Warmth may suit the gen'rous fool;
The deeper knave must aye be cool.
Bell.
Rapidly as carriage after carriage rolls up the broad approach to
Tubbermore, the lamps flashing and glittering through the dark wood,
we must beg of our reader to turn back a few hours in our history,
and follow the steps of Mr. Linton, as, leaving the cottage, he turned
towards the “great house.”
Probably, to a mind constituted like his there could be no more poignant
sense of sorrow and regret than that experienced in consequence of a
sudden and irrepressible burst of passion. It was a great fault,--the
greatest he could commit. In justice to him, we will own it was of the
very rarest in occurrence. His outbreaks of anger, like his moments of
calm, were all studied beforehand; and nothing short of a catastrophe,
unexpected and overwhelming, could have surprised him into the fatal
excess of which his interview with Corrigan was an instance.
If repentance could have compensated for his sin, assuredly the offence
might have been effaced from the tablet of his misdeeds. Never was
sorrow more true, heartfelt, and cutting. He called none of his
accustomed casuistry to aid him in softening down his fault; he saw it
in all the breadth of its enormity, as a foul blot upon that system
of deceit in which years of practice had made him so perfect. He felt
compromised by himself; and possibly, to a cunning man, this is the
bitterest of all self-reproaches.
Very little consideration was needed to show that, so far as Corrigan
went, reconciliation was impossible. He knew the old man too well to
have a doubt upon that subject.
What, then, was to be done? In which was the most profitable channel to
turn the stream of coming events? Were Cashel a man of different mould,
there would be no price too high to pay for that document which stood
between him and his title to the estate. It was all the difference
between rank and obscurity--between wealth and want--between the
condition of an estated gentleman and the assumption of a mere
pretender. Wide as the alternatives lay, Linton knew they would not
affect Cashel's mind. He foresaw clearly that, in a burst of his “most
virtuous probity,” he would declare Corrigan the rightful owner of the
estate, and walk forth into the world as poor as when he began it.
With Cashel, therefore, all treaty would be impossible. The next
consideration was, what terms might be made with Corrigan through
Tiernay. The rough frankness of the old doctor had always been reckoned
by Linton as a commonplace trick of certain coarse minds, to simulate
honesty and straightforwardness. He believed that mankind consisted of
but two categories,--the knave and the fool: he who was not one must
necessarily be the other. Now, an acute study of Tiernay persuaded
him that he was a shrewd, sound-headed man, whose very profession had
trained him into habits of investigation; and thought there could be
little doubt, therefore, into which class be fell. There was, moreover,
this advantage in treating with him, that neither personal feeling
nor pride of station would interfere with the negotiation; he would
entertain the question in the simple light of a bargain,--so much for
so much. The unlucky release of all claim upon their property was,
of course, to be thought of--as deteriorating, if not altogether
invalidating, the title; but of this it might be possible, perhaps, to
obtain possession. Cashel's papers must be ransacked throughout; it was
very unlikely that he had taken an unusual care of it, so that Linton
was far from supposing that this would present a serious difficulty.
But why had he not thought of this before? Why had he suffered his
disappointment to blind him to what was so palpable? “So much for
thinking the game won ere it is finished,” exclaimed he; “but who would
have thought Linton should make this blunder?”
To treat with Tiernay, then, realized every advantage he could think of.
It offered the prospect of better terms, an easier negotiation; and it
presented one feature of inestimable merit in his eyes,--it afforded
the means of gratifying his hatred against Cashel, without the vengeance
costing him anything. This thought, for a while, left him incapable of
entertaining every other. Cashel reduced to poverty--humiliated to
the position of an adventurer who had obtained a property under false
pretences--was a picture he could never weary of contemplating. What a
glorious consummation of revenge, could he have involved one other in
the ruin!--if Laura had been the companion of his fall! But that scheme
had failed; a friendship--a perilous one, 't is true--had sprung up
where Linton had sowed the seeds of a very different passion; and
nothing remained but to involve them both in the disgrace and ruin which
a separation and its consequences could inflict. “Even this,” thought
be, “will now be no trifling penalty,--the 'millionnaire' Roland Cashel
would have conferred an _éclat_ on the fall, that would become ludicrous
when associated with the name of a mere adventurer.”
If thoughts of these vengeances afforded the most intense pleasure to
his vindictive mind, there came, ever and anon, deep regrets at the loss
of that greater game for which he had planned and plotted so anxiously.
That noble fortune which he had almost held within his grasp; that high
station from which he would have known how to derive all its advantages;
the political position he had so long ambitioned,--were now all to flit
from before his eyes like the forms of a dream, unreal and impossible.
So intently had he pursued these various reasonings, that he utterly
forgot everything of his late interview with Tom Keane; and when the
remembrance did flash upon him, the effect was almost stunning. The
crime would now be useless, so far as regarded Linton's own advantage.
Mary Leicester could never be his wife; why, then, involve himself,
however remotely, in a deed as profitless as it was perilous? No time
should be lost about this. He must see Keane immediately, and dissuade
him from the attempt. It would be easy to assure him that the whole
was a misconception,--a mistake of meaning. It was not necessary to
convince, it was enough to avert the act; but this must be done at once.
So reflecting, Linton took his way to the gate-lodge, which lay a
considerable distance off. The space afforded much time for thought, and
he was one whose thoughts travelled fast. His plans were all matured and
easy of accomplishment. After seeing Keane, he would address a few
lines to Tiernay, requesting an interview on the following morning. That
night, he resolved, should be his last at Tubbermore; the masquerade
had, as may be conjectured, few charms for one whose mind was charged
with heavier cares, but still it would give him an occasion to
whisper about his scandal on Lady Kilgoff, and, later on, give him the
opportunity of searching Cashel's papers for that document he wished to
obtain.
On reaching the gate-lodge, under pretence of lighting his cigar
he entered the house, where, in all the squalid misery of their un
tractable habits, Keane's wife sat, surrounded by her ragged children.
[Illustration: 274]
“Tom is at work, I suppose?” said he, carelessly.
“No, yer honer; he went out early this morning to look after a little
place for us, as the master is goin' to turn us out.”
“I 'm sorry for that,” said he, compassionately; “land is dear, and hard
to be got now-a-days. Why don't he go to America?”
“Indeed an' I don't know, sir. They say it's the asy place to gain a
livin'; fine pay, and little to do for it.”
Linton smiled at an encomium for whose accuracy he would not have
vouched, and then tried to ascertain, in the same careless fashion,
in what direction Keane had gone; but the woman could not tell. She
believed it was by the high road, but could not be certain, since he had
left the house shortly after daybreak.
Linton sauntered out in deep thought. It was evident enough to him what
the object of that journey was; it needed no clew to track his path.
It was strange; but now, when the deed was not to secure any future
benefits to himself, it appeared before his eyes in all the glaring
colors of its criminality. It was a cold-blooded and useless crime, and
he actually shuddered as he thought upon it.
Although he well knew that it would not be possible to connect him in
any way with the act, his conscience made him restless and uneasy, and
he would have given much that he had never mooted it. It was too late,
however, now, to think of these things; were he to mount his horse and
follow the fellow Keane, the chances of coming up with him were few. The
man would inevitably have concealed himself till the very moment came;
and were Linton to be present at such a time, the fact of his presence
might, in such a remote and unfrequented spot, give rise to the very
worst suspicions. “Be it so,” said he, at length, and with the tone of
one who left the issue to fortune. He found himself now upon the high
road, and remembering that he was not far from Tiernay's house, resolved
on making a visit to the doctor in person. It might so happen hereafter
that a question would arise where he had passed the morning. There was
no saying what turn events might take, and it would be as well were he
able to show that he had spent some time in Tiernay's company; and as,
in such a critical moment, it would have been far from wise to discuss
any matter connected with Cashel's property, it were safest to make
the object of the visit appear an effort to obtain Dr. Tiernay's kind
mediation in the difference with Mr. Corrigan.
To pass half an hour in his company, under any pretext, would be to
put on record his occupation on that morning; and with this resolve, he
knocked at the door.
It was with a start of surprise Tiernay received Linton as he entered
his study. The doctor arose from the chair where he had been sitting,
and stood in the attitude of one who desires by his very air and
deportment to express that he does not mean that the other should be
seated.
“This is an honor, sir,” said he, at last, “so undeserved on my part,
that I am at a loss how to acknowledge it.”
“A little patience and a little courtesy are all I ask for, Dr.
Tiernay,” replied Linton, while he placed a chair and seated himself
with the most perfect unconcern. “You may easily guess that I do not
intrude my presence upon you without what at least seem to me to be
sufficient reasons. Whether you may think them so or not, will in a
great measure depend upon whether you prefer to be guided by the false
lights of an unjust prejudice, or the true illumination of your own
natural good sense and practical intelligence.”
Tiernay sat down without speaking; the appeal was made calmly and
dispassionately to him, and he felt that he could not but entertain it,
particularly as the scene was beneath his own roof.
Linton resumed,--
“_Your_ friend,--I hope the time is not far distant when I may be
enabled to say and _mine_,--Mr. Corrigan, acting under the greatest of
all misconceptions, mistaking my heartfelt zeal in his behalf for an
undue interference in his affairs, has to-day expressed himself towards
me in a manner so uncalled for, so unfair, and ungenerous, that,
considering the position I sought to occupy in his regard, either
bespeaks the existence of some secret attack upon my character, or that
a mere sudden caprice of temper overbalances with him the qualities
he has been gracious enough to speak of in terms of praise and
approbation.”
Tiernay gave a short, dry nod, whose significance was so very doubtful
that Linton stopped and stared at him, as if asking for further
information.
“I had made a proposition for the hand of his granddaughter,” resumed
he, “and surely my pretensions could not subject me to rebuke?”
Tiernay nodded again, in the same puzzling way as before.
“Knowing the influence you possess in the family,” resumed Linton,
“seeing how much confidence they repose in your counsels, I have thought
it advisable to state to you that, although naturally indignant at the
treatment I have met with, and possibly carried away for a moment by
passion, my feelings regarding Miss Leicester are unchanged, and, I
believe, unchangeable.”
Tiernay moved his head slightly, as though implying assent.
“Am I to understand, sir, that my communication is pleasing to you?”
said Linton, firmly.
“Very pleasing in every respect,” said Tiernay.
“And I may reckon upon your kind offices in my behalf, Dr. Tiernay?”
Tiernay shook his head negatively.
“Be kind enough to speak your mind more intelligibly, sir, for there is
need that we should understand each other here.”
“I will be as explicit as you can desire, sir. Your communication was
gratifying to me in so far that it showed me how my old and esteemed
friend, Mr. Corrigan, had thrown off the delusion in which he had
indulged regarding you, and saw you as I have always thought you,--a
clever worldly man, without scruples as to his means when an object had
once gained possession of his wishes, and who never could have dreamed
of making Miss Leicester his wife were there not other and deeper
purposes to be attained by so doing.”
“You are candor itself, sir,” said Linton; “but I cannot feel offence at
a frankness I have myself asked for. Pray extend the favor, and say what
could possibly be these other and deeper purposes you allude to? What
advantages could I propose myself by such an alliance, save increased
facilities of conversation with Dr. Tiernay, and more frequent
opportunities of indulging in 'tric-trac' with Mr. Corrigan?”
Tiernay winced under the sarcasm, but only said,--
“To divine your motives would be to become your equal in skill and
cleverness. I have no pretensions to such excellence.”
“So that you are satisfied with attributing to another objects for which
you see no reason and motive, and of which you perceive no drift?”
“I am satisfied to believe in much that I cannot fathom.”
“We will pursue this no further,” said Linton, impatiently. “Let us
reverse the medal. Mr. Corrigan's refusal of me, coupled with his
uncourteous conduct, may lead to unpleasant results. Is he prepared for
such?”
“I have never known him to shrink from the consequences of his own
conduct,” replied Tiernay, steadfastly.
“Even though that conduct should leave him houseless?” whispered Linton.
“It cannot, sir, while _I_ have a roof.”
“Generously spoken, sir,” said Linton, while he threw his eyes over the
humble decorations of his chamber with an expression of contempt there
was no mistaking.
“Humble and poor enough it is, sir,” said Tiernay, answering the glance,
“but the fruit of honest industry. Neither a father's curse, nor a
mother's tear, hovers over one of the little comforts around me.”
“An ancient Roman in virtue!” exclaimed Linton, affectedly. “How sad
that our degenerate days so ill reward such excellence!”
“You are wrong there, sir. Even for merits poor and unobtrusive as mine,
there are tributes of affection more costly than great men know of.
There are those on every hand around me who would resign health, and
hope, and life itself, to do me service. There are some who, in their
rude zeal, would think little of making even Mr. Linton regret his
having needlessly insulted me. Ay, sir, I have but to open that window
and speak one word, and you would sorely repent this day's proceeding.”
Linton sat calm and collected under this burst of anger, as though he
were actually enjoying the outbreak he had provoked. “You have a lawless
population here, it would seem, then,” said he, smiling blandly, as
he rose from his seat. “I think the Government is badly rewarded by
bestowing its resources on such a neighborhood. A police-barracks would
suit you better than an hospital, and so I shall tell Mr. Downie Meek.”
Tiernay grew suddenly pale. The threat was too papable to be mistaken,
nor was he sufficiently conversant with the world of policy to detect
its fallacy.
“Two hundred pounds a year,” resumed Linton, “can be of no moment to one
who is surrounded by such generous devotion; while some respect for law
or order will be a good 'alterative,'--is n't that the phrase, doctor?”
Tiernay could not utter a word. Like many men who pass their lives in
seclusion, he had formed the most exaggerated ideas of the despotism of
those in power; he believed that for the gratification of a mere whim
or passing caprice they would not scruple at an act of oppression that
might lead to ruin itself; he felt shocked at the peril to which a hasty
word had exposed him. Linton read him like a book, and, gazing fixedly
at him, said, “Your craft has taught you little of worldly skill, Dr.
Tiernay, or you would have seen that it is better to incur a passing
inconvenience than run the risk of a severe and perhaps fatal
misfortune. Me-thinks that a science of expediencies might have
instilled a few of its wise precepts into every-day life.”
The doctor stared, half in astonishment, half in anger, but never spoke.
“Reflect a little upon this point,” said Linton, slowly; “remember, too,
that a man like myself, who never acts without an object, may be a very
good associate for him who has neither courage nor energy for action at
all; and lastly, bethink you that the subtlety and skill which can make
a useful friend, can become very readily the materials of a dangerous
enemy.”
Linton knew well the force and significance of vagueness, either in
threat or promise; and no sooner had he done speaking than he left the
room and the house; while Tiernay, bewildered and terrified, sat down to
think over what had passed.
“He 'll come to terms, I see that!” cried Linton to himself, as he
entered the park of Tubbermore. “A little time, a sleepless night or
two, the uncertainty of that future which to every man past fifty gets
another tinge of black with each year, will do the business, and I 'll
have him suing for the conditions he would now reject.”
Never yet, however, had time been a greater object with Linton. The host
of creditors whom he had staved off for some months back--some by paying
large sums on account; others by the assurance that he was on the eve
of a rich marriage--would, at the very first semblance of his defeat,
return and overwhelm him. Many of his debts were incurred to hush up
play transactions, which, if once made public, his station in society
would be no longer tenable. Of his former associates, more than one
lived upon him by the mere menace of the past. Some were impatient, too,
at the protracted game he played with Roland, and reproached him with
not “finishing him off” long before, by cards and the dice-box. Others
were indignant that they were not admitted to the share of the spoil,
with all the contingent advantages of mixing in a class where they might
have found the most profitable acquaintances. To hold all these in
check had been a difficult matter, and few save himself could have
accomplished it To restrain them much longer was impossible. With these
thoughts he walked along, scarce noticing the long string of
carriages which now filled the avenue, and hastened towards the house.
Occasionally a thought would cross his mind, “What if the bullet had
already done its work? What if that vast estate were now once more
thrown upon the wide ocean of litigation? Would Corrigan prefer his
claim again, or would some new suitor spring up?--and if so, what
sum could recompense the possession of that pardon by which the whole
property might be restored to its ancient owners?” Amid all these
canvassings, no feeling arose for the fate of him who had treated him as
a bosom friend,--not one regret, not so much as one sensation of pity.
True, indeed, he did reflect upon what course to adopt when the tidings
arrived. Long did he vacillate whether Tom Keane should not be arrested
on suspicion. There were difficulties in either course, and, as usual,
he preferred that coming events should suggest their own conduct.
At last he reached the great house, but instead of entering by the
front door, he passed into the courtyard, and gained his own apartment
unobserved. As he entered he locked the door, and placed the key in
such a manner that none could peep through the keyhole. He then walked
leisurely around the room; and although he knew there was no other
outlet, he cast a glance of scrutinizing import on every side, as if to
ensure himself that he was alone. This done, he opened a small cupboard
in the wall behind his bed, and took forth the iron box, in which, since
its discovery, he had always kept the pardon, as well as the forged
conveyance of Tubber-beg.
Linton placed the box before him on the table, and gazed at it in a kind
of rapture. “There,” thought he, “lies the weapon by which at once I
achieve both fortune and revenge. Let events take what turn they will,
_there_ is a certain source of wealth. A great estate like this will
have its claimants; with me it rests who shall be the successful one.”
A hurried knocking at the door interrupted the current of these musings;
and Linton, having replaced the casket in the press, unlocked the door.
It was Mr. Phillis, who, in all the gala of full dress, and with a rare
camellia in his button-hole, entered.
“Well, Phillis, is all going on as it ought?” said Linton, carelessly.
“Scarcely so, sir,” said the soft-voiced functionary; “the house is
filling fast, but there is no one to receive the company; and they
are walking about staring at each other, and asking who is to do the
honors.”
“Awkward, certainly,” said Linton, coolly; “Lady Kilgoff ought to have
been the person.”
“She is gone, sir,” said Phillis.
“Gone! gone! When, and where?”
“I cannot say, sir; but my Lord and her Ladyship left this morning
early, with post-horses, taking the Dublin road.”
Linton did not speak, but the swollen vein in his forehead, and the
red flush upon his brow, told how the tidings affected him. He had long
speculated on witnessing the agonies of her grief when the hour of his
revenge drew nigh; and this ecstasy of cruelty was now to be denied him.
“And my Lord--had he regained any consciousness, or was he still
insensible?”
“He appeared like a child, sir, when they lifted him into the carriage.”
“And Lady Kilgoff?”
“She held her veil doubled over her face as she passed; but I thought
she sighed, and even sobbed, as she handed me this letter.”
“'For Roland Cashel, Esquire,'” said Linton, reading as he took it. “Did
she speak at all, Phillis?”
“Not a word, sir. It was a sad-looking procession altogether, moving
away in the dim gray of the morning.”
Linton placed the letter in a rack upon the chimney, and for some
seconds was lost in thought.
“If Lady Janet, sir, would be kind enough to receive the company,”
murmured Phillis, softly.
“Pooh, man, it is of no consequence!” said Linton, roughly, his mind
dwelling on a very different theme. “Let who will play host or hostess.”
“Perhaps you would come down yourself soon, sir?” asked Phillis, who
read in the impatience of Linton's manner the desire to be alone, and
coupled that desire with some mysterious purpose.
“Yes, leave me, Phillis; I'm going to dress,” said he, hurriedly. “Has
_he_ returned yet?”
“No, sir; and we expected him at five o'clock.”
“And it is now nine,” said the other, solemnly; “four hours later.”
“It is very singular!” exclaimed Phillis, who was more struck by the
altered expression of Linton's face than by the common-place fact he
affected to marvel at.
“Why singular? What is remarkable? That a man should be delayed some
time on a business matter, particularly when there was no urgency to
repair elsewhere?”
“Nothing more common, sir; only that Mr. Cashel said positively he
should be here at five. He had ordered the cob pony to be ready for
him,--a sign that he was going to pay a visit at the cottage.”
Linton made no reply, but his lips curled into a smile of dark and
ominous meaning.
“Leave me, Phillis,” said he, at length; “I shall be late with all this
cumbrous finery I am to wear.”
“Shall I send your man, sir?” said Phillis, slyly eying him as he spoke.
“Yes--no, Phillis--not yet I 'll ring for him later.”
And with these words Linton seated himself in a large chair, apparently
unconscious of the other's presence.
Mr. Phillis withdrew noiselessly--but not far; for after advancing a few
steps along the corridor, he cautiously returned, and listened at the
door.
Linton sat for a few seconds, as if listening to the other's retreating
footsteps; and then, noiselessly arising from his chair, he approached
the door of the chamber, at which, with bent-down head, Phillis watched.
With a sudden jerk of the handle Linton threw open the door, and stood
before the terrified menial.
“I was afraid you were ill, sir. I thought your manner was strange.”
“Not half so strange as this conduct, Mr. Phillis,” said Linton, slowly,
as he folded his arms composedly on his breast. “Come in.” He pointed,
as he spoke, to the room; but Phillis seemed reluctant to enter, and
made a gesture of excuse. “Come in, sir,” said Linton, peremptorily; and
he obeyed. Linton immediately locked the door, and placed the key upon
the chimney-piece; then deliberately seating himself full in front of
the other, he stared at him long and fixedly. “So, sir,” said he, at
length, “you have thought fit to become a spy upon my actions. Now,
there is but one _amende_ you can make for such treachery,--which is, to
confess frankly and openly what it is you want to know, and what small
mystery is puzzling your puny intelligence, and making your nights
sleepless. Tell me this candidly, and I'll answer as freely.”
“I have really nothing to confess, sir. I was fearful lest you were
unwell. I thought--it was mere fancy, perhaps--that you were flurried
and peculiar this morning; and this impression distressed me so,
that--that--”
“That you deemed fit to watch me. Be it so. I have few secrets from
any one; I have none from my friends. You shall hear, therefore
what--without my knowing it--has made me appear unusually agitated.
It was my intention to leave this house to-morrow, Phillis, and in the
preparation for my departure I was arranging my letters and papers,
among which I found a very considerable quantity that prudence
would consign to the flames,--that is to say, if prudence were to be
one-sided, and had only regard for the interests of one individual where
there were two concerned. In plain language, Phillis, I was just about
to burn the mass of documents which fill that iron safe, and which
it were to the honor and credit of Mr. Phillis should be reduced to
charcoal as speedily as may be, the same being nothing more nor less
than the accounts of that 'honest steward,' pinned to the real and bona
fide bills of Mr. Cashel's tradespeople. There are, it is true, strange
little discrepancies between the two, doubtless capable of satisfactory
explanation, but which, to plain-thinking men like myself, are difficult
to reconcile; and in some one or two instances--a wine merchant's
account, for example, and a saddler's bill--savor somewhat of that
indiscreet procedure people call forgery. What a mistake--what an
inadvertence, Phillis!”
There was something of almost coaxing familiarity in the way Linton
uttered the last words; and Phillis grew sick at heart as he listened to
them.
“A moment more, an instant later, and I had thrown them into the fire;
but your footsteps, as you walked away, sounded too purpose-like; you
were so palpably honest that I began to suspect you. Eh, Phillis, was I
right?”
Phillis essayed a smile, but his features only accomplished a ghastly
grin.
“I will keep them, therefore, where they are,” said Linton. “These
impulses of rash generosity are very costly pleasures; and there is no
such good practical economy as to husband one's confidence.”
“I 'm sure, sir, I never thought I should have seen the day--”
“Go on, man; don't falter. What day do you mean?--that on which you had
attempted to outwit _me_; or, that on which I should show you all the
peril of your attempting it? Ay, and there is peril, Mr. Phillis: a
felony whose punishment is transportation for life is no small offence.”
“Oh, sir!--oh, Mr. Linton, forgive me!” cried the other, in the most
abject voice. “I always believed that my devotion to your interests
would claim your protection.”
“I never promised to further anything that was base or dishonest,” said
Linton, with an air of assumed morality.
“You opened and read letters that were addressed to another; you spied
his actions, and kept watch upon all his doings; you wrote letters in
his name, and became possessed of every secret of his life by treachery;
you--”
“Don't talk so loud, Phillis; say all you have to say to _me._”
“Oh, dear, sir, forgive me the burst of passion. I never meant it. My
temper carried me away in spite of me.” And he burst into tears as he
spoke.
“What a dangerous temper, that may at any moment make a felon of its
owner! Go, Phillis, there is no need of more between us. You know _me_.
I almost persuaded myself that I knew you. But if I know anything, it
is this”--here he approached, and laid his hand solemnly on the other's
shoulder--“that I would make hell itself the punishment of him who
injured me, were I even to share it with him.”
Phillis's knees smote each other with terror at the look that
accompanied these words; they were spoken without passion or vehemence,
but there was that in their tone that thrilled to his inmost heart
Powerless, and overcome by his emotions, he could not stir from the
spot: he wanted to make explanations and excuses, but all his ingenuity
deserted him; he tried to utter vows of attachment and fidelity, but
shame was too strong for him there also. He would have resorted to
menace itself rather than remain silent, but he had no courage for such
a hazardous course. Linton appeared to read in turn each change of mood
that passed across the other's mind; and after waiting, as it were, to
enjoy the confusion under which he suffered, said,--
“Just so, Phillis; it is a sad scrape you fell into. But when a man
becomes bankrupt either in fame or fortune, it is but loss of time to
bewail the past; the wiser course is to start in business again, and
make a character by a good dividend. Try that plan. Good-bye!”
These words were a command; and so Phillis understood them, as, with an
humble bow, he left the room. Linton again locked the door, and drawing
the table to a part of the room from which no eavesdropper at the
door could detect it, he once more sat down at it. His late scene
with Phillis had left no traces upon his memory; such events were too
insignificant to claim any notice beyond the few minutes they occupied;
his thoughts were now upon the greater game, where all his fortune in
life was staked. He took out the key, which he always wore round his
neck, and placed it in the lock; at the same instant the clock on the
chimney-piece struck ten. He sat still, listening to the strokes; and
when they ceased, he muttered, “Ay, mayhap cold enough ere this!” A
slight shuddering shook him as he uttered these words, and a dreamy
revery seemed to gather around him; but he arose, and walking to the
window, opened it. The fresh breeze of the night rallied him almost at
once, and he closed the sash and returned to his place.
“To think that I should hold within my hands the destinies of those whom
most of all the world I hate!” muttered he, as he turned the key and
threw back the lid. The box was empty! With a wild cry, like the accent
of intense bodily pain, he sprang up and dashed both hands into the
vacant space, and then held them up before his eyes, like one who could
not credit the evidence of his own senses. The moment was a terrible
one, and for a few seconds the staring eyeballs and quivering lips
seemed to threaten the access of a fit; but reason at last assumed the
mastery, and he sat down before the table and leaned his head upon it to
think. Twice before in life had it been his lot to lose a fortune at
one turn of the die, but never before had he staked all the revengeful
feelings of his bad heart, which, baffled in their flow, now came back
upon himself.
He sat thus for nigh an hour; and when he arose at last, his features
were worn as though by a long illness; and as he moved his fingers
through his hair, it came away in masses, like that of a man after
fever.