“And with a sleuth-hound's scent,
Smells blood afar!”
It was nightfall when Roland Cashel entered Dublin. The stir and
movement of the day were over, and that brief interval which separates
the life of business from that of pleasure had succeeded. Few were
stirring in the streets, and they were hastening to the dinner-parties
whose hour had now arrived. It was little more than a year since Cashel
had entered that same capital, and what a change had come over him
within that period! Then he was buoyant in all the enjoyment of youth,
health, and affluence; now, although still young, sorrow and care had
worn him into premature age. His native frankness had become distrust;
his generous reliance on the world's good faith had changed into a cold
and cautious reserve which made him detestable to himself.
Although he passed several of his former acquaintance without being
recognized, he could not persuade himself but that their avoidance of
him was intentional, and he thought he saw a purpose-like insolence in
the pressing entreaties with which the news-vendors persecuted him to
buy “The Full and True Report of the Trial of Roland Cashel for Murder.”
And thus it was that he, whose fastidious modesty had shrunk from
everything like the notoriety of fashion, now saw himself exposed to
that more terrible ordeal, the notoriety of crime. The consciousness of
innocence could not harden him against the poignant suffering the late
exposure had inflicted. His whole life laid bare! Not even to gratify
the morbid curiosity of gossips; not to amuse the languid listlessness
of a world devoured by its own ennui; but far worse! to furnish motives
for an imputed crime! to give the clew to a murder! In the bitterness of
his torn heart, he asked himself: “Have I deserved all this? Is this the
just requital for my conduct towards others? Have the hospitality I have
extended, the generous assistance I have proffered--have the thousand
extravagances I have committed to gratify others--no other fruits than
these?” Alas! the answer of his enlightened intelligence could no longer
blind him by its flatteries. He recognized, at last, that to his abuse
of fortune were owing all his reverses; that the capricious extravagance
of the rich man--his misplaced generosity, his pompous display--can
create enemies far more dangerous than all the straits and appliances
of rebellious poverty; that the tie of an obligation which can ennoble a
generous nature, may, in a bad heart, develop the very darkest elements
of iniquity; and that he who refuses to be bound by gratitude is
enslaved by hate!
He stopped for an instant before Kennyfeck's house; the closed shutters
and close-drawn blinds bespoke it still the abode of mourning. He passed
the residence of the Kilgoffs, and there the grass-grown steps and
rusted knocker spoke of absence. They had left the country. He next came
to his own mansion,--that spacious building which, at the same hour,
was wont to be brilliant with wax-lights and besieged by fast-arriving
guests, where the throng of carriages pressed forward in eager haste,
and where, as each step descended, some form or figure moved by, great
in fame or more illustrious still by beauty. Now, all was dark, gloomy,
and deserted. A single gleam of light issued from the kitchen, which was
speedily removed as Roland knocked at the door.
The female servant who opened the door nearly dropped the candle as she
recognized the features of her master, who, without speaking, passed
on, and, without even removing his hat, entered the library. Profuse in
apologies for the disorder of the furniture, and excuses for the absence
of the other servants, she followed him into the room, and stood, half
in shame and half in terror, gazing at the wan and worn countenance of
him she remembered the very ideal of health and youth.
“If we only knew your honor was coming home tonight--”
“I did not know it myself, good woman, at this hour yesterday. Let
me have something to eat--well, a crust of bread and a glass of
wine--there's surely so much in the house?”
“I can give your honor some bread, but all the wine is packed up and
gone.”
“Gone! whither, and by whose order?” said Roland, calmly.
“Mr. Phillis, sir, sent it off about ten days ago, with the plate, and I
hear both are off to America!”
“The bread alone, then, with a glass of water, will do,” said he,
without any emotion or the least evidence of surprise in his manner.
“The fare smacks of the prison still,” said Roland, as he sat at his
humble meal; “and truly the house itself is almost as gloomy.”
The aspect of everything was sad and depressing; neglect and disorder
pervaded wherever he turned his steps. In some of the rooms the
remains of past orgies still littered the tables. Smashed vases of rare
porcelain, broken mirrors, torn pictures--all the work, in fact, which
ruffian intemperance in its most savage mood accomplishes--told who
were they who replaced his fashionable society; while, as if to show the
unfeeling spirit of the revellers, several of the pasquinades against
himself, the libellous calumnies of the low press, the disgusting
caricatures of infamous prints, were scattered about amid the wrecks of
the debauch.
Roland saw these things with sorrow, but without anger. “I must have
fallen low indeed,” muttered he, “when it is by such men I am judged.”
In the room which once had been his study a great pile of unsettled
bills covered the table, the greater number of which he remembered to
have given the money for; there were no letters, however, nor even
one card of an acquaintance, so that, save to his creditors, his very
existence seemed to be forgotten.
Wearied of his sad pilgrimage from room to room, he sat down at last in
a small boudoir, which it had been his caprice once to adorn with the
portraits of “his friends!” sketched by a fashionable artist. There they
were, all smiling blandly, as he left them. What a commentary on their
desertion of him were the looks so full of benevolence and affection!
There was Frobisher, lounging in all the ease of fashionable
indifference, but still with a smile upon his languid features;
there was Upton, the very picture of straightforward good feeling and
frankness; there was Jennings, all beaming with generosity; and Linton,
too, occupying the chief place, seemed to stare with the very expression
of resolute attachment that so often had imposed on Cashel, and made him
think him a most devoted but perhaps an indiscreet friend. Roland's own
portrait had been turned to the wall, while on the reverse was written,
in large characters, the words “To be hung, or hanged, elsewhere.” The
brutal jest brought the color for an instant to his cheek, but the next
moment he was calm and tranquil as before.
Lost in musings, the time stole by; and it was late in the night ere he
betook himself to rest His sleep was the heavy slumber of an overworked
mind; but he awoke refreshed and with a calm courage to breast the tide
of fortune, however it might run.
Life seemed to present to him two objects of paramount interest. One
of these was the discovery of Kennyfeck's murderer; the second was the
payment of his debt of vengeance to Linton. Some secret instinct
induced him to couple the two together; and although neither reason
nor reflection afforded a clew to link them, they came ever in company
before his mind, and rose like one fact before him.
Mr. Hammond, the eminent lawyer, to whom he had written a few lines,
came punctually at ten o'clock to confer with him. Roland had determined
to reveal no more of his secret to the ears of counsel than he had done
before the Court, when an accidental circumstance totally changed the
course of his proceeding.
“I have sent for you, Mr. Hammond,” said Cashel, as soon as they were
seated, “to enlist your skilful services in tracing out the real authors
of a crime of which I narrowly escaped the penalty. I will first,
however, entreat your attention to another matter, for this may be the
last opportunity ever afforded me of personally consulting you.”
“You purpose to live abroad, sir?” asked Hammond.
“I shall return to Mexico,” said Roland, briefly; and then resumed:
“Here is a document, sir, of whose tenor and meaning I am ignorant, but
of whose importance I cannot entertain a doubt: will you peruse it?”
Hammond opened the parchment, but scarcely had his eyes glanced over it,
when he laid it down before him and said,--
“I have seen this before, Mr. Cashel. You are aware that I already gave
you my opinion as to its value?”
“I am not aware of that,” said Roland, calmly. “Fray, in whose
possession did you see it, and what does it mean?”
Hammond seemed confused for a few seconds; and then, as if overcoming a
scruple, said,--
“We must both be explicit here, sir. This document was shown to me by
Mr. Linton, at Limerick, he alleging that it was at your desire and
by your request. As to its import, it simply means that you hold your
present estates without a title; that document being a full pardon,
revoking the penalty of confiscation against the heirs of Miles
Corrigan, and reinstating them and theirs in their ancient possessions.
Now, sir, may I ask, do you hear this for the first time?”
Roland nodded in acquiescence; his heart was too full for utterance, and
the sudden revulsion of his feeling had brought a sickly sensation over
him.
“Mr. Linton,” resumed Hammond, “in showing me this deed, spoke of a
probable alliance between you and the granddaughter of Mr. Corrigan;
and I freely concurred in the propriety of a union which might at once
settle the difficulty of a very painful litigation. He promised me more
full information on the subject, and engaged me to make searches for a
registry, if such existed, of the pardon; but I heard nothing more from
him, and the matter escaped my memory till this moment.”
“So that all this while I have been dissipating that which was not
mine,” said Roland, with a bitterness of voice and manner that bespoke
what he suffered.
“You have done what some thousands have done, are doing, and will do
hereafter,--enjoyed possession of that which the law gave you, and which
a deeper research into the same law may take away.”
“And Linton knew this?”
“He certainly knew my opinion of this document; but am I to suppose that
you were ignorant of it up to this moment?”
“You shall hear all,” said Cashel, passing his hand across his brow,
which now ached with the torture of intense emotion. “To save myself
from all the ignominy of a felon's death, I did not reveal this before.
It was with me as a point of honor, that I would reserve this man for a
personal vengeance; but now a glimmering light is breaking on my brain,
that darker deeds than all he worked against me lie at his door, and
that in following up my revenge I may be but robbing the scaffold of its
due. Listen to me attentively.” So saying, Cashel narrated every event
of the memorable day of Kennyfeck's death, detailing his meeting
with Enrique in the glen, and his last interview with Linton in his
dressing-room.
Hammond heard all with deepest interest, only interrupting at times to
ask such questions as might throw light upon the story. The whole body
of the circumstantial evidence against Roland not only became easily
explicable, but the shrewd perception of the lawyer also saw the
consummate skill with which the details had been worked into regular
order, and what consistency had been imparted to them. The great
difficulty of the case lay in the fact that, supposing Kennyfeck's death
had been planned by others, with the intention of imputing the crime to
Cashel, yet all the circumstances, or nearly all, which seemed to imply
his guilt, were matters of perfect accident, for which they never could
have provided, nor even ever foreseen,--such as his entrance by the
window, his torn dress, the wound of his hand, and the blood upon his
clothes.
“I see but one clew to this mystery,” said Hammond, thoughtfully; “but
the more I reflect upon it, the more likely does it seem. Kennyfeck's
fate was intended for you,--he fell by a mistake.”
Roland started with astonishment, but listened with deep attention as
Hammond recapitulated everything which accorded with this assumption.
“But why was one of my own pistols taken for the deed?”
“Perhaps to suggest the notion of suicide.”
“How could my death have been turned to profit? Was I not better as the
living dupe than as the dead enemy?”
“Do you not see how your death legalized the deed with a forged
signature? Who was to dispute its authenticity? Besides, how know we
what ambitions Linton may not have cherished when holding in his hands
the only title to the estate. We may go too fast with these suspicions,
but let us not reject them as inconsistent Who is this same witness,
Keane? What motives had he for the gratitude he evinced on the trial?”
“None whatever; on the contrary, I never showed him any favor; it was
even my intention to dismiss him from the gate-lodge!”
“And he was aware of this?”
“Perfectly. He had besought several people to intercede for him, Linton
among the rest.”
“So that he was known to Linton? And what has become of him since the
trial?”
“That is the strangest of all; my wish was to have done something for
the poor fellow. I could not readily forget the feeling he showed, at
a moment, too, when none seemed to remember me; so that when I reached
Tubbermore, I at once repaired to the lodge, but he was gone.”
“And in what direction?”
“His wife could not tell. The poor creature was distracted at being
deserted, and seemed to think, from what cause I know not, that he would
not return. He had come back after the trial in company with another,
who remained on the roadside while Keane hastily packed up some clothes,
after which they departed together.”
“This must be thought of,” said Hammond, gravely, while he wrote some
lines in his note-book.
“It is somewhat strange, indeed,” said Cashel, “that the very men
to whom my gratitude is most due are those who seem to avoid me.
Thus--Jones, who gave me his aid upon the trial--”
“Do not speak of him, sir,” said Hammond, in a voice of agitation; “he
is one who has sullied an order that has hitherto been almost without
a stain. There is but too much reason to think that he was bribed
to destroy you. His whole line of cross-examination on the trial was
artfully devised to develop whatever might injure you; but the treachery
turned upon the men who planned it. The Attorney General saw it, and the
Court also; it was this saved you.”
Cashel sat powerless and speechless at this disclosure. It seemed to
fill up in his mind the cup of iniquity, and he never moved nor uttered
a word as he listened.
“Jones you will never see again. The bar of some other land across the
sea may receive him, but there is not one here would stoop to be his
colleague. But now for others more important. I will this day obtain
the judge's notes of the trial, and give the whole case the deepest
consideration. Inquiry shall be set on foot as to Keane, with whom
he has gone, and in what direction. Linton, too, must be watched; the
report is that he lies dangerously ill at his country house, but that
story may be invented to gain time.”
Cashel could scarcely avoid a smile at the rapidity with which the
lawyer detailed his plan of operation, and threw out, as he went, the
signs of distrust so characteristic of his craft As for himself, he was
enjoined to remain in the very strictest privacy,--to see no one, nor
even to leave the house, except after nightfall.
“Rely upon it,” said Hammond, “your every movement is watched; and our
object will be to ascertain by whom. This will be our first clew; and
when we obtain one, others will soon follow.”
It was no privation for Cashel to follow a course so much in accordance
with his wishes. Solitude--even that which consigned him to the saddest
reveries--was far more pleasurable than any intercourse; so that he
never ventured beyond the walls of his house for weeks, nor exchanged a
word, except with Hammond, who regularly visited him each day, to report
the progress of his investigation.
The mystery did not seem to clear away, even by the skilful contrivances
of the lawyer. Of Keane not a trace could be discovered; nor could any
clew be obtained as to his companion. All that Hammond knew was that
although a doctor's carriage daily drove to Linton's house, Linton
himself had long since left the country,--it was believed for the
Continent.
Disappointed by continual failures, and wearied by a life whose only
excitement lay in anxieties and cares, Cashel grew each day sadder and
more depressed. The desire for vengeance, too, that first had filled his
mind, grew weaker as time rolled on. The wish to reinstate himself
fully in the world's esteem diminished, as he lived apart from all its
intercourse, and he sank into a low and gloomy despondency, which soon
showed its ravages upon his face and figure.
One object alone remained for him,--this was to seek out Corrigan and
place in his hand the document of his ancestor's pardon; this done,
Roland resolved to betake himself to Mexico, and again, among the haunts
of his youth, to try and forget that life of civilization which had cost
him so dearly.