Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)
It was only by observing the long string of carriages, whose lamps flashed and disappeared at intervals among the trees, that he remembered anything of the fête, and bethought him of that character of entertainer he, at the moment, should have been performing. There seemed to him a terrible inconsistency between his own thoughts and that scene of pleasure, – between the object in pursuit of which so many were hastening with furious speed, and that to which his slower steps were leading him!
“There can be but one amende for such infamous conduct,” muttered he; “he shall pay it with his life’s blood.” And as he spoke, he opened the documents which Enrique had given him, and endeavored to read them; the dusky shadows of the fast-falling night prevented him, and he stood for some minutes lost in thought.
One of the papers, he was aware, bore the forged signature of his name; the other, whose antique form and massive seal bespoke an importance far greater, he tried again and again to decipher, but in vain. As he was thus occupied, he chanced to look up, and suddenly perceived that a stream of light issued from beneath the shutters of his own dressing-room, the door of which he had himself locked at his departure, taking the key along with him. Enrique’s words flashed across his memory at once. It was Linton was there! “At his old work again,” muttered he, in deep anger; “but it shall be for the last time.” A moment of coming peril was all that Cashel needed to elicit the resources of his character. The courage tried in many a danger supplied him with a calm foresight, which the ordinary occasions of life rarely or never called forth. He bethought him that it were best at such a conjuncture to deposit the sealed document in some place of safety ere he went forth upon an enterprise the result of which must be doubtful; for all purposes of confronting Linton it were sufficient to take the forged deed along with him. These were conclusions formed as rapidly as they occurred, and acted upon no less speedily; for, folding up the parchment, he inserted it into a cleft in an aged elm-tree, noting well the spot, and marking all the signs by which he would be able to return to it. His next thought was how to reach his chamber: to enter the house at such a time undiscovered was of course out of the question; he would be seen and recognized at once, and then there would be an end forever of all the secrecy by which he hoped to cover the proceedings with Linton.
It neither suited his inclinations nor his plans that the world should be a party to his vengeance. “Let them discover it when it is over,” said he, “but let them not be able to interfere with its course.” All approach to his dressing-room through the house being thus impracticable, nothing remained but to reach it from without. The chamber was in the second story of the building, at a great height from the ground; but the walls were here covered with thick ivy of ancient growth, and by this Cashel resolved to make the attempt.
The act was not devoid of danger; but there are times when peril is a relief to the mad conflict of thought, and this was such a moment to Cashel. In an instant he made himself ready for the attempt, and with an activity that many a danger had tested, began the ascent. There are occasions when rashness is safety, and now, the headlong intrepidity of Roland’s attempt proved its security, for at each step, as the ivy gave way beneath his grasp or his footing, by an upward spring he reached another spot, which in its turn broke with his weight: every instant the danger increased, for the frail tendrils grew weaker as he ascended, and beneath him the jagged and drooping branches hung down in ruinous disorder. By one bold spring he reached the window-sill, and after a momentary struggle, in which his athletic frame saved him from certain death, he gained a footing upon the stone, and was able to see what was passing within the room.
At a table covered with papers and open letters Linton sat, searching with eager haste for the missing documents; open boxes and presses on every side, rifled of their contents, were seen, some of which lay in disordered masses upon the floor, some in charred heaps within the fender. As the light fell upon his features, Cashel remarked that they were lividly pale, – the very lips were colorless; his hands, too, trembled violently as they moved among the papers, and his mouth continued to be moved by short convulsive twitches. To Roland these signs of suffering conveyed a perfect ecstasy of pleasure. That careworn, haggard face, that tremulous cheek and lustreless eye, were already an instalment of his vengeance.
There was one box which contained many of Cashel’s early letters, when he was following the wild buccaneering life of the West; and this, secured by a lock of peculiar construction, Linton had never succeeded in opening. It stood before him, as with a last effort he tried every art upon it. The hinges alone seemed to offer a prospect of success, and he was now endeavoring to remove the fastenings of these. With more of force than skill, for defeat had rendered him impatient, Linton had already loosened the lid, when Cashel burst open the sash with one vigorous blow, and leaped into the room.
The terrible crash of the shattered window made Linton spring round; and there he stood, confronted with the other, – each, motionless and silent. In Cashel’s steady, manly form there was a very world of indignant contempt; and Linton met the gaze with a look of deadly hatred. All the dissimulation by which he could cover over a treachery was at an end; his deceit was no longer of use, and he stood forth in the full courage of his scoundrelism, – bold, steady, and assured.
“This admits of no excuse, no palliation,” said Cashel, as he pointed to the open letters and papers which covered the floor; and although the words were uttered calmly, they were more disconcerting than if given with passionate vehemence.
“I never thought of any,” replied Linton, collectedly.
“So much the better, sir. It seems to me frankness is the only reparation you can make for past infamy!”
“It may be the only one you will be disposed to ask for,” said Linton, sneeringly.
Cashel grew fiery red. To taunt him with want of courage was something so unexpected – for which he was so totally unprepared – that he lost his self-possession, and in a passionate tone exclaimed, —
“Is it you who dare to say this to me– you, whose infamy has need but to be published abroad, to make every one who calls himself ‘gentleman’ shun your very contact!”
“This punctilious reverence for honor does infinite credit to your buccaneer education,” said Linton, whose eyes sparkled with malignant delight at the angry passion he had succeeded in evoking. “The friendship of escaped felons must have a wondrous influence upon refinement.”
“Enough, sir!” said Cashel. “How came you into the room, since the key of it is in my pocket?”
“Were I to inform you,” said Linton, “you would acknowledge it was by a much more legitimate mode than that by which you effected your entrance.”
“You shall decide which is the pleasanter then!” cried Cashel, as he tore open the window, and advanced in a menacing manner towards the other.
“Take care, Cashel,” said Linton, in a low, deliberate voice; “I am armed!”
And while he spoke, he placed one hand within the breast of his coat, and held it there. Quick as was the motion, it was not sudden enough to escape the flashing eye of Roland, who sprang upon him, and seized his wrist with a grasp that nearly jammed the bones together.
“Provoke me a little further,” cried he, “and, by Heaven! I ‘ll not give you the choice or chance of safety, but hurl you from that window as I would the meanest housebreaker.”
“Let me free, – let me loose, sir,” said Linton, in a low weak voice, which passion, not fear, had reduced to a mere whisper. “You shall have the satisfaction you aim at, when and how you please.”
“By daylight to-morrow, at the boat-quay beside the lake.”
“Agreed. There is no need of witnesses, – we understand each other.”
“Be it so. Be true to your word, and none shall hear from me the reasons of our meeting, nor what has occurred here this night.”
“I care not if all the world knew it,” said Linton, insolently; “I came in quest of a lost document, – one which I had my reasons to suspect had fallen into your possession.”
“And of whose forgery I have the proofs,” said Cashel, as opening the deed, he held it up before Linton’s eyes. “Do you see that?”
“And do you know, Cashel,” cried Linton, assuming a voice of slow and most deliberate utterance, “that your own title to this property is as valueless and as worthless as that document you hold there? Do you know that there is in existence a paper which, produced in an open court of justice, would reduce you to beggary, and stamp you, besides, as an impostor? It may be that you are well aware of that fact; and that the same means by which you have possessed yourself of what was mine has delivered into your hands this valuable paper. But the subtlety is thrown away; I am cognizant of its existence; I have even shown it to another; and on me it depends whether you live here as a master, or walk forth in all the exposure of a cheat.”
The nature of this announcement, its possible truth, added to the consummate effrontery of him who made it, contributed to render Cashel silent, for he was actually stunned by what he heard. Linton saw the effect, but mistook its import. He believed that some thought of a compromise was passing through a mind where vengeance alone predominated; and in this error he drew nearer to him, and in a voice of cool and calm persuasion, added, —
“That you could pilot the course through all these difficulties, no one knows better than yourself to be impossible. There is but one living able to do so, and I am that one.”
Cashel started back, and Linton went on, —
“There is no question of friendship between us here. It is a matter of pure interest and mutual convenience that binds us. Agree to my terms, and you are still the owner of the estate; reject them, and you are as poor as poverty and exposure can make you.”
“Scoundrel!” said Cashel. It was all that he could utter; the fulness of his passion had nearly choked him, as, taking a heavy riding-glove from the table, he struck Linton with it across the face. “If there be any manhood in such a wretch, let this provoke it!”
Linton’s hand grasped the weapon he carried within his coat, but with a quick, short stroke, Cashel struck down his arm, and it fell powerless to his side.
“You shall pay dearly for this – dearly, by heaven!” cried Linton, as he retired towards the door.
“Go, sir,” said Cashel, flinging it wide open, “and go quickly, or I may do that I should be sorry for.”
“You have done that you will be sorry for, if it costs me my life’s blood to buy it.” And with these words, delivered in a voice guttural from rage, Linton disappeared, and Cashel stood alone in the centre of the room, overwhelmed by the terrible conflict of his passions.
The room littered with papers, the open boxes scattered on every side, his own hands cut and bleeding from the broken glass of the window, his dress torn from the recent exertion, were evidences of the past; and it seemed as though, without such proofs, he could not credit his memory, as to events so strange and stunning.
To restore something like order to his chamber, as a means of avoiding the rumors that would be circulated by the servants; to write some letters, – the last, perhaps, he should ever indite; to dress and appear among his company; to send for some one with whom he might confer as to his affairs, – such were the impulses that alternately swayed him, and to which he yielded by turns; now seating himself at his table; now hastening hither and thither, tossing over the motley livery of distasteful pleasure, or handling, with the rapture of revenge, the weapons by which he hoped to wreak his vengeance. The only fear that dwelt upon his mind was, lest Linton should escape him, – lest, by any accident, this, which now appeared the great business of his life, should go unacquired. Sometimes he reproached himself for having postponed the hour of vengeance, not knowing what chances might intervene, what accidents interrupt the course of his sworn revenge. Fortune, wealth, station, love itself had no hold upon him; it was that mad frame of mind where one sole thought predominates, and, in its mastery, makes all else subordinate. Would Linton be true to the rendezvous? – Could such a man be a coward? – Would he compass the vengeance he had threatened by other means? were questions that constantly occurred to his mind.
If the sounds of music and the clangor of festivity did break in upon this mood from time to time, it was but to convey some indistinct and shadowy impression of the inconsistency between his sad brooding and the scene by which he was surrounded, – between the terrible conflict within him and the wild gayety of those who wasted no thought upon him.
CHAPTER XXVII. MURDER OF MR. KENNYFECK – CASHEL DETAINED ON SUSPICION
“Amid their feasting and their joyA cry of ‘Blood!’ was heard.”It was past midnight, and the scene within the walls of Tubbermore was one of the most brilliant festivity. All that could fascinate by beauty, – all that could dazzle by splendor, or amuse by fancy, or enliven by wit, were there, stimulated by that atmosphere of pleasure in which they moved. Loveliness elevated by costume, gayety exalted into exuberant joyousness by the impulse of a thousand high-beating hearts, passed and repassed, and mingled together, till they formed that brilliant assemblage wherein individuality is lost, and the memory carries away nothing but dreamy images of enjoyment, visions of liquid eyes and silky tresses, of fair rounded arms and fairy feet, with stray syllables that linger on the ear and vibrate in the heart for many a long year to come.
It would have been difficult to imagine that one, even one, amid that gorgeous throng, had any other thought than pleasure, so headlong seemed the impulse of enjoyment.’ In vain the moralist might have searched for any trace of that care which is believed to be the unceasing burden of humanity. Even upon those who sustained no portion of the brilliancy around them, pleasure had set its seal. Lady Janet herself wondered, and admired, and stared, in an ecstasy of delight she could neither credit nor comprehend. It was true, Linton’s absence – “unaccountable,” as she called it – was a sad drawback upon her enjoyment. Yet her own shrewdness enabled her to penetrate many a mystery, and detect beneath the dusky folds of more than one domino those who a few moments previous had displayed themselves in all the splendor of a gorgeous costume.
In vain did Lord Charles Frobisher cover his Tartar dress with a Laplander’s cloak and hood, to follow Miss Meek unnoticed. In vain did Upton abandon his royalty as Henry IV. for a Dominican’s cowl, the better to approach a certain fair nun with dark blue eyes; Lady Janet whispered, “Take care, Olivia,” as she passed her. Even Mrs. Leicester White, admirably disguised as a Gypsy Fortune-teller, did not dare to speculate upon Lady Janet’s “future” – possibly, out of fear of her “present.” Mr. Howie alone escaped detection, as, dressed to represent the Obelisk of the “Luqsor,” he stood immovable in the middle of the room, listening to everybody, and never supposed to be anything but an inanimate ornament of the saloon.
It was only when a minuet was about to be formed, and a question arose as to whether the obelisk could not be removed, that the Egyptian monument was seen slowly sidling off amidst the company, to the great amusement of all who had not opened their confidences beneath its shadow. For an instant, the laughter that circulated in many a distant group was directed to this quarter, and bursts of merriment were excited by the absurdity of the incident. With that mysterious instinct by which moods of joy or grief are perpetuated from heart to heart, till each in a crowded assembly is moved as is his neighbor, the whole room shook with convulsive laughter. It was just then – at the very moment when boundless pleasure filled every avenue of feeling – a terrible cry, shrill and piercing, burst upon the air. All was still – still as a lone church at midnight. Each gazed upon the other, as if silently asking, had he heard the sound? Again it came, louder and nearer; and then a long, loud, swelling chant rang out, wild and frantic as it rose, till it died away in a cadence of the very saddest and dreariest meaning.
“What is it? – what can it be?” were uttered by many in broken voices; while others, too much terrified to speak, sank half fainting upon their seats, their colorless cheek and livid lips in terrible contrast to their gay attire.
“There! listen to it again! – Good Heaven! what can it be?”
“It’s a death ‘keen’!” said a country gentleman, a magistrate named Goring; “something must have happened among the people?”
And now, none knew from what quarter arising, or by whom spoken, but the dreadful word “Murder” was heard through the room. Many issued forth to ask for tidings; some stayed to assure and rally the drooping courage of others; some, again, divested of the “motley,” moved hurriedly about, seeking for this one or that. All was terror, confusion, and dismay.
“Oh, here is Mr. Linton!” cried several, as, with his domino on his arm, pale, and like one terror-struck, he entered the room. “What is it, Mr. Linton? Do you know what has happened?”
“Get Mrs. Kennyfeck and the girls away,” whispered he to a friend, hurriedly; “tell them something – anything – but take them from this.”
“What!” exclaimed Meek, to whom Linton had whispered something, but in a voice too low to be clearly audible.
“Kennyfeck is murdered!” said Linton, louder.
As if the terrible tidings had floated on the air, in an instant it was on every tongue, and vibrating in every ear; and then, in heartrending screams of passionate grief, the cry of the widow and her children burst forth, cry following cry in wild succession. Seized with an hysteric paroxysm, Mrs. Kennyfeck was carried to her room; while of her daughters, the elder sat mute, speechless and, to all seeming, insensible; the younger struggling in convulsive passion to go to her father.
What a scene was that! How dreadful to mark the symbols of levity – the decorations by which pleasure would mock the stern realities of life – surrounded as they now were by suffering and sorrow! to see the groups as they stood; some ministering to one who had fainted, others conversing in low and eager whispers. The joyous smiles, the bright glances were gone, as though they had been by masks assumed at will; tears furrowed their channels through the deep rouge, and convulsive sobs broke from beneath corsets where joy alone had vibrated before. While in the ballroom the scene was one of terror and dismay, a few had withdrawn into a small apartment adjoining the garden, to consult upon what the emergency might require. These were drawn together by Linton, and included Sir Andrew MacFarline, the Chief Justice, Meek, and a few others of lesser note. In a few words Linton informed them that he heard the tidings as he passed through the hall; that a peasant, taking the mountain path to Scariff, had come upon the spot where the murder was committed, and found the body still warm, but lifeless – “he also found this weapon, the bore of which was dirty from a recent discharge as he took it up.”
“Why, this pistol is Mr. Cashel’s!” exclaimed Sir Andrew, examining the stock closely; “I know it perfectly – I have fired with it myself a hundred times.”
“Impossible, my dear Sir Andrew!” cried Linton, eagerly. “You must be mistaken.”
“Where is Mr. Cashel?” asked the Chief Justice.
“No one seems to know,” replied Linton. “At a very early hour this morning he left this in company with poor Kennyfeck. It would appear that they were not on the best of terms together; at least, some of the servants overheard angry words pass between them as they drove away.”
“Let us call these people before us,” said Sir Andrew.
“Not at present, sir. It would be premature and indiscreet,” interposed the judge., Then, turning to Linton, he added, “Well, sir, and after that?”
“After that we have no tidings of either of them.”
“I’ll swear to the pistol, onyhow,” said Sir Andrew, who sat staring at the weapon, and turning it about in every direction.
“Of what nature were the differences between Cashel and Kennyfeck supposed to be?” asked Meek of Linton.
“It is impossible to collect, from the few and broken sentences which have been reported; possibly, dissatisfaction on Cashel’s part at the difficulty of obtaining money; possibly, some misunderstanding about his intentions regarding one of the girls, whom the Kennyfecks were silly enough to suppose he was going to marry.”
A slight tap at the door here arrested their attention. It was Mr. Phillis, who came to say that footsteps had been heard in Mr. Cashel’s dressing-room, although it was well known he himself had not returned.
“Might he not have returned and entered the room unseen, sir?” said the Chief Justice, who cast a shrewd and piercing look upon the valet.
“Scarcely, my Lord, since he is known to every servant in the house, and people are passing and repassing in every direction.”
“But there is every reason to believe that he has not returned at all,” interposed Linton. “It is some one else has been heard in his dressing-room.”
“Would it not be as well to despatch messengers to Drumcoologan,” said Meek, “and assure ourselves of Cashel’s safety? Up to this we are ignorant if he have not shared the fate of poor Kennyfeck.”
“The very suggestion I was about to make. I ‘ll take Phillis along with me, and set out this instant,” cried Linton.
“We shall miss your assistance greatly here, sir,” said the Chief Justice.
“Your Lordship overvalues my poor ability; but I will hasten to the utmost, and be soon back again.” And thus saying, he left the room, followed by Phillis.
“There must be an inquest at once,” said the Chief Justice. “The coroner has power to examine witnesses on oath; and it seems to me that some clew to the affair will present itself.”
“As to this room, don’t you think it were proper to inquire if any one be really within it?” asked Meek.
“Yes; we will proceed thither together,” replied the judge.
“I canna be mistaken in the pistol; I ‘ll swear to that,” chimed in Sir Andrew, whose whole thoughts were centred on that object.
“Well, Mr. Goring,” said Meek, as that gentleman advanced to meet them in the corridor, “have you obtained any clew to this sad affair?”
The magistrate drew near, and whispered a few words in the other s ear. Meek started, and grasped the speaker’s arm convulsively; then, after a pause, said, “Tell the Chief Justice.” Mr. Goring approached, and said something in a low voice to the judge.
“Be cautious, sir; take care to whom you mention these circumstances, lest they be bruited about before we can examine into them,” said the Chief Justice; then retiring into a window with Sir Andrew and Meek, he continued: “This gentleman has just informed me that the impress of a boot with a high heel has been discovered near the spot where the murder was committed; which boot exactly tallies with that worn by Mr. Cashel.”
“The pistol is his; I’ll tak’ my oath on that,” muttered Sir Andrew.
“Here’s Phillis coming back,” said Meek. “What’s the matter, Phillis?”
“Mr. Linton sent me back, sir, to say that the ivy which covered the wall on the east end of the house has been torn down, and seems to infer that some one must have climbed up it, to reach my master’s dressing-room.”
“This is a very important circumstance,” said the Chief Justice. “Let us examine the room at once.” And so saying, he led the way towards it.
Not a word was spoken as the party passed along the corridor and ascended the stairs; each feared, even by a syllable, to betray the terrible suspicions that were haunting his mind. It was a solemn moment; and so their looks and gestures bespoke it. The house itself had suddenly become silent; scarce a sound was beard within that vast building, which so late had rung with revelry and joy. A distant door would clap, or a faintly heard shriek from some one still suffering from the recent shock; but all else was hushed and still.
