint over each,—very unusual with men who had been friends from boyhood; and in their long pauses, and short, abrupt sentences, might be read the absence of that confiding spirit which had bound them so many years like brothers.
It may be in the reader's recollection that while Corrigan was pledged to secrecy by Linton respecting his revelations of Cashel, Tiernay was equally bound by Roland not to divulge any of his plans for the old man's benefit. Perhaps it was the first time in the life of either that such a reserve had been practised. Certainly it weighed heavily upon both; and more than once they were coming to the fatal resolve to break their vows, and then some sudden thought—some unknown dread of disconcerting the intentions of those who trusted them—would cross their mind, and after a momentary struggle, a half cough, and muttered “Well! well!” they would relapse into silence, each far too occupied by himself to note the other's embarrassment.
It was after a long time and much thought that Corrigan perceived, however pledged to Linton not to speak of Cashel's conduct respecting the cottage, that he was in no wise bound to secrecy regarding the proposal for Mary Leicester's hand; and this was, indeed, the topic on which he was most desirous of the doctor's counsel.
“I have a secret for you, Tiernay,” said the old man, at length; “and it is one which will surprise you. I have had an offer this morning for Mary! Ay; just so. You often told me that nothing but this life of isolation and retirement would have left her with me so long; but the thought of losing her—the tangible, actual dread—never presented itself before this day!”
“Who is it?” said Tiernay, shortly, but not without evident agitation of manner.
“One who has never enjoyed much of your favor, Tiernay, and whom I suspect you have judged with less than your habitual fairness.”
“I know the man. Linton?”
“It was Linton.”
“And he actually made this proposition?” said Tiernay, with an expression of the most unbounded surprise in his features.
“To me, myself, in this room, he made it.”
“He asked you what her fortune would be?” said Tiernay, gruffly.
“He did not; he told me of his own. He said, that by a recent event he had become possessed of sufficient property to make him indifferent to the fortune of whoever he might marry. He spoke sensibly and well of his future career, of the plans he had conceived, and the rules he made for his own guidance; he spoke warmly of her with whom he wished to share his fortunes; and lastly, he alluded in kind terms to myself, dependent as I am upon her care, and living as I do upon her affection. In a word, if there was not the ardor of a passionate lover, there was what I augur better from,—the sentiments of one who had long reflected on his own position in life, who knew the world well, and could be no mean guide amid its dangers and difficulties.”
“Have you told Mary of this?”
“I have not. My answer to Linton was: 'Let me have time to think over this proposal; give me some hours of thought before I even speak to my granddaughter;' and he acceded at once.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Tiernay, rising, and pacing the room. “How inadequate are we two old men—removed from intercourse with the world, neither players nor lookers-on at the game of life—to cope with one like him, and see what he purposes to himself by this alliance! As for his affection, as for his power to feel her worth, to estimate the gentle virtues of her spotless nature, I cannot, I will not believe it.”
“And for that very reason are you unfit to judge him. Your prejudices, ever against him, are rendered stronger because you cannot divine motives black enough to suit your theory; you give the benefit of all your doubts against himself.”
“I know him to be a gambler in its worse sense. Not one who plays even for the gratification of those alternating vacillations of hope and fear which jaded, worn-out natures resort to as the recompense for blunted emotions and blasted ambitions, but a gambler for gain!—that foul amalgam of the miser and the knave. I 've seen him play the sycophant, too, like one who studied long his part, and knew it thoroughly. No, no, Con, it is not one like this must be husband of Mary!”
“I tell you again, Tiernay, you suffer your prejudices to outrun all your prudence. The very fact that he asks in marriage a portionless girl, without influence from family, and without the advantage of station, should outweigh all your doubts twice told.”
“This does but puzzle me,—nothing more,” said Tiernay, doggedly. “Were it Cashel, that high-hearted, generous youth, who made this offer—”
“I must stop you, Tiernay; you are as much at fault in your over-estimate of one as in your disparagement of the other. Cashel is not what you deem him. Ask me not how I know it. I cannot, I dare not tell you; it is enough that I do know it, and know it by the evidence of my own eyes.”
“Then they have deceived you, that's all,” said Tiernay, roughly; “for I tell you, and I speak now of what my own knowledge can sustain, that he is the very soul of generosity,—a generosity that would imply recklessness, if not guided by the shrinking delicacy of an almost girlish spirit.”
“Tiernay, Tiernay, you are wrong, I say,” cried Corrigan, passionately.
“And I say it is you who are in error,” said Tiernay. “It was but this morning I held in my hands—” He stopped, stammered, and was silent.
“Well,” cried Corrigan, “go on,—not that, indeed, you could convince me against what my eyes have assured; for here, upon this table, I beheld—”
“Out with it, man! Tell what jugglery has been practised on you, for I see you have been duped.”
“Hush! here 's Mary!” cried Corrigan, who, scarcely able to control himself, now walked the room in great agitation.
“You were talking so loud,” said Mary, “that I guessed you were quarrelling about politics, and so I came to make peace.”
“We were not, Mary; but Tiernay is in one of his wrong-head humors.”
“And your grandfather in the silliest of his foolish ones!” exclaimed Tiernay, as, snatching up his hat he left the cottage.
It might be thought that in a household so full of contrarieties as Tubbermore, any new plan of pleasure would have met but a meagre success. Here, were the Kilgoffs, upon one side, full of some secret importance, and already speaking of the uncertainty of passing the spring in Ireland. There, were the Kennyfecks, utterly disorganized by intestine troubles,—mother, aunt, and daughters at open war, and only of one mind for some few minutes of each day, when they assailed the luckless Kennyfeck as the “author of all evil;” Frobisher, discontented that no handicap could be “got up,” to remunerate him for the weariness of his exile; Upton, suffering under the pangs of rejection; Sir Andrew, reduced to a skeleton by the treatment against his unhappy opiate, being condemned, as “Jim” phrased it, to “two heavy sweats without body-clothes, and a drench every day;” Meek, grown peevish at the little prospect of making anything of Cashel politically; and Cashel himself, hipped and bored by all in turn, and wearied of being the head of a house where the only pleasantry existed in the servants' hall,—and they were all rogues and thieves who made it.
It might be easily supposed these were not the ingredients which would amalgamate into any agreeable union, and that even a suggestion to that end would meet but few supporters.
Not so; the very thought of doing “anything” was a relief: each felt, perhaps, his share of shame at the general ennui, and longed for whatever gave a chance of repelling it. It was as in certain political conditions in seasons of general stagnation,—men are willing even to risk a revolution rather than continue in a state of unpromising monotony.
Linton, whose own plans required that the others should be full of occupation of one kind or other, was the first to give the impulse, by reminding Miss Meek that her sovereignty had, up to this time, been a dead letter.
“You have positively done nothing,” said he, “since your accession. Here we are, all ready to do your bidding, only waiting for the shadow of a wish on your part. There is no obstacle anywhere; pray let us commence a series of such right royal festivities as shall cause the envy of every other sovereign in Christendom.”
“I 'm sure I wish for nothing better; but nobody minds me,” said she, pouting.
“What shall be the opening, then?” said Linton, taking a sheet of paper, and seating himself, in all form, to write. “A masquerade?”
“By all means! A masquerade!” exclaimed a dozen voices; and at once a large circle gathered round the table where he sat.
“Does the country afford materials for one?” asked Jennings.
“Oh, dear, yes!” sighed Meek; “you could gather a great many important people here by a little management.”
“I 'll tell Macnevin, wha commands at Limerick, to send ye every officer wha is n't under arrest,” said Sir Andrew,—a speech received with great favor by various young ladies unknown to the reader.
Every one who knew anything of the three neighboring counties was at once summoned to form part of a select committee to name those who ought to be invited. The Chief Justice was acquainted with the principal persons, from his having gone circuit; but then, those he mentioned were rarely of the stamp to add lustre or brilliancy to a fancy ball,—indeed, as Linton whispered, “The old judge had either hanged or transported all the pleasant fellows.”
The Infantry men from Limerick were familiar with every pretty girl of that famed capital and its environs for some miles round; and as exclusiveness was not to be the rule, a very imposing list was soon drawn up.
Then came the question of receiving so large a party, and each vied with his neighbor in generous sacrifices of accommodation; even Downie vouchsafed to say that the noise would be terrible, “but one ought to submit to anything to give pleasure to his friends.”
The theatre should be the ball-room; the two drawing-rooms and the library would offer space for the company to promenade; the buffet stand in the dining-room; and supper be served in the great conservatory, which, with its trellised vines all studded with lights disposed as stars, would have a new and beautiful effect.
Sir Andrew promised two military bands, and unmarried officers à discrétion.
Devoted offers of assistance poured in from every side. Foraging parties were “told off” to shoot snipe and woodcocks without ceasing; and Frobisher was to ply with a four-in-hand—of Cashel's horses—to and from Limerick every day, carrying every body and every thing that was wanting.
All the servants of the guests, as well as of the house, were to be attired in a costume which, after some discussion, was decided to be Spanish.
Unlimited facilities were to be at the disposal of all, for whatever they pleased to order. Mrs. White sat down to write to Paris for an envoy of moss-roses and camellias, with a postscript from Upton on the subject of red partridges and foie gras.
Jennings dictated a despatch to Mayence for two cases of Steinberger; and Howie took notes of all for a series of papers which, in four different styles, were to appear in four periodicals simultaneously.
As each guest was at full liberty to invite some half-dozen friends, there was quite an excitement in comparing lists with each other, and speculations innumerable as to the dress and character they would appear in, for all were mysterious upon that head.
“But whar is Maister Cashel all this time?” said Sir Andrew; “methinks it wud na be vara polite na to hae his opinion upon a' this, syne he must gie the siller for it.”
“He's playing chess with Lady Kilgoff in the boudoir,” said Jennings.
“Tell Kennyfeck,” said Frobisher; “that's quite enough! Cashel calls everything where money enters, business, and hates it, in consequence.”
“Oh, dear! I'm precisely of his mind, then,” sighed Meek, caressing his whiskers.
“Kilgoff will not remain, you 'll see,” said Upton. “He is not pleased with my Lady's taste for close intimacy.”
“The Kennyfecks are going to-morrow or next day,” said another.
“So they have been every day this last week; but if some of you gentlemen will only be gallant enough to give a good reason for remaining, they 'll not stir.” This was spoken by Lady Janet in her tartest of voices, and with a steady stare at Upton, who stroked his moustaches in very palpable confusion. “Yes, Sir Harvey,” continued she, “I 'm perfectly serious, and Mr. Linton, I perceive, agrees with me.”
“As he always does, Lady Janet, when he desires to be in the right,” said Linton, bowing.
“Aw—I, aw—I did n't think it was so easy in that quarter, aw!” said Jennings, in a low semi-confidential tone.
“I 'll insure you for a fair premium, Jennings, if you have any fancy that way.”
“Aw, I don't know,—concern looks hazardous,—ha, ha, ha!—don't you think so?” But as nobody joined in his laughter, he resumed, in a lower voice, “There, Upton 's very spooney indeed about one of them.”
“It's the aunt,” said Linton,—“a very fine woman, too; what the French call beauté sévère; but classical, quite classical.”
“Confounded old harridan!” muttered Upton, between his teeth; “I 'd not take her with Rothschild's bank at her disposal.”
All this little chit-chat was a thing got up by Linton, while stationing himself in a position to watch Cashel and Lady Kilgoff, who sat, at a chess-table, in an adjoining room. It needed not Linton's eagle glance to perceive that neither was attentive to the game, but that they were engaged in deep and earnest conversation. Lady Kilgoff's back was towards him, but Roland's face he could see clearly, and watch the signs of anger and impatience it displayed.
“A little more noise and confusion here,” thought Linton, “and they 'll forget that they 're not a hundred miles away;” and, acting on this, he set about arranging the company in various groups; and while he disposed a circle of very fast-talking old ladies, to discuss rank and privileges in one corner, he employed some others in devising a character quadrille, over which Mrs. White was to preside; and then, seating a young lady at the piano,—one of those determined performers who run a steeple-chase through waltz, polka, and mazurka, for hours uninterruptedly,—he saw that he had manufactured a very pretty chaos “off-hand.”
While hurrying hither and thither, directing, instructing, and advising every one, he contrived also, as it were by mere accident, to draw across the doorway of the boudoir the heavy velvet curtain that performed the function of a door. The company were far too busied in their various occupations to remark this; far less was it perceived by Lady Kilgoff or Roland. Nobody knew better than Linton how to perform the part of fly-wheel to that complicated engine called society; he could regulate its pace to whatever speed he pleased; and upon this occasion he pushed the velocity to the utmost; and, by dint of that miraculous magnetism by which men of warm imagination and quick fancy inspire their less susceptible neighbors, he spread the contagion of his own merry humor, and converted the drawing-room into a scene of almost riotous gayety.
“They want no more leadership now,” said he, and slipped from the room and hastened towards the library, where sat Lord Kilgoff, surrounded by folios of Grotius and Puffendorf,—less, indeed, for perusal and study than as if inhaling the spirit of diplomatic craft from their presence.
“Nay, my Lord, this is too much,” said he, entering with a smile; “some relaxation is really necessary. Pray come and dissipate a little with us in the drawing-room.”
“Don't lose my place, however,” said he, smiling far more graciously than his wont. “I was just considering that assertion of Grotius, wherein be lays it down that 'a river is always objectionable as a national boundary.' I dissent completely from the doctrine. A river has all the significance of a natural frontier. It is the line of demarcation drawn from the commencement of the world between different tracts, and at once suggests separation.”
“Very true, my Lord; I see your observation in all its justice. A river, in the natural world, is like the distinguishing symbol of rank in the social, and should ever be a barrier against unwarrantable intrusion.”
Lord Kilgoff smiled, tapped his snuff-box, and nodded, as though to say, “Continue.” Linton understood the hint in this wise, and went on,—
“And yet, my Lord, there is reason to fear that, with individuals as with nations, these demarcations are losing their prestige. What people call enlightenment and progress, nowadays, is the mere negation of these principles.”
“Every age has thrown some absurd theory to the surface, sir,” said Lord Kilgoff, proudly; “Southcotians, Mormons, and Radicals among the rest. But truth, sir, has always the ascendency in the long run. Facts cannot be sneered down; and the Pyrenees and the English peerage are facts, Mr. Linton,—and similar facts, too!”
Linton looked like one who divided himself between rebuke and conviction,—submissive, but yet satisfied.
“Give me your arm, Linton; I'm still very far from strong,—this place disagrees with me. I fancy the air is rheumatic, and I am impatient to get away; but the fact is, I have been lingering in the hope of receiving some tidings from the Foreign Office, which I had rather would reach me here than at my own house.”
“Precisely, my Lord; the request, then, has the air—I mean it shows you have been sought after by the Minister, and solicited to take office when not thinking of the matter yourself.”
“Quite so; I open the despatch, as it may be, at the breakfast-table, jocularly observing that it looks official, eh?”
“Exactly, my Lord; you even surmise that it may prove an appointment you have solicited for one of your numerous protégés,—something in the Colonies, or the 'troop,' without purchase, in the Blues?”
Lord Kilgoff laughed—for him, heartily—at Linton's concurrence in his humor, and went on,—
“And when I open it, Linton, and read the contents, eh?”
Here he paused, as if asking what effect his astute friend would ascribe to such pleasant tidings.
“I think I see your Lordship throw the heavy packet from you with a 'pshaw!' of disappointment; while you mutter to your next neighbor, 'I have been warding off this these two or three last years; but there's no help for it: the King insists upon my taking the mission at Florence!'”
“I must say, Mr. Linton, your conjecture strikes me as strained and unnatural. The appointment to represent my august master at the court of Tuscany might be a worthy object of my ambition. I cannot agree with the view you take of it.”
Linton saw that he had “charged too far,” and hastened to secure his retreat.
“I spoke, my Lord, rather with reference to your regret at quitting the scenes of your natural influence at home, of withdrawing from this distracted country the high example of your presence, the wisdom of your counsels, the munificence of your charity. These are sad exports at such a time as this!”
Lord Kilgoflf sighed, he sighed heavily; he knew Ireland had gone through many trials and afflictions, but the dark future which Linton pictured had never presented itself so full of gloom before. He doubtless felt that when he left the ship she would not long survive the breakers; and, sunk in these reveries, he walked along at Linton's side till they gained the picture-gallery, at one extremity of which lay the boudoir we have spoken of.
“Poor things, my Lord!” said Linton, shrugging his shoulders as he passed along, and casting a contemptuous glance at the apocryphal Vandykes and Murillos around, and for whose authenticity he had himself, in nearly every case, been the guarantee.
Lord Kilgoff gave a fleeting look at them, but said nothing; and Linton, to occupy time, went on,—
“New men, like our friend here, should never aspire above the Flemish school. Your Cuyps, and Hobbemas, and Vanderveldes are easily understood, and their excellences are soon learned. Even Mieris and Gerard Dow are open to such connoisseurship; but, to feel the calm nobility of a Velasquez, the sublime dignity of a Vandyck, or the glorious intellectuality of a Titian portrait, a man must be a born gentleman, in its most exalted signification. What a perfect taste your collection at Kilgoff displays! All Spanish or Venetian, if I mistake not.”
“Are we not like to disturb a tête-à-tête, Linton?” said Lord Kilgoff, nudging his friend's arm, and laughing slyly, as he pointed through the large frame of plate-glass that formed a door to the boudoir.
“By Jove!” said Linton, in a low whisper, “and so we were; you are always thoughtful, my Lord!”
“You know the adage, Linton, 'An old poacher makes the best gamekeeper!' Ha, ha, ha!”
“Ah, my Lord! I have heard as much of you. But who can they be?”
“We shall soon see, for it is always better in these cases to incur the rudeness of interruption than the meanness of espionage;” and so saying, Lord Kilgoff opened the door and entered. Although in so doing the noise he made might easily have attracted notice, the chess-players, either deep in their preoccupation, or habituated to the uproar of the drawing-room, paid no attention, so that it was only as he exclaimed “Lady Kilgoff!” that both started, and beheld him, as, pale with passion, he stood supporting himself on the back of a chair.
“Pray don't stir, sir; be seated, I beg,” said he, addressing Cashel, in a voice that shook with anger; “my interruption of your game was pure accident.”
“No apologies, my Lord; we are both but indifferent players,” said Cashel, smiling, but yet very far from at ease.
“Your seclusion at least bespeaks the interest you feel in the game. Mr. Linton and I can vouch—” (Here his Lordship turned to call his witness; but he had left the court, or, more properly speaking, had never entered it.)
“Linton here?” said Lady Kilgoff, in a voice which, though scarce a whisper, was actually thrilling in the intensity of its meaning.
“I hope, sir, when you have lived somewhat more in the world, you will learn that the first duty of a host is not to compromise a guest.”
“I am most willing to be taught by your Lordship's better knowledge; but if I am to benefit by the lesson in the present case, it must be more clearly expressed,” said Cashel, calmly.
“As for you, madam,” said Lord Kilgoff, “I cannot compliment you on the progress you have made in acquiring the habits and instincts of 'your order.'”
“My Lord!” exclaimed she; and then, with a countenance wherein rebuke and entreaty were blended, she stopped.
“I am aware, sir, what éclat young gentlemen nowadays derive from the supposed preference of individuals of exalted rank; and I hope that your vanity may be most in fault here.”
“My Lord, one word,—only one,” said Cashel, eagerly; “I am sadly afflicted with the infirmity of hot temper, which never gives way more surely, nor more suddenly, than when accused wrongfully. Such is your Lordship doing at present. I would entreat you not to say what a very little calm reflection will call upon you to retract.”
“This concerns me, sir, most of all,” said Lady Kilgoff, rising, and drawing herself proudly up. “These unworthy suspicions had never occurred to you had they not been prompted; but you might have believed that when I sacrificed all I have done for that rank of which so incessantly you remind me, that I would not rashly hazard the position for which I paid so dearly. Let us leave this now, my Lord; Mr. Cashel can scarcely desire a presence that has so ungratefully rewarded his hospitality, and I, at least, shall be spared the mortification of meeting one who has been a witness to such an outrage.”
“This is not to end here, sir,” said Lord Kilgoff, in a whisper to Cashel, who, more intent upon the words Lady Kilgoff had just uttered, carelessly answered,—
“As you will.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Cashel,” said she, holding out her hand; “I wish I was leaving a better souvenir behind me than the memory of this last scene.”
“I will never remember it, madam,” said Cashel; “but I would beg that you may not let an incident so trivial, so perfectly devoid of everything like importance, hasten your going. Nothing save malevolence and calumny could suggest any other impression, and I would beseech you not to favor, by such a step as a hasty departure, the malice that scandal-lovers may circulate.”
“This is matter for my consideration, sir,” said Lord Kilgoflf, haughtily; while, drawing Lady Kilgoffs arm within his own, he made a vigorous attempt to move away with dignity.
Cashel was in no mood to join his company after such a scene, and hastening upstairs, he entered his dressing-room. What was his surprise to see that Linton was seated in an easy-chair, before the fire, enjoying a cigar and a new novel, with all the cool negligence of his unruffled nature.
“At last!” cried he, as Cashel entered. “I have been waiting here most impatiently to know how you got through it.”
“Through what!—how—what do you mean?”
“That affair with Kilgoff. I slipped away when I saw that he would enter the boudoir, after having coughed and sneezed like a grampus, in the hope of attracting your attention; but you were so confoundedly engrossed by my Lady's agreeability,—so excessively tender—”
“Linton, I must stop you at once. I may barter some of my own self-respect for quietness' sake, and let you talk this way of me, but you shall not do so of another.”
“Hang it, man, she is an older friend than yourself. I have known her these seven years—as little more than a child.”
“Your friendship would seem a costly blessing, if you understand its duties always in this fashion.”
“I hope it will admit of a little frankness, at all events,” said he, affecting a laugh. “It will be too bad if you both fall out with me for watching over your interests.”
“I don't understand you.”
“I will be plain enough. I have seen for many a day back what has been going on. I perceived the very commencement of the mischief, when probably neither she nor you dreamed of it; and, resigning all the esteem that years had cemented between us, I spoke to her. Ay, Roland, I told her what would happen. I said that qualities like yours could not be brought every day into contrast with those of poor Kilgoff without most unhappy comparisons. I explained to her, that if she did form an attachment to you, it could not be one of those passing flirtations that an easy code of fashion admits and sanctions; that you were a fellow whose generous nature could never descend to such heartless levity, and that there was no sacrifice of position and prospect you would hesitate to make for a woman that loved you; and I asked her flatly, would she bring such ruin upon you? The greater fool myself; I ought to have known better. She not only refused to listen to me, but actually resented my at-tempted kindness by actual injury. I don't want to speak for myself here, so I 'll hasten on. It was all but a cut between us, for months before we met here. You may remember, in Dublin, we rarely even spoke to each other; we, who once had been like brother and sister!
“Well, before she was a week here, I saw that the danger I had dreaded so long was hourly becoming more imminent. You, very possibly, had not a serious thought upon the matter, but she had actually fallen in love! I suppose you must have played hero, at that shipwreck, in some very chivalrous fashion; however it was, my Lady had lost her heart, precisely at the same time that his Lordship had lost his head,—leaving you, I conjecture, in a very awkward dilemma. Seeing there was no time to lose, and resolving to sacrifice myself to save her, I made one more effort. I'll not weary you with a narrative of my eloquence, nor repeat any of the ten-thousand-and-one reasons I gave for her shunning your society, and, if need were, leaving your house. The whole ended as I ought to have foreseen it would,—in an open breach between us; she candidly avowing that she would be my deadly enemy through life, and even procure a personal rupture between you and me, if pushed to it, by my 'impertinent importunity,' so she called it. I own to you I was completely dumfounded by this. I knew that she had courage for anything, and that, if she did care for a man, there would be a recklessness in the course she would follow that would defy guidance or direction, and so I abstained from any further interference; and, as you may have remarked yourself, I actually estranged myself from you.”
“I did remark that,” said Cashel, gravely.
“Well, to-night, when by mere accident Kilgoff and I had sauntered into the gallery and came upon you in the boudoir, I own frankly I was not sorry for it; unpleasant as such scenes are, they are better—a hundred thousand times better—than the sad consequences they anticipate; and even should anything take place personally, I 'd rather see you stand Kilgoff's fire at 'twelve paces,' than be exposed to the flash of my Lady's eye at 'one.'”
“Your friendly zeal,” said Cashel, with a very peculiar emphasis on the words, “would seem to have got the upper hand of your habitually sharp perception; there was nothing to fear in any part of my intimacy with Lady Kilgoff. I have been but too short a time conversant with fashionable life to forget more vulgar habits, and, among them, that which forbids a man to pay his addresses to the wife of another. I need not vindicate her Ladyship; that she has taken a warm, I shame not to say an affectionate, interest in my fortunes, may have been imprudent I know not what your code admits of or rejects, but her kindness demands all my gratitude, and, if need be, the defence that a man of honor should always be ready to offer for the cause of truth.”
“Don't you perceive, Cashel, that all you are saying only proves what I have been asserting,—that, while you are actually ignorant of your danger, the peril is but the greater? I repeat it to you, however intact your heart may be, hers is in your keeping. I know this; nay, I say it advisedly—don't shake your head and look so confident—I repeat it, I know this to be the case.”
“You know it?” said Cashel, as though Linton's words had startled his convictions.
“I know it, and I 'll prove it, but upon one condition—your word of honor as to secrecy.” Cashel nodded, and Linton went on. “Some short time back, some one, under the shelter of the anonymous, wrote her a letter, stating that they had long watched her intimacy with you—grieving over it, and regretting that she should have yielded any portion of her affection to one whose whole life had been a series of deceptions; that your perjuries in Love's Court were undeniable, and that you were actually married—legally and regularly married—to a young Spanish girl.”
“Was this told her?” said Cashel, gasping for breath.
“Yes, the very name was given—Maritaña, if I mistake not. Is there such a name?”
Cashel bent his head slightly in assent.
“How you had deserted this poor girl after having won her affections—”
“This is false, sir; every word of it false!” said Cashel, purple with passion; “nor will I permit any man to drag her name before this world of slanderers in connection with such a tale. Great Heaven! what hypocrisy it is to have a horror for the assassin and the cut-throat, and yet give shelter, in your society, to those who stab character and poison reputation! I tell you, sir, that among those buccaneers you have so often sneered at, you'd not meet one base enough for this.”
“I think you are too severe upon this kind of transgression, Cashel,” said Linton, calmly. “It is as often prompted by mere idleness as malice. The great mass of people in this life have nothing to do, and they go wrong just for occupation. There may have been—there generally is—a little grain of truth amid all the chaff of fiction; there may, therefore, be a young lady whose name was—”
“I forbid you to speak it. I knew her, and, girl as she was, she was not one to suffer insult in her presence, nor shall it be offered to her in her absence.”
“My dear fellow, your generous warmth should not be unjust, or else you will find few friends willing to incur your anger in the hope of doing you service. I never believed a word of this story. Marriage—adventure—even the young lady's identity, I deemed all fictions together.”
Cashel muttered something he meant to be apologetic for his rudeness, and Linton was not slow in accepting even so unwilling a reparation.
“Of course I think no more of it,” cried he, with affected cordiality. “I was going to tell you how Lady Kilgoff received the tidings—exactly the very opposite to what her kind correspondent had intended. It actually seemed to encourage her in her passion, as though there was a similarity in your cases. Besides, she felt, perhaps, that she was not damaging your future career, as it might be asserted she had done, were you unmarried. These are mere guesses on my part. I own to you, I have little skill in reading the Machiavellism of a female heart; the only key to its mystery I know of is, 'always suspect what is least likely.'”
“And I am to sit down patiently under all this calumny!” said Cashel, as he walked the room with hasty steps. “I am perhaps to receive at my table those whose amusement it is so to sport with my character and my fame!”
“It is a very naughty world, no doubt of it,” said Linton, lighting a fresh cigar; “and the worst of it is, it tempts one always to be as roguish as one's neighbors for self-preservation.”
“You say I am not at liberty to speak of this letter to Lady Kilgoff?”
“Of course not; I am myself a defaulter in having told the matter to you.”
Cashel paced the room hurriedly; and what a whirlwind of opposing thoughts rushed through his brain! for while at times all Lady Kilgoff s warnings about Linton, all his own suspicions of his duplicity and deceit, were uppermost, there was still enough in Linton's narrative, were it true, to account for Lady Kilgoff's hatred of him. The counsels he had given, and she rejected, were enough to furnish a feud forever between them. At which side lay the truth? And then, this letter about Maritaña,—who was the writer? Could it be Linton himself? and if so, would he have ventured to allude to it?
These thoughts harassed and distressed him at every instant, and in his present feeling towards Linton he could not ask his aid to solve the mystery.
Now, he was half disposed to charge him with the whole slander; his passion prompted him to seek an object for his vengeance, and the very cool air of indifference Linton assumed was provocative of anger. The next moment, he felt ashamed of such intemperate warmth, and almost persuaded himself to tell him of his proposal for Mary Leicester, and thus prove the injustice of the suspicion about Lady Kilgoff.
“There's a tap at the door, I think,” said Linton. “I suppose, if it's Frobisher, or any of them, you'd rather not be bored?” And, as if divining the answer, he arose and opened it.
“Lord Kilgoff's compliments, and requests Mr. Linton will come over to his room,” said his Lordship's valet.
“Very well,” said Linton, and closed the door. “What can the old peer want at this time of night? Am I to bring a message to you, Cashel?”
Cashel gave an insolent laugh.
“Or shall I tell him the story of Davoust at Hamburg, when the Syndicate accused him of peculating, and mentioned some millions that he had abstracted from the treasury. 'All untrue, gentlemen,' said he; 'I never heard of the money before, but since you have been polite enough to mention the fact, I 'll not show myself so ungrateful as to forget it.' Do you think Kilgoff would see the à propos?”
With this speech, uttered in that half-jocular mood habitual to him, Linton left the room, while Cashel continued to ponder over the late scene, and its probable consequences; not the least serious of which was, that Linton was possessor of his secrets. Now thinking upon what he had just heard of Lady Kilgoff, now picturing to himself how Mary Leicester would regard his pledge to Maritaña, he walked impatiently up and down, when the door opened, and Linton appeared.
“Just as I surmised!” said he, throwing himself into a chair, and laughing heartily. “My Lord will be satisfied with nothing but a duel à mort.”
“I see no cause for mirth in such a contingency,” said Cashel, gravely; “the very rumor of it would ruin Lady Kilgoff.”
“That of course is a grave consideration,” said Linton, affecting seriousness; “but it is still more his than yours.”
“He is a dotard!” said Cashel, passionately, “and not to be thought of; she is young, beautiful, and unprotected. Her fortune is a hard one already, nor is there any need to make it still more cruel.”
“I half doubt she would think it so!” said Linton, with an air of levity, as he stooped to select a cigar.
“How do you mean, sir?” cried Cashel, angrily.
“Why, simply that, when you shoot my Lord, you'll scarcely desert my Lady,” said he, with the same easy manner.
“You surely told him that his suspicions were unfounded and unjust; that my intimacy, however prompted by the greatest admiration, had never transgressed the line of respect?”
“Of course, my dear fellow, I said a thousand things of you that I did n't believe—and, worse still, neither did he; but the upshot of all is, that he fancies it is a question between the peerage and the great untitled class; he has got it into his wise brain that the barons of Runnymede will rise from their monumental marble in horror and shame at such an invasion of 'the order;' and that there will be no longer security beneath the coronet when such a domestic Jack Cade as yourself goes at large.”
“I tell you again, Linton,—and let it be for the last time,—your pleasantry is most ill-timed. I cannot, I will not, gratify this old man's humor, and make myself ridiculous to pamper his absurd vanity. Besides, to throw a slander upon his wife, he must seek another instrument.”
By accident, mere accident, Cashel threw a more than usual significance into these last few words; and Linton, whose command over his features rarely failed, taken suddenly by what seemed a charge, grew deep red.
Cashel started as he saw the effect of his speech; he was like one who sees his chance shot has exploded a magazine.
“What!” cried he, “have you a grudge in that quarter, and is it thus you would pay it?”
“I hope you mean this in jest, Cashel?” said Linton, with a voice of forced calm.
“Faith, I never was less in a mood for joking; my words have only such meaning as your heart accuses you of.”
“Come, come, then there is no harm done. But pray, be advised, and never say as much to any one who has less regard for you. And now, once more, what shall we do with Kilgoff? He has charged me to carry you a message, and I only undertook the mission in the hope of some accommodation,—something that should keep the whole affair strictly amongst ourselves.”
“Then you wish for my answer?”
“Of course.”
“It is soon said. I 'll not meet him.”
“Not meet him? But just consider—”
“I have considered, and I tell you once more I 'll not meet him. He cannot lay with truth any injury at my door; and I will not, to indulge his petulant vanity, be led to injure one whose fair fame is of more moment than our absurd differences.”
“I own to you, Cashel, this does not strike me as a wise course. By going out and receiving his fire, you have an opportunity of declaring on the ground your perfect innocence of the charge; at least, such, I fancy, would be what I should do, in a like event. I would say, 'My Lord, it is your pleasure, under a very grave and great misconception, to desire to take my life. I have stood here for you once, and will do so again, as many times as you please, till either your vengeance be satisfied or your error recognized; simply repeating, as I now do, that I am innocent.' In this way you will show that personal risk is nothing with you in comparison with the assertion of a fact that regards another far more nearly than yourself. I will not dispute with you which line is the better one; but, so much will I say, This is what 'the World' would look for.”
The word was a spell! Cashel felt himself in a difficulty perfectly novel; he was, as it were, arraigned to appear before a court of whose proceedings he knew little or nothing. How “the World” would regard the affair, was the whole question,—what “the World” would say of Lady Kilgoff,—how receive her exculpation. Now Linton assuredly knew this same “World” well; he knew it in its rare moods of good-humor, when it is pleased to speak its flatteries to some popular idol of the hour; and he knew it in its more congenial temper, when it utters its fatal judgments on unproved delinquency and imputed wrong.
None knew better than himself the course by which the “Holy Office” of slander disseminates its decrees, and he had often impressed Roland with a suitable awe of its mysterious doings. The word was, then, talismanic; for, however at the bar of Conscience he might stand acquitted, Cashel knew that it was to another and very different jurisdiction the appeal should be made. Linton saw what was passing in his mind, for he had often watched him in similar conflicts, and he hastened to press his advantage.
“Understand me well, Cashel; I do not pretend to say that this is the common-sense solution of such a difficulty; nor is it the mode which a man with frankness of character and honorable intentions would perhaps have selected; but it is the way in which the world will expect to see it treated, and any deviation from which would be regarded as a solecism in our established code of conduct.”
“In what position will it place her? That's the only question worth considering.”
“Perfect exculpation. You, as I said before, receive Kilgoff's fire, and protest your entire innocence; my Lord accepts your assurance, and goes home to breakfast—voilà tout!”
“What an absurd situation! I declare to you I shrink from the ridicule that must attach to such a rencontre, meeting a man of his age and infirmity!”
“They make pistols admirably now-a-days,” said Linton, dryly; “even the least athletic can pull a hair-trigger.”
Cashel made no answer to this speech, but stood still, uncertain how to act.
“Come, come,” said Linton, “you are giving the whole thing an importance it does not merit; just let the old peer have the pleasure of his bit of heroism, and it will all end as I have mentioned. They 'll leave this to-morrow early, reach Killaloe to breakfast, whence Kilgoff will start for the place of meeting, and, by ten o'clock, you 'll be there also. The only matter to arrange is, whom you 'll get Were it a real affair, I 'd say Upton, or Frobisher; but, here, it is a question of secrecy, not skill. I 'd advise, if possible, your having MacFarline.”
“Sir Andrew?” said Cashel, half laughing.
“Yes; his age and standing are precisely what we want here. He'll not refuse you; and if he should, it's only telling Lady Janet that we want to shoot Kilgoff, and she 'll order him out at once.”
“I protest it looks more absurd than ever!” said Roland, impatiently.
“That is merely your own prejudice,” said Linton. “You cannot regard single combat but as a life struggle between two men, equal not merely in arms, but alike in bodily energy, prowess, skill, and courage. We look on the matter here as a mere lottery, wherein the less expert as often draws the prize—But there, as I vow, that was two o'clock! It struck, and I promised to see Kilgoff again to-night. By the way, he 'll want horses. Where can he get them?”
“Let him take mine; there are plenty of them, and he 'll never know anything of it.”
“Very true. What an obliging adversary, that actually 'posts' his enemy to the ground!”
“How am I to see MacFarline to-night?”
“You 'll have to call him out of bed. Let Flint say there 's an orderly from Limerick with despatches; that Biddy Molowney won't pay her poor-rate, or Paddy Flanagan has rescued his pig, and the magistrates are calling for the Fifty-something and two squadrons of horse, to protect the police. You'll soon have him up; and, once up, his Scotch blood will make him as discreet as an arch-deacon. So, good-night; add a codicil to your will in favor of my Lady, and to bed.”
With this Linton took his candle and retired.
Cashel, once more alone, began to ponder over the difficulty of his position. The more he reasoned on the matter, the stronger appeared his fears that Lady Kilgoff's name would be compromised by a foolish and unmeaning quarrel; while, for himself, he saw nothing but ridicule and shame from his compliance. That omnipotent arbiter, “the World,” might indeed be satisfied, but Roland suspected that few of its better-judging members would hesitate to condemn a course as unfeeling as it was unwise.
A quick, sharp knocking at the door of his room aroused him from his musings; it was Lady Kilgoff's maid, breathless and agitated. She came to say that Lord Kilgoff, after a scene of passionate excitement with her Ladyship, had been seized with paralysis, and that he was now lying powerless and unconscious on his bed.
“Come, sir, for mercy's sake; come quickly. My Lady is distracted, nor can any of us think of what to do.”
Cashel scratched a few lines in pencil to Tiernay, requesting his immediate presence, and ringing for his servant, at once despatched a message to the village. This done, he followed the maid to Lord Kilgoff's chamber.