Eternal friendship let us swear,
In fraud at least--“nous serons frères.”
Robert Macaire.
Cashel passed a night of feverish anxiety. Enrique's uncertain fate was
never out of his thoughts; and if for a moment he dropped off to sleep,
he immediately awoke with a sudden start,--some fancied cry for help,
some heart-uttered appeal to him for assistance breaking in upon his
weary slumber.
How ardently did he wish for some one friend to whom he might confide
his difficulty, and from whom receive advice and counsel. Linton's
shrewdness and knowledge of life pointed him out as the fittest; but
how to reveal to his fashionable friend the secrets of that buccaneering
life he had himself so lately quitted? How expose himself to the dreaded
depreciation a “fine gentleman” might visit on a career passed amid
slavers and pirates? A month or two previous, he could not have
understood such scruples; but already the frivolities and excesses of
daily habit had thrown an air of savage rudeness over the memory of his
Western existence, and he had not the courage to brave the comments it
might suggest To this false shame had Linton brought him, acting on
a naturally sensitive nature, by those insidious and imperceptible
counsels which represent the world--meaning, thereby, that portion of it
who are in the purple and fine linen category--as the last appeal in all
cases, not alone of a man's breeding and pretensions, but of his honor
and independence.
It was not without many a severe struggle, and many a heartfelt
repining, Cashel felt himself surrender the free action of his natural
independence to the petty and formal restrictions of a code like this.
But there was an innate dread of notoriety, a sensitive shrinking from
remark, that made him actually timid about transgressing whatever he
was told to be an ordinance of fashion. To dress in a particular way;
to frequent certain places; to be known to certain people; to go out
at certain hours; and so on,--were become to his mind as the actual
requirements of his station, and often did he regret the hour when he
had parted with his untrammelled freedom to live a life of routine and
monotony.
Shrinking, then, from any confidence in Linton, he next thought of
Kennyfeck; and, although not placing a high value on his skill and
correctness in such a difficulty, he resolved, at all hazards, to
consult him on the course to be followed. He had been often told how
gladly Government favors the possessor of fortune and influence. “Now,”
thought he, “is the time to test the problem. All of mine is at their
service, if they but liberate my poor comrade.”
So saying to himself, he had just reached the hall, when the sound of
wheels approached the door. A carriage drew up, and Linton, followed by
Mr. Hoare, the money-lender, descended.
“Oh, I had entirely forgotten this affair,” cried Cashel, as he met
them; “can we not fix another day?”
“Impossible, sir; I leave town to-night.”
“Another hour to-day, then?” said Cashel, impatiently.
“This will be very difficult, sir. I have some very pressing
engagements, all of which were formed subject to your convenience in
this business.”
“But while you are discussing the postponement, you could finish the
whole affair,” cried Linton, drawing his arm within Cashel's, and
leading him along towards the library. “By Jove! it does give a man a
sublime idea of wealth, to be sure,” said he, laughing, “to see the
cool indifference with which you can propose to defer an interview
that brings you some fifteen thousand pounds. As for me, I 'd make the
Viceroy himself play 'ante-chamber,' if little Hoare paid me a visit.”
“Well, be it so; only let us despatch,” said Cashel, “for I am anxious
to catch Kennyfeck before he goes down to court.”
“I 'll not detain you many minutes, sir,” said Hoare, drawing forth a
very capacious black leather pocket-book, and opening it on the
table. “There are the bills, drawn as agreed upon,--at three and six
months,--here is a statement of the charges for interest, commission,
and--”
“I am quite satisfied it is all right,” said Cashel, pushing the paper
carelessly from him. “I have borrowed money once or twice in my life,
and always thought anything liberal which did not exceed cent per cent.”
“We are content with much less, sir, as you will perceive,” said Hoare,
smiling. “Six per cent interest, one-half commission--”
“Yes, yes; it is all perfectly correct,” broke in Cashel. “I sign my
name here--and here?”
“And here, also, sir. There is also a policy of insurance on your life.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, a usual kind of security in these cases,” said Linton; “because if
you were to die before the bills came due--”
“I see it all; whatever you please,” said Cashel, taking up his hat and
gloves. “Now, will you pardon me for taking a very abrupt leave?”
“You are forgetting a very material point, sir,” said Hoare; “this is an
order on Frend and Beggan for the money.”
“Very true. The fact is, gentlemen, my head is none of the clearest
to-day. Good-bye--good-bye.”
“Ten to one all that haste is to keep some appointment with one of
Kennyfeck's daughters,” said Hoare, as he shook the sand over the
freshly-signed bills, when the heavy bang of the hall-door announced
Cashel's departure.
“I fancy not,” said Linton, musing; “I believe I can guess the secret.”
“What am I to do with these, Mr. Linton?” said the other, not heeding
the last observation, as he took two pieces of paper from the pocket of
his book.
“What are they?” said Linton, stretching at full length on a sofa.
“Two bills, with the endorsement of Thomas Linton.”
“Then are two ten-shilling stamps spoiled and good for nothing,” replied
Linton, “which, without that respectable signature, might have helped to
ruin somebody worth ruining.”
“'One will be due on Saturday, the twelfth. The other--”
“Don't trouble yourself about the dates, Hoare. I 'll renew as often as
you please--I 'll do anything but pay.”
“Come, sir, I'll make a generous proposition: I have made a good
morning's work. You shall have them both for a hundred.”
“Thanks for the liberality,” said Linton, laughing. “You bought them for
fifty.”
“I know that very well; but remember, you were a very depreciated
stock at that time. Now, you are at a premium. I hear you have been a
considerable winner from our friend here.”
“Then you are misinformed. I have won less than the others,--far less
than I might have done. The fact is, Hoare, I have been playing a back
game,--what jockeys call, holding my stride.”
“Well, take care you don't wait too long,” said Hoare, sententiously.
“How do you mean?” said Linton, sitting up, and showing more animation
than he had exhibited before.
“You have your secret--I have mine,” replied Hoare, dryly, as he
replaced the bills in his pocket-book and clasped it.
“What if we exchange prisoners, Hoare?”
“It would be like most of your compacts, Mr. Linton, all the odds in
your own favor.”
“I doubt whether any man makes such compacts with _you_,” replied
Linton; “but why higgle this way? 'Remember,' as Peacham says, 'that we
could hang one another;' and there is an ugly adage about what happens
when people such as you and I 'fall out.'”
“So there is; and, strange enough, I was just thinking of it. Come, what
is _your_ secret?”
“Read that,” said Linton, placing Enrique's letter in his hand, while he
sat down, directly in front, to watch the effect it might produce.
Hoare read slowly and attentively; some passages he re-read three or
four times; and then, laying down the letter, he seemed to reflect on
its contents.
“You scarcely thought what kind of company our friend used to keep
formerly?” asked Linton, sneeringly.
“I knew all about that tolerably well. I was rather puzzling myself a
little about this Pedro Rica; that same trick of capturing the slavers,
and then selling the slaves, is worthy of one I could mention, not to
speak of the double treachery of informing against his comrades, and
sending the English frigate after them.”
“A deep hand he must be,” remarked Linton, coolly.
“A very deep one; but what is Cashel likely to do here?”
“Nothing; he has no clew whatever to the business; the letter itself he
had not time to read through, when he dropped it, and--”
“I understand--perfectly. This accounts for his agitation. Well, I must
say, _my_ secret is the better of the two, and, as usual, you have made
a good bargain.”
“Not better than _your_ morning's work here, Hoare; confess that”
“Ah, there will not be many more such harvests to reap,” said he,
sighing.
“How so? his fortune is scarcely breached as yet”
“He spends money fast,” said Hoare, gravely; “even now, see what sums
he has squandered; think of the presents he has lavished,--diamonds,
horses--”
“As to the Kennyfeck affair, it was better than getting into a
matrimonial scrape, which I fancy I have rescued him from.”
“Oh, no, nothing of the kind. Pirate as he is, he would n't venture on
that.”
“Why so?--what do you mean?”
“Simply, that he is married already; at least, that species of betrothal
which goes for marriage in his free and easy country.”
“Married!” exclaimed Linton, in utter amazement; “and he never even
hinted in the most distant manner to this.”
“And yet the obligation is sufficiently binding, according to Columbian
law, to give his widow the benefit of all property he might die
possessed of in that Republic.”
“And he knows this himself?”
“So well, that he has already proposed a very large sum as forfeit to
break the contract.”
“And this has been refused?”
“Yes. The girl's father has thought it better to follow your own plan,
and make 'a waiting race,' well knowing, that if Cashel does not return
to claim her as his wife,--or that, which is not improbable, she may
marry more advantageously,--he will always be ready to pay the forfeit.”
“May I learn his name?”
“No!”
“Nor his daughter's--the Christian name, I mean.”
“To what end? It would be a mere idle curiosity, for I should exact a
pledge of your never divulging it.”
“Of course,” said Linton, carelessly. “It was, as you say, a mere idle
wish. Was this a love affair, then, for it has a most commercial air?”
“I really don't know that; I fancy that they were both very young, and
very ignorant of what they were pledging, and just as indifferent to the
consequences.”
“She was handsome, this--”
“Maritaña is beautiful, they say,” said Hoare, who inadvertently let
slip the name he had refused to divulge.
Linton's quick ear caught it at once, but as rapidly affected not to
notice it, as he said,--
“But I really do not see as yet how this affects what we were just
speaking of?”
“It will do so, however--and ere long. These people, who were immensely
rich some time back, are now, by one of the convulsions so frequent
in those countries, reduced to absolute poverty. They will, doubtless,
follow Cashel here, and seek a fulfilment of his contract. I need not
tell you, Mr. Linton, what must ensue on such a demand; it would be
hard to say whether acceptance or refusal would be worse. In a word,
the father-in-law is a man of such a character, there is only one thing
would be more ruinous than his enmity, and that is, any alliance with
him. Let him but arrive in this country, and every gentleman of station
and class will fall back from Cashel's intimacy; and even those--I 'll
not mention names,” said he, smiling--“who could gloss over some of
their prejudices with gold-leaf, will soon discover that a shrewder eye
than Cashel's will be on them, and that all attempts to profit by his
easiness of temper and reckless nature will be met by one who has never
yet been foiled in a game of artifice and deceit.”
“Then I perceive we have a very short tether,” said Linton, gravely;
“when may this worthy gentleman be-looked for?”
“At any moment. I believe early in spring, however, will be the time.”
“Well, that gives us a few months; during which I must contrive to get
in for this borough of Derraheeny--But hark! is that a carriage at
the door?--yes, by Jove! the Kennyfecks. I remember, he had asked them
to-day to come and see his pictures. I say, Hoare, step out by the
back way; we must not be caught together here. I 'll make my escape
afterwards.”
Already the thundering knock of the footman resounded through lie house,
and Hoare, not losing a moment, left the library, and hastened through
the garden at the rear of the house; while Linton, seizing some writing
materials, hurried upstairs, and established himself in a small boudoir
off one of the drawing-rooms, carefully letting down the Venetians as he
entered, and leaving the chamber but half lighted; this done, he drew a
screen in front of him, and waited patiently.