“The end of all.”
What a contrast did Roland Cashel's life now present to the purposeless
vacuity of his late existence! Every hour was occupied; even to a late
period of each night was he engaged by cares which seemed to thicken
around him as he advanced.
We should but weary our reader were we to follow him in the ceaseless
round of duties which hard necessity imposed. Each morning his first
visit was to the hospital of St. Louis, where Keane still lay, weakly
struggling against a malady whose fatal termination was beyond a doubt;
and although Roland could not wish for the prolongation of a life which
the law would demand in expiation, he felt a craving desire that the
testimony of the dying man should be full and explicit on every point,
and that every dubious circumstance should be explained ere the grave
closed over him.
To seek for Maritaña, to endeavor to recover this poor forlorn girl, was
his next care, and to this end he spared nothing. Whatever money could
purchase, or skill and unwearied enterprise suggest, were all employed
in the search. Rica, whose nature seemed totally changed by the terrible
shock of Linton's culpability, gave himself up implicitly to Cashel's
guidance, and was unceasing in his efforts to discover his missing
child. But with all the practised acuteness of the police at their
command, and all the endeavors which their zeal could practise, the
search was fruitless, and not a trace of her could be detected.
Through the Neapolitan Embassy, orders were transmitted to Naples to
inquire into the case of Enrique, whose innocence the testimony of Keane
went far to establish. The result was, as Cashel ardently hoped, his
complete vindication, and a telegraphic despatch brought tidings that
he was already liberated, and on his way to Paris. While both Roland and
Rica waited impatiently for the arrival of one whose assistance in their
search would be so valuable, the most perfect good understanding grew up
between them, and Cashel began to perceive how, beneath the vices which
a life of reckless debauchery had created, there lay--inactive and
unused for many a day--kindly feelings and warm affections for which
he had never given him credit. As this confidence grew stronger, Rica
became more frank and open in all his intercourse, and at last revealed
to Cashel the whole story of his life,--a strange, eventful history,
whose vicissitudes were the changing fortunes of a gambler's existence.
For such was he,--without a passion, a pursuit of any kind but play, he
had passed his life in that one baneful vice. For it he had toiled and
labored: to indulge that passion he had engaged in deadly duels, and
perilled his life by acts of forgery.
His marriage with Corrigan's daughter was brought about solely to
procure the means of play; nor was there an energy of his mind or an
impulse of his nature had any other direction. Linton's skill as a
gambler, the unceasing resources he seemed to possess, the stratagems
and devices he could deploy, created for him, in Rica's mind, a species
of admiration that soon degenerated into a blind submission to all his
dictates. Such an ally as this, so deeply versed in all the weak points
of his fellow-men,--so thoroughly master of every impulse that moves,
of every hope and fear that sways the gambler's nature,--had been the
cherished desire of his heart for many a year, and now fortune bad at
last given him such an associate. Their sudden success seemed to warrant
the justice of the hope. Everything prospered with them since their new
league. If he did not gain an equal ascendancy over the daughter's mind
as he had acquired over the father's, still the ambitious future he
often pictured before her, dazzled and delighted her, and thus, erelong,
he contrived to obtain a degree of power, although of different kinds,
over both. From such an associate as Linton concealment was impossible;
and Rica soon saw himself completely at the mercy of a man who had
sifted every motive of his heart, and weighed every action of his life,
and at last became his pitiless, tyrannical master.
Rica's connection with Corrigan suggested to Linton's inventive mind
the possibility of succeeding to that estate for which already he
had perilled so much. His plan was to obtain from Corrigan a full
renunciation of his claim to the property, and then to take the
necessary steps to investigate the long dormant title. All their efforts
to discover the old man's residence were, however, vain; for although
they once obtained a clew to the fact, some information seemed to have
apprised the others of their danger, and their abode was immediately
changed.
It was with a strange thrill of mingled pain and pleasure Cashel heard
Rica speak of his daughter Mary,--of her he had deserted for so many a
year, and yet now yearned towards with an affection that sprang from his
self-accusings. The terrible chastisement his own vices had inflicted
on his lonely and deserted lot seemed never absent from his thoughts;
and he would sit for hours silently, while the heavy tears rolled along
his furrowed cheeks, and his strong, heaving bosom showed his agony.
The fruitlessness of their search after Maritaña in Paris, and the
death of Tom Keane in the hospital, removed the only obstacles to
their departure from that city; and Rica and Cashel, who now felt their
fortunes bound up together, prepared to take their leave of Paris. The
trial of Linton was to take place in Limerick, and thither Roland was
summoned by the law-officers of the Crown. This sad duty accomplished,
he was to accompany Rica to Columbia, whither some slight hope of
recovering Maritaña induced him to proceed. As for Cashel, once in the
old haunts of childhood, he had resolved never to quit them more.
Roland's arrangements for departure were soon made, and he repaired to
the Embassy, where he had been invited to breakfast on the last morning
of his stay. There was a certain bustle and movement in the courtyard
which attracted his attention; and he saw two travelling-carriages, with
an attendant “fourgon,” surrounded by servants, and loaded with all the
preparations for a long journey.
“You have come in time, Mr. Cashel,” said the ambassador, as he shook
hands with him, “to see our new minister at Florence, who is now on
his way thither; and what will have more interest in your eyes, a very
pretty girl, who has become the great literary character of our circles
here. I regret much that she is about to leave us.”
Cashel bowed politely, but with the cold indifference of one for whom
the tidings had no peculiar interest, and accompanied the ambassador
into a _salon_, crowded with company.
“I have a young countryman to present to you, my Lord,” said his
excellency, leading Cashel forward, “who I trust will wear a less sombre
face in the sunny south than he has done in our northern latitudes. Mr.
Roland Cashel--Lord Kilgoff.”
A sudden start of surprise was made by both, and Roland stood mute and
thunderstruck as Lord Kilgoff advanced towards him with extended hand,
and said,--
“Yes, Mr. Cashel, your old friend in better health and spirits than when
last you saw him; and better able to thank you for much hospitality, and
apologize for much injustice.”
“Let me have my share in both acknowledgments,” said Lady Kilgoff,
rising, and taking Cashel's hand with much cordiality.
Roland tried to mutter a few words, but he could not succeed; and his
eyes ranged about the chamber till they fell upon one who, pale and
motionless, regarded him with a look of most expressive sadness.
“Miss Leicester, too, here?” said he, at last.
“Yes, Mr. Cashel,” said Lady Kilgoff; “chance is about to do for us what
all our skill would have failed in. Here are two worthy people who will
not hear your name mentioned, and who now must consent, not alone to
hear, but see you in person. I am quite convinced you never did or could
have injured them. Stand forward, Mr. Corrigan, and make your charge.”
“I will save that gentleman the pain of accusing me,” said Roland, with
deep emotion. “I have injured him deeply, but yet unwittingly. I have
long desired this meeting, to place in his hands a document I have never
ceased to carry about me,--the title to a property of which I was not
the rightful owner, and which is his--and his only.”
“I will not, I cannot accept of it, sir,” said Corrigan, proudly. “I
will never see that cottage more.”
“I do not speak of 'the Cottage,'” said Cashel, “but of the whole estate
of Tubbermore, the ancient possession of your house--still yours. There
is the proof.” And, as he spoke, he drew forth the pardon, and handed it
to Corrigan.
The old man trembled in every limb as he perused the paper, which he now
read over for the third time.
“A royal pardon to Miles Corrigan, my grandfather?” exclaimed he,
gasping for breath; “and how came you by this, sir?”
“The story is soon told,” said Cashel, relating in a few words the
singular steps of the discovery.
“And you have travelled throughout Europe for upwards of three years to
disencumber yourself of £16,000 a year?” said the ambassador, smiling
good-naturedly.
“I have done so to disencumber myself of the weight of an injustice.”
“And this is the youth you would accuse of deception?” said Lady
Kilgoff, haughtily.
“Forgive me, Lady; forgive one who has suffered too heavily from
the world not to fall into the error of thinking once unjustly of a
benefactor.”
“I have no title to the name, sir,” said Cashel. “Nay, more. I am your
debtor for wealth which I squandered, believing it my own.”
“I knew him better than any of you,” cried old Dr. Tiernay, rushing
forward and grasping Cashel by both hands. “My own generous,
high-hearted boy. Come here, Mary; tell him candidly that you, too, were
always of my opinion. This is no time for coyness. Let us have a little
honesty after all this deception.” He drew Cashel to one side, and, in
a deep whisper, said, “What of that Spanish girl?--Are you married or
not?”
Roland smiled at the eagerness of the old man's manner, and, in
half-sadness, said, “Poor Maritaña is now a fugitive--we know not
where.”
A sudden commotion at the door, and a tumult of voices, interrupted the
scene, and Rica rushed in, crying in ecstasy, “She is found--my child is
found!”
The travellers of the diligence passing through the wood of Versailles
had discovered the form of a sleeping girl at the foot of a tree, and
carried her back with them to Paris. Enrique himself, being among them,
recognized her at once, and soon succeeded in finding out Rica, into
whose arms he restored her.
While Rica hurriedly poured forth this explanation, old Corrigan stood
tremulous with agitation, and at last, advancing towards him, said,
“Leicester, I am no longer afraid to meet you. Fortune has, at last,
favored me. I am rich now, and can make you rich also.”
Rica started back: a sudden sickness came over him, and he fell
powerless at the old man's feet.
What a scene of heartfelt emotion followed, as Mary recognized her
long-lost father; and the careworn, sorrow-struck man saw the warm
affections of those whom, in a life long, he had injured.
“The end of this will be,” said Lady Kilgoff, laughing through tears,
“that I shall have to proceed on my journey alone. I foresee that we
shall not share in all the general joy at these discoveries.”
“I have a sister, too,” exclaimed Mary, with enthusiasm, “whom I am
burning with impatience to see. Where is she? when are we to meet?”
“She is below--she is in my carriage at the door,” said Rica.
The ambassador heard the words and left the room, returning in a moment
with Maritaña on his arm. Wearied and exhausted as she was, there was
that in her native grace and beauty that caused a thrill of admiration
as she entered.
“Here is your sister, Maritaña,” said Rica, leading her to where Mary
stood, gazing with wistful eyes at the Spanish beauty. Maritaña
looked steadily at the fair loveliness before her, where timidity and
gentleness seemed impressed; and then, as if yielding to some sudden
impulse, she sprang forward, and, clasping her hand, covered it with
kisses, exclaiming with rapture,--
“Non! non la sua hermana, ma la sua esclava!--Not her sister, but her
slave.”
Among the group who with admiring eyes gazed upon this little
scene, there stood a dark, sombre-looking man, whose mean attire and
travel-worn look could not conceal a certain dignity of air and manner.
Cashel's quick glance soon discovered him, and in a moment they were
locked in a fast embrace. “My old, true-hearted comrade!” cried Roland.
“Yes, señora!” said Maritaña, as if answering the look of astonishment
of Mary; “and for all that he seems now, he is a well-born caballero,
and noble to boot.”
“Everything looks worse and worse for my prospects of companionship,”
said Lady Kilgoff, poutingly. “Mr. Corrigan--Mary--are you both bent on
desertion?”
“We are bound for Ireland, fair Lady; the little remnant of my life is a
debt I owe my country.”
“Señor Rica and your lovely daughter, will you be our companions?”
“Our road lies westward, Lady. The New World must teach us to forget the
Old one.”
“Mr. Cashel, am I to guess whither your steps will lead you?”
“It would save me the pain of deciding if you did,” said Roland, sadly.
“You come with us, Roland,” said Mr. Corrigan; “you once told me that
you felt Tubber-beg a home. Let us see if time has not erased the
impression.”
“And Maritaña, too!” cried Mary.
“And Enrique!” said Maritaña.
“Then I must be of the party,” said Dr. Tiernay. “I was never intended
by nature for an embassy physician, but as a village doctor I still feel
that I shall hold up my head with dignity.”
Rica, who meanwhile was in earnest conversation with Cashel, now
advanced into the middle of the group, and said, “Mr. Cashel once
contracted a solemn pledge to me, from which I feel no inclination to
release him. I ask him before this assemblage if it be true he promised
to marry my daughter?”
Roland grew deadly pale, but in a faint voice replied, “It is true.”
“Are you willing to keep your pledge?” said Rica, firmly.
Cashel made no answer but a slight motion of the bead.
“Then she is yours,” said Rica, placing Mary Leicester's hand in his;
while Maritaña, in a transport of feeling, fell into her father's arms
and sobbed aloud.
“Then we are all bound at once for Ireland,” cried Mr. Corrigan; “and I
trust never to leave it more.”
“I will not promise,” said Cashel, as he drew Mary closer to him. “The
memories I bear of the land are not all painless.”
“But you have seen nothing of Ireland that was Irish!” exclaimed
Tiernay, boldly. “You saw a mongrel society made up of English
adventurers, who, barren of hope at home, came to dazzle with their
fashionable vices the cordial homeliness of our humbler land. You saw
the poor pageantry of a mock court, and the frivolous pretension of a
tinsel rank. You saw the emptiness of pretended statesmanship, and the
assumed superiority of a class whose ignorance was only veiled by their
insolence. But of hearty, generous, hospitable Ireland--of the land of
warm impulses and kindly affections--you saw nothing. That is a country
yet to be explored by you; nor are its mysteries the less likely to be
unravelled that an Irish wife will be your guide to them. And now to
breakfast, for I am famishing.”
Where the characters of a tale bear a share in influencing its
catastrophe, the reader seems to have a prescriptive right to learn
something of their ultimate destiny, even though the parts they played
were merely subordinate. Many of ours here cannot lay claim to such
an interest, and were seen but like the phantoms which a magic lantern
throws upon the wall,--moving and grouping for a moment and then lost
forever.
It is from no want of respect to our reader, if we trace not the current
of such lives; it is simply from the fact that when they ceased to act,
they ceased, as it were, to exist. Are we not, all of us in the world,
acted upon and influenced by events and people,--purely passers-by,
known to-day, seen perhaps for a week, or known for a month, and yet
never after met with in all life's journey? As on a voyage many a casual
air of wind, many a wayward breeze helps us onward, and yet none inquire
“whence it cometh or whither it goeth,”--so is it in the real world; and
why not in the world of fiction, which ought to be its counterpart?
Of those in whom our interest centred, the reader knows all that we know
ourselves. Would he, or rather she, care to learn that the elder Miss
Kennyfeck never married, but became a companion to Lady Janet, who on
the death of Sir Andrew, caused by his swallowing a liniment, and taking
into his stomach what was meant for his skin, went abroad, and is still
a well-known character in the watering-places of Germany, where she
and her friend are the terror of all who tremble at evil-speaking and
slandering?
Olivia married the Reverend Knox Softly, and seems as meek as a curate's
wife ought to be, nor bears a trace of those days when she smiled
on cornets or mingled sighs with captains of hussars. If some of our
characters have fared ill in this adventurous history, others have
been more fortunate. The Dean is made a Colonial Bishop, and the
distinguished Mr. Howie's picture occupies a place in the last
Exhibition!
Meek is still a placeman: bland, gentle, and conciliating as ever,
he made at the close of the session a most affecting speech upon the
sorrows of Ireland, and drew tears from the ventilator at his picture of
her destitution!
Mrs. Kennyfeck and “Aunt Fanny” keep house together in the ancient
city of Galway. Attracted to each other by a thousand antipathies, more
cohesive than any friendship, they fight and quarrel unceasingly, and
are never known to agree, save when the enthusiasm of their malevolence
has discovered a common victim in the circle of their “friends.”
Here ends our history; nor need we linger longer with those whose
happiness, so far as worldly prosperity can make it, is at last secured.
There is but one destiny of which we have to speak. Linton was never
brought to trial; the day after his landing in England he was found dead
in the cell of his prison,--no trace of violence, nor any evidence of
poison to account for the circumstance; and whether through some agency
of his own, or by the workings of a broken heart, the fact remains a
mystery.
THE END.