Lord Kilgoff was stretched upon a bed, breathing heavily; one arm lay straight beside him, and the other crossed upon his breast. His features were deadly pale, save in the centre of each cheek, where a deep-red spot seemed to burn. A slight, very slight, distortion marked his features, and a faint tremor seemed to quiver on his lip. Beside the bed, with an expression of some conscious terror in her face, sat Lady Kilgoff; her white dressing-gown, over which her hair fell in long abundant masses, added pallor to her looks. Her eyes met Cashel's as he entered, and then reverted to the bed where the sick man lay, but with an expression less of sorrow than of bewilderment and confusion.
She looked, indeed, like one whose faculties had been stunned by some sudden shock, and had, as yet, made no effort to recall them to their wonted exercise. At the foot of the bed stood the maid, whose half-uttered sobs were the only sounds to break the stillness.
Cashel drew near, and placed his fingers on the sick man's pulse. Often had he, in his former adventurous career, felt the ebbing current of a life's blood, and measured its power by its resistance. The full but laboring swell of the heart might well deceive him, then, into the impression that no grave consequences were near. He knew not that in such affections the pulse can be round and strong and impulsive; and it was with an earnest conviction of truth he whispered to her,—
“There is no danger.”
She looked up, but it was easy to see that although the words had sounded like comfort, they had not pierced the dense veil that clouded her mind.
Cashel repeated the phrase, and said,—
“Tiernay will soon be here, but have no fears; my own slight skill can tell you there is nothing of peril. Had you not better retire from this—even to the window?”
A faint “No” was all she uttered.
“He was in perfect health this afternoon?” said Cashel to the maid.
“My Lord was better than usual, sir; he took out his collar and his star to look at them, and he spoke very pleasantly of going abroad in the spring. He was reading in the library when Mr. Linton went to him.”
“Linton!” muttered Lady Kilgoff, with a shudder.
“I think I hear voices in the corridor,” said Cashel. “If it be the doctor, say I wish to speak with him before he sees my Lord.”
The maid left the room to perform the commission, and scarcely had the door closed, than Lady Kilgoff started up, and seizing an object which lay on the bed, exclaimed, “How came it in your keeping?”
“What?” cried Cashel, in amazement
“This bracelet,” said she, holding out towards him the massive bracelet which Linton had contrived to detach from her arm at their meeting in the “Park.”
“I never saw it before—never in my life.”
She sank slowly back upon the chair without speaking, while a faint tremor shook her frame.
“The doctor is without, sir,” said the maid at this moment, and Cashel hastened out. He spoke a few hurried words to Tiernay, and then walked towards his own room. That some deep and artful treachery had drawn its web around and about him, involving not himself alone, but another too, he now clearly felt. He saw danger, as the sailor sees it in the lowering sky and fleeting scud, but as yet he knew not from what quarter the “squall” was coming. His suspicions all pointed to Linton; but why attribute such a game to him? and if such were his purpose, to what end could be practise this treachery?
“Would it not be better,” thought he, “to see him at once; tell him my suspicions openly; say, that I no longer trust him as my friend, but feel towards him the misgivings of a secret enemy? If there is manliness about him, he will avow his enmity, or resent my distrust; either or both would be a relief to what I now suffer. Ah! here he comes,” said he; but he was deceived; it was Tiernay entered.
“What say you, doctor? Is the case a grave one?”
“Worse; it is nearly hopeless!”
“What! do you fear for his life?”
“Life or intellect, one or the other, must pay the penalty. This is the second shock. The shipwreck gave the first, and rent the poor edifice almost in twain; this will, in all likelihood, lay it in ashes.”
“This is very dreadful!” said Cashel, upon whom the attendant event and the consequences were weighing heavily.
“He has told me all!” said Tiernay, almost sternly. “His jealousy and her levity, the rampant pride of station, the reckless freedom of a broken heart,—such are the ingredients that have made up a sad story, which may soon become a tragedy.”
“But there was no reason for it; his jealousy was absurd—unfounded.”
“As you will. You may go further, and say he could not lose what he never owned. I saw the peril—I even warned you of it.”
“I can only comprehend you by half,” said Cashel, impatiently. “You imply blame to me where I can feel none.”
“I blame you as I will ever do those who, not fearing danger for themselves, are as indifferent about their neighbors. It is not of this silly old man I am thinking here,—it is of her who, without a protector, should have found one in every man of generous and honorable feeling; not as you, perhaps, understand protection,—not by the challenge hurled in the face of all who would dare to asperse her fair name, but by that studied respect, that hallowed deference, that should avert detraction. Neither you nor any other could be the champion of her honor; but you might have been its defender by a better and a nobler heroism. It is too late to think of this now; let us not lose time in vain regrets. We must take measures that ungenerous reports should not be circulated.”
The door suddenly opened at the instant, and Linton, in his dressing-gown, entered; but, seeing Tiernay, made a motion to retire.
“Come in,” said Cashel; and there was something almost peremptory in the words.
“I feared I might prove an intruder, seeing the doctor here. Is it true what my servant says, that Kilgoff is dangerously ill?”
Cashel nodded.
“Poor fellow! he has no command over himself in those paroxysms of passion, which his folly and vanity are so constantly stirring up. But is the case serious?”
“He will scarcely recover, sir,” said Tiernay; “and it was because my functions as a physician can be of so little benefit, that I ventured to offer my services as a friend in the case, and give some counsel as to what should be done.”
“Most considerate, indeed,” said Linton, but in an accent at once impossible to say whether ironical or the reverse.
“I said, sir,” resumed Tiernay, “that it would be becoming that no false representation should obtain currency as to the origin of the illness, nor that a momentary excitement of a feeble intellect should be assumed as the settled conviction of a sound mind. My Lord Kilgoff has had something like altercation with his wife, and being a weak and failing man, with breaking faculties, has been seized with a paralytic attack.”
“Very thoughtful, all this,” said Linton, gravely; “pray command me in any part of your plan where I may be serviceable.”
“The plan is this,” said Cashel: “here is a case where a terrible calamity has befallen, and which can be made worse only by calumny. To make the slanderer pay the heaviest penalty of his infamy—”
“Nay, nay; this is not our plan,” said Tiernay, gently. “Lord Kilgoff's attack must be spoken of without connection with any circumstances which preceded it this evening. Nothing was more likely to occur than such a seizure; his age, his late illness, his peculiar habit, all predisposed to it.”
“Just so,” interposed Cashel, hastily; “and as none, save you, Linton, and myself, know anything of the matter, it need never gain wider publicity.”
“Of course nothing can be easier than this. The Lady 'Janets' need never hear a word more than you choose to tell them,” said Linton.
“In a few days he will bear removal. Change will be necessary for him; and, in fact, our caution is, doubtless, greater than the necessity warrants,” added Tiernay.
“You will, of course, leave everything to take its course in the house?” said Linton. “To interfere with all the plans of pleasure would be to give rise to malicious rumors.”
“I scarcely know how to act,” said Cashel. “It looks unfeeling and unkind that we should give ourselves up to gayety at such a moment.”
“Mr. Linton's counsel may be wise, notwithstanding,” said Tiernay. “His Lordship may continue a long time in his present state.”
“Exactly what I mean,” said Linton. “He will probably linger on, unchanged; so that if events follow their habitual train, there will be little time or temptation to spread scandal about him; and then, what, at first blush, seems to lack kindness, is, in reality, the very truest and most considerate service we can render.”
“Then you will look to this part of the matter, Linton?” said Cashel, on whom his apparent frankness had resumed its former ascendancy.
“Leave it all to me,” said he; “and so good-night.” And, with that, he departed, leaving Cashel and Tiernay together.
They were silent for some minutes, as Linton's retiring steps were heard going towards his own room. Soon after the loud bang of a door resounded through the house, and all was still. Little knew they, that scarcely had he gained his room than he left it noiselessly, and, slipping down the great stairs, crossed the hall, and, entering the theatre, proceeded by the secret passage which led to Cashel's dressing-room, and through the thin panel that covered which, he could easily overhear whatever was spoken within.
“At least you will allow that he has been candid with us here?” said Cashel, in a tone of remonstrance.
“I cannot afford to give a man my confidence, because I am unable to sound his intentions,” said Tiernay. “I disliked this Linton from the first, and I never yet saw any distinct reason to alter the sentiment. That he has puzzled me—ay, completely puzzled me and all my calculations, within the last few days, is quite true. He has done that which, in a man like himself, disconcerts one altogether, because it is so difficult to trace his probable motive. What would you say, were I to tell you that this deep man of the world, this artful and subtle gambler in the game of life, has actually proposed for a girl who is utterly without fortune or family influence? That she is endowed with noble attributes—that she is one a prince might have chosen to share his fortunes, I deem as nothing to the purpose, for I cannot conceive such qualities as hers could weigh with him; but so it is,—he has actually made an offer of his hand.”
“Dare your confidence go further?” said Cashel, eagerly, “and tell me—to whom?”
“Yes. I have been guilty of one breach of faith in telling you so much, and I 'll hazard all, and let you hear the remainder. It was Mary Leicester.”
“Mary Leicester!” echoed Cashel, but in a voice barely audible.
“Mary Leicester,” continued Tiernay, “may count it among her triumphs to have attracted one whom all the world regards as an adventurer; a man living by the exercise of his clever wits, profiting by the weaknesses and follies of his acquaintances, and deriving his subsistence from the vices he knows how to pamper.”
“And what answer has he received?” asked Cashel, timidly.
“None, as yet. Poor Corrigan, overwhelmed by misfortune, threatened by one whose menace, if enforced, would be his death-stroke, has begged for a day or two to consider; but the reply is certain.”
“And will be—” Cashel could not command his emotion as he spoke.
“Refusal.”
“You are certain of this, Tiernay? You are positive of what you say?”
“I know it. My old friend, were, he even inclined to this alliance, could never coerce her; and Mary Leicester has long since learned to distinguish between the agreeable qualities of a clever man and the artful devices of a treacherous one. She knows him; she reads him thoroughly, and as thoroughly she despises him. I will not say that her impressions have been unaided; she received more than one letter from a kind friend—Lady Kilgoff; and these were her first warnings. Poor Corrigan knows nothing of this; and Mary, seeing how Linton's society was pleasurable to the old man, actually shrank from the task of undeceiving him. 'He has so few pleasures,' said she to me one evening; 'why deny him this one?'—'It is a poison which cannot injure in small doses, doctor,' added she, another time; and so, half jestingly, she reasoned, submitting to an intimacy that was odious to her, because it added a gleam of comfort to the chill twilight of his declining life.”
“And you are sure of this—you are certain she will refuse him?” cried Cashel, eagerly.
“I am her confidant,” said Tiernay; “and you see how worthily I repay the trust! Nay, nay! I would not tell these things to any other living; but I feel that I owe them to you. I have seen more misery in life from concealment, from the delicacy that shuns a frank avowal, than from all the falsehood that ever blackened a bad heart. Mary has told me all her secrets; ay—don't blush so deeply—and some of yours also.”
Cashel did indeed grow red at this speech, and, in his effort to conceal his shame, assumed an air of dissatisfaction.
“Not so, my dear young friend,” said Tiernay; “I did not mean to say one word which could offend you. Mary has indeed trusted me with the secret nearest to her heart She has told me of the proudest moment of her life.”
“When she rejected me?” said Cashel, bitterly.
“So was it—when she rejected you,” re-echoed Tiernay. “When poor, she refused wealth; when friendless in all that friendship can profit, she declined protection; when almost homeless, she refused a home; when sought by one whom alone of all the world she preferred, she said him nay! It was at that moment of self-sacrifice, when she abandoned every thought of present happiness and of future hope, and devoted herself to one humble but holy duty, she felt the ecstasy of a martyr's triumph. You may think that these are exaggerations, and that I reckon at too exalted a standard such evidences of affection, but I do not think so. I believe that there is more courage in the patient submission to an obscure and unnoticed fortune, beset with daily trials and privations, than in braving the stake or the scaffold, with human sympathies to exalt the sacrifice.”
“But I offered to share this duty with her; to be a son to him whom she regarded as a father.”
“How little you know of the cares—the thoughtful, watchful, anxious cares—you were willing to share! You could give wealth and splendor, it is true; you could confer all the blandishments of fortune, all the luxuries that rich men command; but one hour of gentle solicitude in sickness—one kind look, that recalled years of tenderness—one accustomed service, the tribute of affection—were worth all that gold could purchase, told ten times over. And these are not to be acquired; they are the instincts that, born in childhood, grow strong with years, till at length they form that atmosphere of love in which parents live among their children. No! Mary felt that it were a treason to rob her poor old grandfather of even a thought that should be his.”
“But, I repeat it,” cried Cashel, passionately, “I would participate in every care; I would share her duties, as she should share my fortunes.”
“And what guarantee did you give for your fitness to such a task?” said Tiernay. “Was it by your life of pleasure, a career of wild and wasteful extravagance—was it by the unbridled freedom with which you followed every impulse of your will—was it by the example your friendships exhibited—was it by an indiscriminating generosity, that only throws a shade over better-regulated munificence, you would show that you were suited to a life of unobtrusive, humble duties?”
“You wrong me,” said Cashel. “I would have lived in that cottage yonder, without a thought or a wish for the costly pleasures you think have such attractions for me.”
“You had already sold it to your friend.”
“Sold it I—never!—to whom?”
“I thought Linton had purchased it.”
“Never!”
“Well, you gave it as a gift?”
“I did intend to do so; but seeing the value Corrigan puts upon it, I will give Linton double—thrice the value, rather than part with it.”
“What if he refuse?”
“He will not. Linton's fancies never run counter to solid advantages. A thousand pounds, with him, is always twice five hundred, come with what condition it may.”
“But Linton may, for his own reasons, think differently here; his proposal to marry seems as though it were part of some settled plan; and if you have already given him a legal claim here, my opinion is that he will uphold it.”
“That I have never done; but my word is pledged, and to it he may hold me, if he will. Meanwhile, I have seen Kennyfeck this morning. The man Hoare has offered us a large sum on mortgage, and I have promised to meet them both the day after to-morrow. If I read Tom aright, £10,000 will free me from every claim he has upon me.”
“A heavy sum, but not ill spent if it liberate you from his friendship,” cried Tiernay, eagerly.
“And so it shall.”
“You promise me this—you give me your word upon it?”
“I do.”
“Then there are good days in store for you. That man's intimacy has been your bane; even when you thought least of it, his influence swayed your actions and perverted your motives. Under the shadow of his evil counsels your judgment grew warped and corrupted; you saw all things in a false and distorted light; and your most fatal error of all was, that you deemed yourself a 'gentleman.'”
“I have done with him forever,” said Cashel, with slow, deliberate utterance.
“Again I say, good days are in store for you,” said Tiernay.
“I cannot live a life of daily, hourly distrust,” said Cashel; “nor will I try it. I will see him to-morrow; I will tell him frankly that I am weary of his fashionable protectorate; that as a scholar in modish tastes I should never do him credit, and that we must part. Our alliance was ever a factitious one; it will not be hard to sever it.”
“You mistake much,” said Tiernay; “the partnership will not be so easily relinquished by him who reaps all the profit.”
“You read me only as a dupe,” said Cashel, fiercely.
Tiernay made no reply, but waving his hand in adieu, left the room.
Tom Keane, the gatekeeper, sat moodily at his door on the morning after the events recorded in our last chapter. His reflections seemed of the gloomiest, and absorbed him so completely that he never noticed the mounted groom, who, despatched to seek the doctor for Lord Kilgoff, twice summoned him in vain to open the gate.
“Halloa!” cried the smartly equipped servant, “stupid! will you open that gate, I say?”
“It 's not locked,” said Tom, looking up, but without the slightest indication of obeying the request.
“Don't you see the mare won't stand?” cried he, with an oath.
Tom smoked away without replying.
“Sulky brute you are!” cried the groom; “I 'm glad we 're to see the last of you soon.”
With this he managed to open the gate and pass on his way.
“So it's for turnin' me out yez are,” said Tom to himself; “turnin' me out on the road—to starve, or maybe—to rob”—(these words were uttered between the puffs of his tobacco-smoke)—“after forty years in the same place.”
The shrill barking of a cur-dog, an animal that in spitefulness as in mangy condition seemed no bad type of its master, now aroused him, and Tom muttered, “Bite him, Blaze! hould him fast, yer soule!”
“Call off your dog, Keane—call him off!” cried out a voice whose tones at once bespoke a person of condition; and at the same instant Linton appeared. “You'd better fasten him up, for I feel much tempted to ballast his heart with a bullet.”
And he showed a pistol which he held at full cock in his fingers.
“Faix, ye may shoot him for all I care,” said Tom; “he's losing his teeth, and won't be worth a 'trawneen' 'fore long. Go in there—into the house,” cried he, sulkily; and the animal shrank away, craven and cowed.
“You ought to keep him tied up,” said Linton; “every one complains of him.”
“So I hear,” said Tom, with a low, sardonic laugh; “he used only to bite the beggars, but he's begun now to be wicked with the gentlemen. I suppose he finds they taste mighty near alike.”
“Just so,” said Linton, laughing; “if the cur could speak, he 'd tell us a laborer was as tender as 'my lord.' I've come over to see you,” added he, after a moment's pause, “and to say that I 'm sorry to have failed in my undertaking regarding you; they are determined to turn you out.”
“I was thinking so,” said Tom, moodily.
“I did my best. I told them you had been many years on the estate—”
“Forty-two.”
“Just so. I said forty and upwards—that your children had grown up on it—that you were actually like a part of the property. I spoke of the hardship of turning a man at your time of life, with a helpless family too, upon the wide world. I even went so far as to say that these were not the times for such examples; that there was a spirit abroad of regard for the poor man, a watchful inquiry into the evils of his condition, that made these 4 clearances,' as they call them, unwise and impolitic, as well as cruel.”
“An' what did they say to that?” asked Tom, abruptly.
“Laughed—laughed heartily.”
“They laughed?”
“No—I am wrong,” said Linton, quickly. “Kennyfeck did not laugh; on the contrary, he seemed grave, and observed that up at Drumcoologan—is there such a name?”
“Ay, and nice boys they 're in it,” said Tom, nodding.
“'Well, up at Drumcoologan,' said he, 'such a step would be more than dangerous.'
“'How do you mean?' said Mr. Cashel.
“'They 'd take the law into their own hands,' replied Kennyfeck. The man who would evict one of those fellows might as well make his will, if he wished to leave one behind him. They are determined fellows, whose fathers and grandfathers have lived and died on the land, and find it rather hard to understand how a bit of parchment with a big seal on it should have more force than kith and kindred.”
“Did ould Kennyfeck say that?” asked Tom, with a glance of unutterable cunning.
“No,” replied Linton; “that observation was mine, for really I was indignant at that summary system which disposes of a population as coolly as men change the cattle from one pasturage to another. Mr. Cashel, however, contented himself with a laugh, and such a laugh as, for his sake, I am right glad none of his unhappy tenantry were witness to.”
“'You may do as you please down here, sir,' said Kenny-feck—who, by the way, does not seem to be any friend of yours—'but the Drumcoologan fellows must be humored.'
“'I will see that,' said Mr. Cashel, who, in his own hotheaded way, actually likes opposition, 'but we 'll certainly begin with this fellow Keane.'
“'I suppose you'll give him the means to emigrate?' said I, addressing Kennyfeck.
“'We generally do in these cases,' said he.
“'I'll not give the scoundrel a farthing,' broke in Mr. Cashel. 'I took a dislike to him from the very hour I came here.' And then he went on to speak about the dirt and neglect about the gate-lodge, the ragged appearance of the children—even your own looks displeased him; in fact, I saw plainly that somehow you had contrived to make him your enemy, not merely of a few days' standing, but actually from the moment of his first meeting you. Kennyfeck, though not your friend, behaved better than I expected: he said that to turn you out was to leave you to starve; that there was no employment to be had in the country; that your children were all young and helpless; that you were not accustomed to daily labor; indeed, he made out your case to be a very hard one, and backed as it was by myself, I hoped that we should have succeeded; but, as I said before, Mr. Cashel, for some reason of his own, or perhaps without any reason, hates you. He has resolved that out you shall go, and go you must!”
Keane said nothing, but sat moodily moving his foot backwards and forwards on the gravel.
“For Mr. Cashel's sake, I 'm not sorry the lot has fallen upon a quiet-tempered fellow like yourself; there are plenty here who would n't bear the hardship so patiently.”
Keane looked up, and the keen twinkle of his gray eyes seemed to read the other's very thoughts. Linton, so proof against the searching glances of the well-bred world, actually cowered under the vulgar stare of the peasant.
“So you think he's lucky that I 'm not one of the Drumcoologan boys?” said Keane; and his features assumed a smile of almost insolent meaning.
“They're bold fellows, I've heard,” said Linton, “and quick to resent an injury.”
“Maybe there's others just as ready,” said he, doggedly.
“Many are ready to feel one,” said Linton; “that I'm well aware of. The difference is that some men sit down under their sorrows, crestfallen and beaten; others rise above them, and make their injuries the road to fortune. And really, much as people say against this 'wild justice' of the people, when we consider they have no other possible—that the law is ever against them—that their own right hand alone is their defence against oppression—one cannot wonder that many a tyrant landlord falls beneath the stroke of the ruined tenant, and particularly when the tyranny dies with the tyrant.”
Keane listened greedily, but spoke not; and Linton went on,—
“It so often happens that, as in the present case, by the death of one man, the estate gets into Chancery; and then it's nobody's affair who pays and who does not. Tenants then have as mach right as the landlord used to have. As the rents have no owner, there's little trouble taken to collect them; and when any one makes a bold stand and refuses to pay, they let him alone, and just turn upon the others that are easier to deal with.”
“That's the way it used to be here long ago,” said Keane.
“Precisely so. You remember it yourself, before Mr. Cashel's time; and so it might be again, if he should try any harsh measures with those Drumcoologan fellows. Let me light my cigar from your pipe, Keane,” said he; and, as he spoke, he laid down the pistol which he had still carried in his hand. Keane's eyes rested on the handsome weapon with an expression of stern intensity.
“Cashel would think twice of going up to that mountain barony to-morrow, if he but knew the price that lies upon his head. The hundreds of acres that to-day are a support to as many people, and this day twelvemonth, perhaps, may lie barren and waste; while the poor peasants that once settled there have died of hunger, or wander friendless and houseless in some far-away country—and all this to depend on the keen eye and the steady hand of any one man brave enough to pull a trigger!”
“Is he going to Drumcoologan to-morrow?” asked Keane, dryly.
“Yes; he is to meet Kennyfeck there, and go over the property with him, and on Tuesday evening he is to return here. Perhaps I may be able to put in another word for you, Tom, but I half fear it is hopeless.”
“'T is a lonely road that leads from Sheehan's Mill to the ould churchyard,” said Keane, more bent upon following out his own fancies than in attending to Linton.
“So I believe,” said Linton; “but Mr. Cashel cares little for its solitude; he rides always without a servant, and so little does he fear danger, that he never goes armed.”
“I heard that afore,” observed Tom, significantly.
“I have often remonstrated with him about it,” said Linton. “I 've said, 'Remember how many there are interested in your downfall. One bullet through your forehead is a lease forever, rent free, to many a man whose life is now one of grinding poverty.' But he is self-willed and obstinate. In his pride, he thinks himself a match for any man—as if a rifle-bore and a percussion-lock like that, there, did not make the merest boy his equal! Besides, he will not bear in mind that his is a life exposed to a thousand risks; he has neither family nor connections interested in him; were he to be found dead on the roadside to-morrow, there is neither father nor brother, nor uncle nor cousin, to take up the inquiry how he met his fate. The coroner would earn his guinea or two, and there would be the end of it!”
“Did he ever do you a bad turn, Mr. Linton?” asked Keane, while he fixed his cold eyes on Linton with a stare of insolent effrontery.
“Me! injure me? Never. He would have shown me many a favor, but I would not accept of such. How came you to ask this question?”
“Because you seem so interested about his comin' home safe to-morrow evening,” said Tom, with a dry laugh.
“So I am!” said Linton, with a smile of strange meaning.
“An' if he was to come to harm, sorry as you 'll be, you couldn't help it, sir?” said Keane, still laughing.
“Of course not; these mishaps are occurring every day, and will continue as long as the country remains in its present state of wretchedness.”
Keane seemed to ponder over the last words, for he slouched his hat over his eyes, and sat with clasped hands and bent-down head for several minutes in silence. At last he spoke, but it was in a tone and with a manner whose earnestness contrasted strongly with his former levity.
“Can't we speak openly, Mr. Linton, would n't it be best for both of us to say fairly what's inside of us this minit?”
“I 'm perfectly ready,” said Linton, seating himself beside him; “I do not desire anything better than to show my confidence in a man of courage like yourself.”
“Then let us not be losin' our time,” said the other, gruffly. “What's the job worth? that's the chat. What is it worth?”
“You are certainly a most practical speaker,” said Linton, laughing in his own peculiar way, “and clear away preliminaries in a very summary fashion.”
“If I'm not worth trustin' now,” replied the other, doggedly, “ye 'd betther have nothin' to say to me.”
“I did not mean that, nor anything like it, Tom. I was only alluding to your straightforward, business-like way of treating a subject which less vigorously minded men would approach timidly and carefully.”
“Faix, I 'd go up to him bouldly, if ye mane that!” cried the other, who misconceived the eulogy passed upon his candor.
“I know it,—well I know it,” said Linton, encouraging a humor he had thus casually evoked; for in the bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks of the other, it was plain to see what was passing within him.
“Do ye want it done? Tell me that,—be fair and above boord with me,—do you want it done?”
Linton was silent; but a slight, an almost imperceptible motion of his brows made the reply.
“And now what's it worth?” resumed Tom.
“To you,” said Linton, speaking slowly, “it is worth much—everything. It is all the difference between poverty, suffering, and a jail, and a life of ease and comfort either here or in America. Your little farm, that you hold at present by the will, or rather the caprice, of your landlord, becomes your own forever; when I say forever, I mean what is just as good, since the estate will be thrown back into Chancery; and it is neither your children nor mine will see the end of that.”
“That's no answer to me,” said Keane, fixing his cold, steady stare on Linton's face. “I want to know—and I won't ax it again—what is it worth to you?”
“To me!—to me!” said Linton, starting. “How could it be worth anything to me?”
“You know that best yourself,” said Tom, sulkily.
“I am neither the heir to his estates, nor one of his remote kindred. If I see a fine property going to ruin, and the tenantry treated like galley-slaves, I may, it is true, grieve over it; I may also perceive what a change—a total and happy change—a mere accident might work; for, after all, just think of the casualties that every day brings forth—”
“I have n't time for these thoughts now,” muttered Tom.
“Always to the point,—always thinking of the direct question!” said Linton, smiling.
“'T is n't yer honer's failin', anyhow,” said Tom, laughing sardonically.
“You shall not say that of me, Tom,” said Linton, affecting to relish the jocularity; “I'll be as prompt and ready as yourself. I'll wager you ten sovereigns in gold—there they are—that I can keep a secret as well as you can.”
As he spoke, he threw down the glittering pieces upon the step on which they sat.
The peasant's eyes were bent upon the money with a fierce and angry expression, less betokening desire than actual hate. As he looked at them, his cheek grew red, and then pale, and red once more; his broad chest rose and fell like a swelling wave, and his bony fingers clasped each other in a rigid grasp.
“There are twenty more where these came from,” said Linton, significantly.
“That's a high price,—devil a lie in it!” muttered Tom, thoughtfully.
Linton spoke not, but seemed to let the charm work.
“A high price, but the 'dhrop' in Limerick is higher,” said Tom, with a grin.
“Perhaps it may be,” rejoined Linton, carelessly; “though I don't perceive how the fact can have any interest for you or me.”
“Be gorra, ye 're a cowld man, anyhow,” said Keane, his savage nature struck with admiring wonder at the unmoved serenity of Linton's manner.
“I'm a determined one,” said Linton, who saw the necessity of impressing his companion; “and with such alone would I wish to act.”
“And where would you be, after it was all over, sir?”
“Here, where I am at present, assisting the magistrates to scour the country,—searching every cabin at Drumoologan,—draining ditches to discover the weapon, and arresting every man that killed a pig and got blood on his corduroys for the last fortnight.”
“And where would I be?” asked Keane.
“Here too; exactly where you sit this moment, quietly waiting till the outcry was over. Nor need that make you impatient. I have said already there is neither wife, nor sister, nor brother, nor child to take up the pursuit. There are forty people in the great house yonder, and there would n't be four of them left two hours after it was known, nor one out of the four that would give himself the trouble of asking how it happened.”
“An' them's gentlemen!,” said Keane, closing his lips and shaking his head sententiously.
Linton arose; he did not over-fancy the turn of reflection Tom's remark implied: it looked too like the expression of a general condemnation of his class—at the very moment, too, when he was desirous of impressing him with the fullest trust and confidence in his own honor.
“I believe it's safer to have nothin' to do with it,” muttered Keane.
“As you please, friend,” replied Linton; “I never squeeze any man's conscience. You know best what your own life is.”
“Hard enough, that's what it is,” said the other, bitterly.
“You can also make a guess what it will be in future, when you leave this.”
A deep groan was all that he gave for answer.
“For all that I know, you may have many friends who 'll not see your wife and children begging along the roads, or sitting in a hole scooped out of a clay ditch, without food or fire, waiting for the fever to finish what famine has begun. You have n't far to seek for what I mean; about two hundred yards from that gate yonder there 's a group exactly like it.”
“Ye 're a terrible man, that's the truth,” said Tom, as he wiped the big drops of perspiration from his forehead. “Be gorra, I never seed your like afore!”
“I told you that I was a determined man,” said Linton, sternly; “and I'm sorry to see that's not what I should say of you.” He moved a step or two as he spoke, and then turning carelessly back, added, “Leave that money for me at 'The house' this evening; I don't wish to carry gold about me on the roads here.” And with this negligent remark he departed.
Linton sauntered carelessly away; nothing in his negligent air and carriage to show that he was not lounging to kill the weary hours of a winter's day. No sooner, however, had he turned an angle of the road than he entered the wood, and with cautious steps retraced his way, till he stood within a few paces of where Keane yet sat, still and motionless.
His worn hat was pressed down upon his brows, his hands were firmly clasped, and his head bent so as to conceal his features; and in this attitude he remained as rigidly impassive as though he were seized with a catalepsy. A few heavy drops of rain fell, and then a low growling roar of thunder followed, but he heeded not these signs of coming storm. The loud cawing of the rooks as they hastened homeward filled the air, but he never once lifted his head to watch them! Another crash of thunder was heard, and suddenly the rain burst forth in torrents. Swooping along in heavy drifts, it blackened the very atmosphere, and rushed in rivulets down the gravel walk; but still he sat, while the pelting storm penetrated his frail garments and soaked them through. Nor was it till the water lay in pools at his feet that he seemed conscious of the hurricane. Then rising suddenly, he shook himself roughly, and entered the house.
Linton's eyes were earnestly fixed upon the stone—he crept nearer to observe it. The money was gone.
The day of the great masquerade arrived; and, from an early hour, the whole household was astir in preparing for the occasion. The courtyard was thronged with carriages of various sorts. Confectioners from London, table-deckers from Paris, were there, accompanied by all the insignia of their callings. Great lumbering packing-cases were strewn about; while rich stuffs, rare exotics, and costly delicacies littered the stone benches, and even lay upon the pavement, in all the profusion of haste and recklessness. To see the rare and rich articles which were heaped on every side, almost suggested the notion that it was some gorgeous mansion which was put to pillage. There was that, too, in the lounging insolence of the servants, as they went, that favored the illusion. The wanton waste exhibited everywhere was the very triumph of that vulgar and vindictive spirit which prompts the followers of a spendthrift master to speed the current of his ruin. Such would seem to be the invariable influence that boundless profusion exercises on the mind; and it is thus that affluence, unchastened by taste, unruled by principle, is always a corrupter!
A light travelling-carriage, with a few articles of travelling use attached, stood in the midst of this confusion; and shortly after day-dawn two gentlemen issued from the house, and taking their seats, drove hastily forth, and at full speed passed down the avenue towards the high-road.
These were Cashel and Mr. Kennyfeck, who had made an appointment to meet Mr. Hoare at Killaloe, and proceed with him to Drumcoologan, on which portion of the estate it was proposed to raise a considerable sum by mortgage.
Some observation of Mr. Kennyfeck upon the wasteful exhibition of the scene in the courtyard, was met by a sharp and angry reply from Cashel; and these were both overheard as they issued forth,—vague words, spoken thoughtlessly at the time, but to be remembered afterwards with a heavier significance than the speakers could have anticipated! As they hastened along, little was said on either side; the trifling irritation of the first moment created a reserve, which deepened into actual coldness, as each following out his own thoughts took no heed of his companion's.
Kennyfeck's mind was full of sad and gloomy forebodings. The reckless outlay he had witnessed for weeks back was more than a princely fortune could sustain. The troops of useless servants, the riotous disorder of the household, the unchecked, unbridled waste on every side, demanded supplies to raise which they were already reduced to loans at usurious interest. What was to come of such a career, save immediate and irretrievable ruin?
As for Cashel, his reveries were even darker still. The whirlwind current of events seemed to carry him onward without any power of resistance. He saw his fortune wasted, his character assailed, his heart-offered proposal rejected—all at once, and as if by the influence of some evil destiny. Vigorous resolutions for the future warred with fears lest that they were made too late, and he sat with closed eyes and compressed lips, silent and sunk in meditation.
Leaving them, therefore, to pursue a journey on which their companionship could scarcely afford much pleasure to the reader, let us turn to one who, whatever his other defects, rarely threw away the moments of his life on unavailing regrets: this was Mr. Linton. If he was greatly disappointed by the information he gleaned when overhearing the conversation between Cashel and the doctor, he did not suffer his anger either to turn him from his path, or distract him from his settled purpose.
“To-day for ambition!” said he, “to-morrow revenge!”
Too well accustomed to obstacles to be easily thwarted, he recognized life as a struggle wherein the combatant should never put off his armor.
“She must and shall accept me as her husband; on that I am determined. A great game, and a glorious stake, shall not be foiled for a silly girl's humor. Were she less high-flown in her notions, and with more of the 'world' about her, I might satisfy her scruples, that, of her affections—her heart, as she would call it—there is no question here. Je suis bon prince,—I never coerce my liege's loyalty. As to the old man, his dotage takes the form of intrepidity, so that it might be unsafe to use menace with him. The occasion must suggest the proper tactic.”
And with this shrewd resolve he set forth to pay his visit at the cottage. If in his step and air, as he went, none could have read the lover's ardor, there was that in his proud carriage and glancing eye that bespoke a spirit revelling in its own sense of triumph.
While Mr. Linton is thus pursuing his way, let us use the privilege of our craft by anticipating him, and taking a peep at that cottage interior in which he is so soon to figure. Old Mr. Corrigan had arisen from his bed weary and tired: a night of sleepless care weighed heavily on him; and he sat at his untasted breakfast with all the outward signs of a sick man.
Mary Leicester, too, was pale and sad-looking; and although she tried to wear her wonted smile, and speak with her accustomed tones, the heavy eyelids and the half-checked sighs that broke from her at times betrayed how sad was the spirit from which they came.
“I have been dreaming of that old nunnery at Bruges all night, Mary,” said her grandfather, after a long and unbroken silence; “and you cannot think what a hold it has taken of my waking thoughts. I fancied that I was sitting in the little parlor, waiting to see you, and that, at last, a dark-veiled figure appeared at the grille, and beckoned me to approach. I hastened to do so, my heart fluttering with I know not what mixture of hope and fear,—the hope it might be you, and then the fear, stronger than even hope, that I should read sadness in that sweet face—sorrow, Mary—regret for leaving that world you never were to see more.”
“And was it me, dearest papa?”
“No, Mary,” said he, with a lower and more meaning tone, “it was another, one whom I never saw before. She came to tell me that—that”—he faltered, and wiping a tear from his eyes, made an effort to seem calm—“that I had lost you, darling! lost by a separation darker and more terrible than even the iron bars of a nunnery can make. And although I bethought me that you had but gone there, whither I myself was hastening, I felt sorrow-struck by the tidings. I had clung so long to the hope of leaving you behind me here, to enjoy that world of which all your affectionate care has denied you enjoyment—to know how, amidst its troubles and reverses, there are healing springs of love that recompense its heaviest inflictions—I cherished this wish so long, so ardently, that I could not face the conviction which told me it should never be.”
“Dearest papa, remember this was but a dream; bethink you, for an instant, that it was all unreal; that I am beside you, my hand in yours, my head upon your shoulder; that we are not parted, nor ever shall be.”
The tone of deep fervor in which she spoke drew tears from the old man's eyes, and he turned away to hide them.
“It was but a dream, as you say, Mary; but do not my waking thoughts conjure up a future to the full as gloomy? A few months, at furthest, a year or so more—less sanguine prophets would perhaps say weeks—and where shall I be? and where you, Mary?”
The old man's grief could no longer be restrained, and it was in a perfect burst of sorrow the last words came forth. She would have spoken, but she knew not from what source to draw consolation. The future, which to his eyes looked dark and lowering, presented an aspect no less gloomy to her own; and her only remedy against its depressing influence was to make her present cares occupy her mind, to the exclusion of every other thought.
“And yet, Mary,” said he, recovering something of his habitual tone, “there is an alternative—one which, if we could accept of it from choice as freely as we might adopt it from convenience, would solve our difficulties at once. My heart misgives me, dearest, as I approach it. I tremble to think how far my selfishness may bias you—how thoughts of me old and worthless as I am, may rise uppermost in your breast and gain the mastery, where other and very different feelings should prevail. I have ever been candid with you, my child, and I have reaped all the benefit of my frankness; let me then tell you all. An offer has been made for your hand, Mary, by one who, while professing the utmost devotion to you, has not forgotten your old grandfather. He asks that he should be one of us, Mary—a new partner in our firm—a new member in the little group around our hearth. He speaks like one who knew the ties that bind us most closely—he talks of our home here as we ourselves might do—he has promised that we shall never leave it, too. Does your heart tell you whom I mean, Mary? If not, if you have not already gone before me in all I have been saying, his visions of happiness are baseless fabrics. Be candid with me, as I have ever been with you. It is a question on which everything of the future hangs; say if you guess of whom I speak.”
Mary Leicester's cheek grew scarlet; she tried to speak, but could not; but with a look far more eloquent than words, she pressed the old man's hand to her lips, and was silent.
“I was right then, Mary; you have guessed him. Now, my sweet child, there is one other confession you must make me, or leave me to divine it from that crimson cheek. Have his words found an echo in your heart?”
The old man drew her more closely to his side, and passed his arm around her as he spoke; while she, with heaving bosom and bent-down head, seemed struggling with an agitation she could not master. At last she said,—
“You have often told me, papa, that disproportion of fortune was an insurmountable obstacle to married happiness; that the sense of perfect equality in condition was the first requisite of that self-esteem which must be the basis of an affection free and untrammelled from all unworthy considerations.”
“Yes, dearest; I believe this to be true.”
“Then, surely, the present is not a case in point; for while there is wealth and influence on one side, there are exactly the opposites on the other. If he be in a position to make his choice among the great and titled of the land, my destiny lies among the lowly and humble. What disparity could be greater?”
“When I spoke of equality,” said the old man, “I referred rather to that of birth and lineage than to any other; I meant that social equality by which uniformity of tastes and habits are regulated. There is no mésalliance where good blood runs on both sides.”
This was the tenderest spot in the old man's nature; the pride of family surviving every successive stroke of fortune, or, rather, rising superior to them all.
“I thought, moreover,” said Mary, “that in his preference of me, there was that suddenness which savored more of caprice than deep conviction. How should I reckon upon its lasting? What evidence have I that he cares for the qualities which will not change in me, and not for those which spring from youth and happiness?—for I am happy, dearest pa; so happy that, with all our trials and difficulties, I often accuse myself of levity—insensibility even—feeling so light-hearted as I do.”
The old man looked at her with rapture, and then pressed his lips upon her forehead.
“From all this, then, I gather, Mary,” said he, smiling archly, “that, certain misgivings apart, the proposition is not peculiarly disagreeable to you?”
“I am sure I have not said so,” said she, confusedly.
“No, dearest; only looked it. But stay, I heard the wicket close—there is some one coming. I expected Tiernay on a matter of business. Leave us together, child; and, till we meet, think over what we 've been saying. Remember, too, that although I would not influence your decision, my heart would be relieved of its heaviest load if this could be.”
Mary Leicester arose hastily and retired, too happy to hide, in the secrecy of her own room, that burst of emotion which oppressed her, and whose utterance she could no longer restrain.
Scarcely had she gone, when Linton crossed the grass-plot, and entered the cottage. A gentle tap at the door of the drawing-room announced him, and he entered. A more acute observer than Mr. Corrigan might have remarked that the deferential humility so characteristic of his manner was changed for an air of more purpose-like determination. He came to carry a point by promptness and boldness; and already his bearing announced the intention.
After a few words of customary greeting, and an inquiry more formal than cordial for Miss Leicester's health, he assumed an air of solemn purpose, and said,—
“You will not accuse me of undue impatience, my dear Mr. Corrigan, nor think me needlessly pressing, if I tell you that I have come here this morning to learn the answer to my late proposition. Circumstances have occurred at the hall to make my remaining there, even another day, almost impossible. Cashel's last piece of conduct is of such a nature as to make his acquaintance as derogatory as his friendship.”
“What was it?”
“Simply this. Lord Kilgoff has at length discovered what all the world has known for many a day back; and, in his passionate indignation, the poor old man has been seized with a paralytic attack.”
Mr. Corrigan passed his hand across his brow, as if to clear away some terrible imagination, and sat then pale, silent, and attentive, as Linton went on,—
“The most heartless is yet to come! While this old man lies stretched upon his bed—insensible and dying—this is the time Cashel selects to give a great entertainment, a ball, to above a thousand people. It is almost too much for belief—so I feel it myself. The palsied figure of his victim—his victim, do I say? there are two: that miserable woman, who sits as paralyzed by terror as he is by disease—might move any man from such levity; but Cashel is superior to such timidity; he fancies, I believe, that this ruffian hardihood is manliness, that brutal insensibility means courage, and so he makes his house the scene of an orgy, when his infamy has covered it with shame. I see how this affects you, sir; it is a theme on which I would never have touched did it not concern my own fortunes. For me, the acquaintance of such a man is no longer possible. For the sake of that unhappy woman, whom I knew in better days—to cover, as far as may be, the exposure that sooner or later must follow her fault—I am still here. You will, therefore, forgive my importunity if I ask if Miss Leicester has been informed of my proposal, and with what favor she deigns to regard it.”
“I have told my granddaughter, sir,” said the old man, tremulously, “we have talked together on the subject; and while I am not able to speak positively of her sentiments towards you, it strikes me that they are assuredly not unfavorable. The point is, however, too important to admit a doubt: with your leave, we will confer together once again.”
“Might I not be permitted to address the young lady myself, sir? The case too nearly concerns all my future happiness to make me neglect whatever may conduce to its accomplishment.”
The old man hesitated; he knew not well what reply to make. At length he said,—
“Be it so, Mr. Linton; you shall have this permission. I only ask, that before you do so, we should clearly and distinctly understand each other. We are of the world, and can discuss its topics, man to man. With her, the matter rests on other and very different grounds.”
“Of course; so I understand the permission, sir,” said Linton, courteously, “on the distinct understanding that her acceptance alone is wanting to fill up the measure of my wishes.”
“Is it necessary that I should repeat that I am totally destitute of fortune—that the humble means I possess expire with me, and that I am as poor in influence as in all else?”
“I have sufficient for both, sir, for all that moderate wishes can desire. Pray do not add a word upon the subject.”
“I must be explicit, Mr. Linton, however wearisome to you the theme. You will pardon an old man's prolixity, in consideration for the motives which prompt it. We have absolutely nothing of our once powerful family, save the name and the escutcheon,—mementos to remind us of our fall! They did, indeed, say, some time back, that our title to the estate afforded strong grounds for litigation—that there were points of considerable importance—”
“May I interrupt you, sir?” said Linton, laying his hand on Corrigan's arm. “A subject so full of regrets to you can never be a pleasing topic to me. I am fully as rich as a man like myself could desire; and I trust to personal exertions for whatever I may wish to add in the way of ambition.”
“And with good reason, sir,” said Corrigan, proudly. “There are no failures to those who unite honesty of purpose with fine abilities. I will not add a word. Go—speak to my granddaughter: I tell you frankly my best wishes go with you.”
Linton smiled a look of deep gratitude, and moved towards the door.
“One second more,” cried Corrigan, as the other laid his hand on the lock; “it may soon be, that, as a member of our family, you would have the right to express a will on the subject we have been talking of. I would wish to say, that, as I have abandoned all desire to contest this question, I should equally expect the same line of conduct from you.”
“Can you doubt it, sir—or is it necessary that I should give my promise?”
“I hope and trust not. But having myself given a written pledge, under my own hand and seal, to Mr. Cashel, surrendering all right and title to this estate—”
“Who gave this?” said Linton, turning suddenly round, and relinquishing his hold upon the lock of the door. “Who gave this?”
“I gave it.”
“To whom?”
“To Mr. Cashel, in the presence of his agent.”
“When?” exclaimed Linton, from whose pale features, now, intense agitation had banished all disguise. “When did you give it?”
“Within a fortnight.”
“And this document—this release, was formal and explicit?”
“Perfectly so. I knew enough of law to make it obligatory. I stated the conditions for which it was given,—certain concessions that Mr. Cashel had lately granted me, respecting this small property.”
Linton sat down, and covered his face with both hands. The trouble of his feelings had carried him far away from all thought of concealment, and of the part which so long he had been playing. Indeed, so insensible was he to every consideration save one, that he forgot Corrigan's presence—forgot where he was; and in the paroxysm of his baffled purpose, muttered half aloud broken curses upon the insane folly of the old man's act.
“I am compelled to remind you, sir, that I am a listener,” said Mr. Corrigan, whose face, suffused with a flush of anger, showed that the insulting remarks had been overheard by him.
“And this was done without advice or consultation with any one?” said Linton, not heeding the last remark, nor the look that accompanied it.
“I was free then, sir, to speak my gratitude, as I now am to utter my indignation that you should dare to canvass my acts and question my motives, both of which are above your control.”
Linton stared at him almost vacantly; his own thoughts, and not the old man's words, had possession of his mind. With a rapidity of computation in which few were his equals, he ran over all the varying chances of success which had accompanied his game,—the pains he had taken to avert all cause of failure; the unwearying attention he had given to every minute point and doubtful issue,—and now, here, at the very last, came the ruin of all his plans, and wreck of all his hopes.
“You have said enough—more than enough, sir—to show me how disinterested were the views in which you sought my granddaughter in marriage,” said Corrigan, haughtily; “nor would it much surprise me, now, were I to discover that he who is so skilful a double-dealer may be no less expert as a calumniator. I will beg you to leave my house this instant.”
“Not so fast, sir,” said Linton, assuming a seat, and at once regaining that insolent composure for which he was noted; “I have not that generous warmth of character which is so conspicuous in you. I have never given Mr. Cashel a release of any obligation I possess upon him. This house is mine, sir—mine by legal transfer and right; and it is you who are the intruder!”
The old man staggered backwards, and leaned against the wall; a clammy perspiration covered his face and forehead, and he seemed sick to the very death. It was some time before he could even utter a word; and then, as with clasped hands and uplifted eyes he spoke, the fervor of his words told that they were heart-spoken. “Thank God for this! but for it, and I had given my child to a scoundrel!”
“Scarcely polite, sir, and, perhaps, scarcely politic,” said Linton, with his treacherous half-smile. “It would be as well to bear in mind how we stand toward each other.”
“As enemies, open and declared,” cried Corrigan, fiercely.
“I should say as creditor and debtor,” said Linton; “but probably we are speaking in synonyms. Now, sir, a truce to this altercation, for which I have neither time nor taste. Tell me frankly, can you obtain repossession of this unlucky document which, in an ill-starred moment, you parted with? If you can, and will do so, I am willing to resume the position I occupied towards you half an hour ago. This is plain speaking, I am aware; but how much better than to bandy mock courtesies, in which neither of us have any faith! We are both men of the world—I, at least, have no shame in saying that I am such. Let us then be frank and business-like.”
“You have at last filled up the measure of your insults, sir,” said Corrigan, fiercely; “you have dared to speak of me as of yourself.”
“It is a compliment I have not paid a great many, notwithstanding,” replied Linton, with a languid insolence of manner that contrasted strongly with the other's natural warmth; “and there are people in this world would accept it as a flattery; but once more I say, let us abandon this silly squabble. Will you, or will you not, accept my proposal? I am ready to purchase the wreck as she lies upon the rocks, wave-tossed and shattered. Is it not better to give me the chance of floating her, than see her go to pieces before your eyes, and drift piecemeal into the wide ocean?”
“Leave me, sir—leave me! =” was all the old man could utter.
“If I take you at your word,” said Linton, rising, “remember that the last gleam of hope for you departs when I close that door behind me. I warn you that I am little given to relenting.”
“Insolent scoundrel!” cried Corrigan, carried away by indignation.
“Unhandsomely spoken, old gentleman; such words are ill-befitting gray hairs and palsied hands, but I forgive them. I repeat, however, my nature is not over-disposed to forgiveness; an injury with me is like a malady that leaves its mark behind it. The day may come when all your entreaties, aided even by the fair supplications of a more gentle penitent—”
“If you dare, sir!” cried Corrigan, interrupting; and the insolence, schooled and practised in many a trial, quailed before the look and gesture of the old man.
“You shall have your choice, then,” said Linton. “From henceforth you will have to confess that I am not a secret enemy.” And so saying, he opened the sash which led into the garden and passed out, leaving Corrigan overcome by emotion, and almost panic-stricken.
The deceptions which are practised on youth are seldom attended with lasting influence; but when they fall upon a heart chilled and saddened by age, they are stunning in their effect, and seldom, or never, admit of relief.