The debts we make by plighted vows,
Bear heaviest interest, ever!
Haywood.
The doctor's little parlor was the very “ideal” of snugness; there
was nothing which had the faintest resemblance to luxury save the
deep-cushioned arm-chair, into which he pressed Cashel at entering; but
there were a hundred objects that told of home. The book-shelves, no
mean indication of the owner's _trempe_, were filled with a mixture
of works on medicine, the older English dramatists, and that class of
writers who prevailed in the days of Steele and Addison. There was a
microscope on one table, with a great bunch of fresh-plucked fern beside
it. A chess-board, with an unfinished game--a problem from a newspaper,
for he had no antagonist--stood on another table; while full in front
of the fire, with an air that betokened no mean self-importance, sat
a large black cat, with a red leather collar, the very genius of
domesticity. As Cashel's eyes took a hasty survey of the room, they
rested on a picture--it was the only one there--which hung over the
mantelpiece. It was a portrait of Mary Leicester, and although a mere
water-color sketch, an excellent likeness, and most characteristic in
air and attitude.
“Ay!” said Tiernay, who caught the direction of his glance, “a birthday
present to me! She had promised to dine with me, but the day, like most
Irish days when one prays for sunshine, rained torrents; and so she sent
me that sketch, with a note, a merry bit of doggerel verse, whose merit
lies in its local allusions to a hundred little things, and people only
known to ourselves; but for this, I 'd be guilty of breach of faith and
show it to you.”
“Is the drawing, too, by her own hand?”
“Yes; she is a clever artist, and might, it is said by competent judges,
have attained high excellence as a painter had she pursued the study. I
remember an illustration of the fact worth mentioning. Carringford, the
well-known miniature-painter, who was making a tour of this country
a couple of years back, passed some days at the cottage, and made a
picture of old Con Corrigan, for which, I may remark passingly, poor
Mary paid all her little pocket-money,--some twenty guineas, saved
up from Heaven knows how long. Con did not know this, of course,
and believed the portrait was a compliment to his granddaughter.
Carringford's ability is well known, and there is no need to say the
picture was admirably painted; but still it wanted character; it had
not the playful ease, the gentle, indulgent pleasantry that marks my old
friend's features; in fact, it was hard and cold,--not warm, generous,
and genial: so I thought, and so Mary thought, and accordingly, scarcely
had the artist taken his leave, when she set to work herself, and made
a portrait, which, if inferior as a work of art, was infinitely superior
as a likeness. It was Con himself; it had the very sparkle of his mild
blue eye, the mingled glance of drollery and softness, the slightly
curled mouth, as though some quaint conceit was lingering on the
lip,--all his own. Mary's picture hung on one side of the chimney, and
Carringford's at the other, and so they stood when the painter came
through from Limerick and passed one night at Tubber-beg, on his way to
Dublin. I breakfasted there that morning, and I remember, on entering
the room, I was surprised to see the frame of Carringford's portrait
empty, and a bank-note, carefully folded, stuck in the corner. 'What
does that mean?' said I to him, for we were alone at the time.
“'It means simply that _my_ picture cannot stand such competitorship as
_that_, said he; _mine_ was a miniature, _that_ is the man himself.'
I will not say one half of the flatteries he uttered, but I have heard
from others since, that he speaks of this picture as a production
of high merit. Dear girl! that meagre sketch may soon have a sadder
interest connected with it; it may be all that I shall possess of her!
Yes, Mr. Cashel, your generosity may stave off the pressure of one
peril, but there is another, from which nothing but flight will rescue
my poor friend.”
A sharp knocking at the door here interrupted the doctor's recital, and
soon Hoare's voice was heard without, inquiring if Dr. Tiernay was at
home.
Hoare's easy familiarity, as he entered, seemed to suffer a slight shock
on observing Roland Cashel, who received him with cold politeness.
Tiernay, who saw at once that business alone would relieve the
awkwardness of the scene, briefly informed the other that Mr. Cashel
was there to learn the exact amount and circumstances of Corrigan's
liabilities, with a view to a final settlement of them.
“Very pleasing intelligence this, doctor,” said the moneylender, rubbing
his hands, “and I am free to own, very surprising also! Am I to enter
into an explanation of the peculiar causes of these liabilities, doctor,
or to suppose,” said he, “that Mr. Cashel is already conversant with
them?”
“You are to suppose, sir,” interposed Cashel, “that Mr. Cashel is
aware of every circumstance upon which he does not ask you for further
information.” There was a sternness in the way he spoke that abashed the
other, who, opening a huge pocket-book on the table, proceeded to scan
its contents with diligence; while Tiernay, whose agitation was great,
sat watching him without speaking.
“The transactions,” said Hoare, “date from some years back, as these
bills will show, and consist, for the most part, in drafts, at various
dates, by Mr. Leicester, of South Bank, New Orleans, on Cornelius
Corrigan, Esq., of Tubbermore. Some of these have been duly honored;
indeed, at first, Mr. Corrigan was punctuality itself; but bad seasons,
distress at home here, greater demands, the consequence of some
commercial losses sustained by Mr. Leicester in the States, all coming
together, the bills were not met as usual; renewals were given--and,
when it comes to that, Mr. Cashel, I need scarcely say difficulties
travel by special train.” No one joined in the little laugh by which Mr.
Hoare welcomed his own attempt at pleasantry, and he went on: “At first
we managed tolerably well. Mr. Corrigan devoted a portion of his income
to liquidate these claims; he made certain sales of property; he reduced
his establishment; in fact, I believe he really made every sacrifice
consistent with his position--”
“No, sir,” broke in Tiernay, “but consistent with bare subsistence.”
The violent tone of the interruption startled the moneylender, who
hastened to concur with the sentiment, while he faltered out--
“Remember, gentlemen, I speak only from hearsay; of myself I know
nothing.”
“Go on with your statement, sir,” said Cashel, peremptorily.
“My statement,” said Hoare, provoked at the tone assumed towards
him, “resolves itself into a debt of three thousand seven hundred and
forty-eight pounds some odd shillings. There are the bills. The sums
due for interest and commission are noted down, and will, I believe, be
found duly correct.”
“Three thousand seven hundred pounds in less than five years!”
ejaculated Tiernay. “What iniquity!”
“If your expression is intended to apply to anything in the conduct
of this transaction, sir,” said Hoare, growing pale with passion as he
spoke, “I beg you to remember that there is such a thing in the land as
redress for libel.”
“If the laws will warrant sixty per cent, they may well punish the man
who calls it infamy,” said Tiernay, almost choking with anger.
“That will do, gentlemen, that will do,” said Hoare, replacing the bills
in the pocket-book, while his fingers trembled with passion. “I was
not aware that your object in this meeting was to insult me; I 'll not
expose myself a second time to such a casualty. I 'll thank you to hand
me that bill, sir!” This request was addressed to Cashel, who, with his
eyes riveted on a document which he held in both hands, sat perfectly
unmindful of all around him.
“If you will have the kindness to give me that bill, sir?” said Hoare,
again.
“Shylock wants his bond,” said Tiernay, who walked up and down the room
with clinched hands, and brows knitted into one deep furrow.
Hoare turned a scowling glance towards him, but not trusting himself to
reply, merely repeated his question to Cashel.
“How came you by this?” cried Roland, rising from the table, and holding
out a written paper towards Hoare; “I ask, sir, how came you by this?”
reiterated he, while the paper shook with the hand that held it.
“Oh! I perceive,” said Hoare; “that document has no concern with the
case before us; it refers to another and very different transaction.”
“This is no answer to my question, sir,” said Cashel, sternly; “I asked,
and I ask you again, how it came into your hands?”
“Don't you think, sir, that it would be more appropriate to express your
regret at having examined a paper not intended to have been submitted to
you?” said Hoare, in a tone half insolent, half deferential.
“I saw my name upon it,” said Cashel, “coupled, too, with that of
another, of whom I preserve too many memories to treat anything lightly
wherein he bears a part; besides, there can be but little indiscretion
in reading that to which I had attached my own signature. And now, once
more, sir, how do I see it in your possession?”
“Really, Mr. Cashel, when the question is put in this tone and manner, I
am much disposed to refuse an answer. I can see nothing in our relative
situations that can warrant the assumption of these airs towards _me_!”
“Shylock, again!” exclaimed Tiernay, who continued to pace the room
during this scene with hasty strides.
“Not so, sir,” said Cashel, as Hoare moved towards the door, against
which Roland now placing a chair, sat down. “Out of this room you shall
not stir, till I hear a distinct and clear account of the circumstances
by which I find you in possession of this paper.”
“You have no right, sir, to demand such an answer.”
“Possibly not, legally speaking,” said Cashel, whose voice became calmer
and deeper as his passion increased. “You are more conversant with law
than I am, and so I take it that your opinion is correct. But I have
the right which a good conscience and strong will beget, and I tell you
again, you 'll not leave this room before you satisfy me, or you 'll not
leave it living.”
“I call you to witness, Dr. Tiernay,” said Hoare, whose accents
trembled with fear and anger together, “that this is a case of false
imprisonment,--that a threat against my life has been uttered, if I do
not surrender the possession of certain papers.”
“Nothing of the kind,” broke in Tiernay; “there is no thought of taking
anything from you by force. Mr. Roland Cashel--doubtless for good
reasons of his own--has asked you a question, which you, demurring to
answer, he tells you that you shall not leave the room till you do.”
“And do you fancy, sir, that such conduct is legal?” cried Hoare.
“I cannot say,” rejoined Tiernay; “but that it is far more mild and
merciful than I could have expected under the circumstances, I am
perfectly ready to aver.”
“May I read the paper out?” said Hoare, with a malicious scowl at
Cashel.
“There is no need that you should, sir,” said Roland; “its contents are
known to me, whom alone they concern.”
“You can, I opine, have no objection that your friend, Dr. Tiernay,
should hear them?”
“I repeat, sir, that with the contents of that paper neither you nor any
one else has any concern; they relate to me, and to me alone.”
“Then I must labor under some misapprehension,” said Hoare, affectedly;
“I had fancied there was another person at least equally interested.”
“Will you dare, sir!” said Roland; and in the thick guttural utterance
there was that which made the other tremble with fear.
“If the matter be one, then,” said he, rallying into his former
assurance, “that you deem best kept secret, it would be perhaps a
judicious preliminary to any conversation on the subject, that Dr.
Tiernay should withdraw.”
“I only await Mr. Cashel's pleasure,” said Tiernay, moving towards the
door.
“Then you will remain, sir,” said Roland, firmly. “Remain, and listen
to what this gentleman has so menacingly alluded. Here it is: it is
the promise, given under my hand, that I will espouse the daughter of a
certain Don Pedro Rica, to whom, in the date herein annexed, I have been
this day betrothed; or, in forfeiture of such pledge, pay down the sum
of seventy thousand dollars, thereby obtaining a full release from
the conditions of the contract. It was the rash pledge of a young and
thoughtless boy, with regard to one who neither accepted his affection
nor acknowledged the contract. I do not say this to absolve myself from
the forfeiture, which I am ready to acquit this hour; I speak of it,
that, as a man of honor, I may not seem to pay a debt of feeling by a
check on my banker.”
“But this betrothal,” said Tiernay,--“what does it imply?”
“It is a ceremony common enough in Old Spain and her once colonies, and
is simply the recognition of a private promise of marriage.”
“You have forgotten two circumstances, sir,” said Hoare, whose eyes
never quitted Cashel's face.
“Which are they?”
“One is, that this contract should be either fulfilled, or the forfeit
paid, within two years,--twenty-one months of which have already
expired.”
“True!--and the other condition?”
“That the acceptance or refusal of the forfeit is optional with Don
Pedro, who may, at his pleasure, select which clause he likes,--the
marriage or the penalty.”
“I never acknowledged this interpretation of the document,” said Cashel,
reddening. “I know Don Pedro did, and there we were at issue. Methinks
it were somewhat hard to compel a marriage distasteful to both parties,
and only to suit the speculations of a ruined adventurer.”
“I hope, sir, the likelihood of future relationship will moderate the
warmth of your language.”
“And is the man fool enough to fancy such a promise could be legally
enforced in this country?” said Tiernay.
“He is not without the opinion of learned counsel,” said Hoare, “who
are strongly of opinion that the interpretations Columbian law would put
upon the document would be recognized by our own courts, and recognize
the marriage as such.”
“And does he, or do you, suppose,” said Cashel, indignantly, “that I
could expose her name, were I indifferent about my own, to be bandied
about your assize courts, and printed in newspapers, and made the gossip
of the town for a nine days' wonder?” He stopped, for he saw by the
elation of Hoare's features with what triumph this avowal had been
listened to. “And now, sir, enough has been said of this; I come back to
my former question,--How came you by this paper?”
“I received it from Don Pedro, with whom I have had much business
intercourse, and who left it in my hands a few days back.”
“Then he is in this country?” said Cashel, anxiously.
Hoare nodded an assent.
“Here, in Ireland! and is Mari--” He stopped suddenly, remembering to
whom he was speaking; but Hoare, as if eager to show an intimacy with
names and events, said,--
“Yes, sir, she is also here.”
Cashel became silent, his mind a very chaos of confused
thought,--memories of his buccaneer life, its lawless habits, its wild
companionship, its adventures of love and war, of play, of heroism, and
of mad debauch. The villa and Maritaña were before him as last he saw
her at the fountain; and from these he came to his fine and lordly
friendships, with all their fictitious warmth; and he began to fancy how
would his present society--the very guests at that moment beneath his
roof--receive or recognize his old associates!
The deep pre-occupation of his look suggested to Tiernay's mind the
notion that Cashel was overwhelmed by the intelligence he had just
received, and drawing close to him, he said, in a whisper,--
“That fellow is watching and enjoying your confusion; put a bolder face
on the matter, and we 'll see what is best to be done.”
Roland started, and then, as if by an effort chasing away an unpleasant
thought, he said to Hoare,--
“Our first business is Mr. Corrigan's. The sum due is--”
“Three thousand seven hundred and forty.”
“Will you accept my bill for this?”
“At what date, sir?” said Hoare, cautiously.
“At whatever date you please; a month or a week.”
“A month be it.”
“Does that release Mr. Corrigan from every claim so far as your
principal is concerned?”
“All, up to this date.”
“By which, probably, you would imply, that new liabilities may begin
again. Is that so?”
“I think, from the nature of Mr. Leicester's claim, such an event is not
impossible.”
“Never mind the threat,” whispered Tiernay; “it is but a threat.”
“As to the other affair,” said Cashel, approaching Hoare, “I will
accompany you to town. I will see Don Pedro myself.”
“That will be difficult, sir. I am not at liberty to mention his place
of abode; nor does he wish his presence here to be known.”
“But to _me_,” said Cashel, “this objection cannot apply.”
“His orders are positive, and without qualification; but any proposition
which you desire to submit--”
“Can come through Mr. Hoare?” said Cashel, sneer-ingly. “I prefer doing
these things in person, sir.”
“Leave this to me,” whispered Tiernay; “I'll manage him better.”
Cashel squeezed his friend's arm in assent, and turned away; while
Hoare, reseating himself, proceeded to draw out the bill for Cashel's
signature.
“You are aware,” said Tiernay, “that Corrigan can give you nothing but
personal security for this sum, and the lease of Tubber-beg?” But Cashel
did not heed the remark, deep as he was in his own reflections. “There
is a small sum--a few thousand pounds--of Mary's, settled at her
mother's marriage. You are not attending to me,” said he, perceiving
the pre-occupation of Roland's look. “I was mentioning that Mary
Leicester--”
“Yes,” said Cashel, talking his thoughts aloud, “to marry her would,
indeed, be the true solution of the difficulty.”
“What did you say?” whispered Tiernay, upon whose ear the muttered words
fell distinctly.
“She would refuse me,” Roland went on; “the more certainly that I am
rich. I know her well; the rank, the station, the thousand flatteries
that wealth bestows, would be things for her mockery if unallied with
power.”
“You are wrong, quite wrong,” said Tiernay; “her ambition is of a
different order. Mary Leicester--”
“Mary Leicester!” echoed Cashel; and, in his suddenly awakened look,
Tiernay at once perceived that some mistake had occurred. Hoare relieved
the awkwardness of the moment as he said,--
“This wants but your signature, sir, and the matter is finished.”
Cashel wrote his name on the bill and was turning away, when Hoare
said,--
“These are the bills; they are now your property, sir.”
“For what purpose?”
“They are vouchers for your claim on Mr. Corrigan,” said Hoare.
“His word will suffice,” said Cashel; and, gathering them up, he hurled
them into the fire.
“A costly blaze that,” said Hoare, as he watched the conflagration.
“Speak to him, doctor; learn what you can of Rica for me. If money will
do it, I 'll not quarrel with the price,” said Cashel to Tiernay, in a
low tone. “Another point,--I was nigh forgetting it,--you 'll not tell
Mr. Corrigan how the matter has been arranged. Promise me this. Nay, I
have a reason for it,--a reason you shall hear to-morrow or next day,
and will acknowledge to be good. Keep my secret for a month; I ask no
longer.”
“For a month, then, I am silent,” said Tiernay.
“Let me see you to-morrow early,” said Cashel. “Will you breakfast with
me?”
“No; I 'll not risk my character by going twice to your grand house in
the same week; besides, I am going to Limerick.”
“Good-night, then,” said Cashel; “good-night, sir.” And with a formal
bow to Hoare, Roland left the room, and took his way homeward alone.