So, then, we meet at last.--Harold.
As the rooms began to fill with company, costumed in every variety
that taste, fancy, or absurdity could devise, many were surprised that
neither was there a host to bid them welcome, nor was there any lady
to perform the accustomed honors of reception. The nature of the
entertainment, to a certain extent, took off from the awkwardness of
this want. In a masquerade, people either go to assume a part, or to be
amused by the representation of others, and are less dependent on the
attentions of the master or mistress of the house; so that, however
struck at first by the singularity of a _fête_ without the presence of
the giver, pleasure, ministered to by its thousand appliances, overcame
this feeling, and few ever thought more of him beneath whose roof they
were assembled.
The rooms were splendid in their decoration, lighted _a giomo_, and
ornamented with flowers of the very rarest kind. The music consisted of
a celebrated orchestra and a regimental band, who played alternately;
the guests, several hundred in number, were all attired in fancy
costumes, in which every age and nation found its type; while characters
from well-known fictions abounded, many of them admirably sustained, and
dressed with a pomp and splendor that told the wealth of the wearers.
It was truly a brilliant scene; brilliant as beauty, and the glitter
of gems, and waving of plumes, and splendor of dress could make it.
The magic impulse of pleasure communicated by the crash of music;
the brilliant glare of wax-lights; the throng; the voices; the very
atmosphere, tremulous with sounds of joy,--seemed to urge on all there
to give themselves up to enjoyment. There was a boundless, lavish air,
too, in all the arrangements. Servants in gorgeous liveries served
refreshments of the most exquisite kind; little children, dressed as
pages, distributed bouquets, bound round with lace of Valenciennes or
Brussels, and occasionally fastened by strings of garnets or pearls;
a _jet d'eau_ of rose-water cooled the air of the conservatory, and
diffused its delicious freshness through the atmosphere. There was
something princely in the scale of the hospitality; and from every
tongue words of praise and wonder dropped at each moment.
Even Lady Janet, whose enthusiasm seldom rose much above the zero,
confessed that it was a magnificent _fête_, adding, by way of
compensation for her eulogy, “and worthy of better company.”
Mrs. White was in ecstasies with everything, even to the cherubs in pink
gauze wings, who handed round sherbet, and whom she pronounced quite
“classical.” The Kenny-fecks were in the seventh heaven of delight,
affecting little airs of authority to the servants, and showing the
strangers, by a hundred little devices, that all the magnificence around
was no new thing to _them_. Miss Kennyfeck, as the Queen of Madagascar,
was a most beautiful savage; while Olivia appeared as the fair
“Gabrielle,”--a sly intimation to Sir Harvey, whose dress, as Henry IV.,
won universal admiration. Then there were the ordinary number of
Turks, Jews, Sailors, Circassians, Greeks, Highland Chiefs, and Indian
Jugglers,--“Jim” figuring as a Newmarket “Jock,” to the unbounded
delight and wonderment of every “sub” in the room.
If in many quarters the question ran, “Where is Mr. Cashel?” or, “Which
is he?” Lady Janet had despatched Sir Andrew, attired as a “Moonshee,”
to find out Linton for her. “He is certain to know every one here; tell
him to come to me at once,” said she, sitting down near a doorway to
watch the company.
While Lady Janet is waiting for him who, better than any other, could
explain the mysterious meaning of many a veiled figure, unravel the
hidden wickedness of every chance allusion, or expound the secret malice
of each calembourg or jest, let us track his wanderings, and follow him
as he goes.
Throwing a large cloak over his brilliant dress, Linton made his way by
many a by-stair and obscure passage to the back of the theatre, by which
the secret approach led to Cashel's dressing-room. Often as he had
trod that way before, never had he done so in the same state of intense
excitement. With the loss of the papers, he saw before him not alone
the defeat of every hope he nurtured, but discovery, shame, and ruin! He
whose whole game in life was to wield power over others, now saw himself
in the grasp of some one, to whom he had not the slightest clew. At one
moment his suspicions pointed to Cashel himself, then to Tiernay, and
lastly to Phillis. Possibly rage has no bitterer moment than that in
which an habitual deceiver of others first finds himself in the toils of
treachery. There was over his mind, besides, that superstitious terror
that to unbelieving intellects stands in place of religion, which told
him that luck had turned with him; that fortune, so long favorable,
had changed at last; and that, in his own phrase, “the run had set in
against him.” Now a half-muttered curse would burst from his lips over
the foolhardiness that had made him so dilatory, and not suffered him
to reap the harvest when it was ripe; now a deep-breathed vow, that if
fate were propitious once again, no matter bow short the interval, he
would strike his blow, come what might of it Sometimes he blamed himself
for having deserted the safe and easy road to ruin by play, for the
ambitious course he had followed; at other times he inveighed against
his folly for not carrying off Mary Leicester before Cashel had acquired
any intimacy at the cottage. Burning and half-maddened with this
conflict of regrets and hopes, he touched the spring, moved back the
panel, and entered Cashel's room.
His first care was to see that the door from the corridor was secured on
the inside; his next, to close the shutters and draw the curtains.
These done, he lighted the candles on the table, and proceeded to make
a systematic search through the entire chamber. “It is my last visit
here,” said he to himself; “I must take care to do my work cleanly.” A
mass of papers had been that morning left behind him by Cashel, most of
them legal documents referring to his transactions with Hoare; but
some were memoranda of his intentions respecting Corrigan, and
plainly showing that Cashel well remembered he had never completed his
assignment to Linton. “If Keane's hand has not faltered,” muttered he,
“Master Roland's memory will not be taxed in this world at least; but
where to discover the deed? that is the question.” In his anxiety on
this bead, he ransacked drawers and cabinets with wild and furious
haste, strewing their contents around him, or wantonly throwing them
on the fire. With false keys for every lock, he opened the most secret
depositories,--scarce glancing at letters which at any other time he
had devoured with interest. Many were from Lady Kil-goff, warning Cashel
against him; his own name, seen passingly, would arrest his attention
for a second, but the weightier interest soon intervened, and he would
throw the papers from him with contempt. “How shrewd! how very cunning!”
muttered he, once or twice, as his glance caught some suspicion, some
assumed clew to his own motives, in her well-known handwriting. Baffled
by the unsuccessful result of his search, he stood in the midst of the
floor, surrounded by open boxes, the contents of which were strewn on
every side; rage and disappointment were depicted in his features;
and, as his clenched hand struck the table, his whole expression became
demoniac. Curses and deep blasphemies fell from his half-moving lips as
he stood insensible to everything save the wreck of his long-cherished
hope.
Let us turn from him to another, in whose fortunes we are more
interested. Roland Cashel, after parting with Enrique, hastened on
towards Tubbermore; his thoughts engaged on every topic save that which
might be supposed to occupy the mind of a host at such a time. Pleasure
assuredly held a weaker hold upon him than the thirst for vengeance, and
the ardent longing to throw off the thraldom of that servitude he had
endured too long.
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.