They come--they come!
--Harold.
Linton passed the greater part of the night in letter-writing.
Combinations were thickening around him, and it demanded all the
watchful activity he could command to prevent himself being overtaken
by events. To a confidential lawyer he submitted a case respecting
Corrigan's title, but so hypothetically and with such reserve that
it betrayed no knowledge of his secret--for he trusted no man. Mary
Leicester's manuscript was his next care, and this he intrusted to a
former acquaintance connected with the French press, entreating his
influence to obtain it the honor of publication, and, instead of
remuneration, asking for some flattering acknowledgment of its merits.
His last occupation was to write his address to the constituency of his
borough, where high-sounding phrases and generous professions took the
place of any awkward avowals of political opinion. This finished, and
wearied by the long-sustained exertion, he threw himself on his bed. His
head, however, was far too deeply engaged to permit of sleep. The plot
was thickening rapidly--events, whose course he hoped to shape at his
leisure, were hurrying on, and although few men could summon to their
aid more of cold calculation in a moment of difficulty, his wonted calm
was now disturbed by one circumstance--this being, as he called it to
himself--Laura's treachery. No men bear breaches of faith so ill as they
who practise them with the world. To most persons the yacht voyage would
have seemed, too, a chance occurrence, where an accidental intimacy was
formed, to wane and die out with the circumstance that created it. Not
so did _he_ regard it. He read a prearranged plan in every step she had
taken--he saw in her game the woman's vanity to wield an influence over
one for whom so many contended--he knew, too, how in the great world an
“_éclat_” can always cover an “indiscretion”--and that, in the society
of that metropolis to which she aspired, the reputation of chaperoning
the rich Roland Cashel would be of incalculable service.
If Linton had often foiled deeper snares, here a deep personal wrong
disturbed his powers of judgment, and irritated him beyond all calm
prudential thoughts. Revenge upon her, the only one he had ever cared
for, was now his uppermost thought, and left little place for any other.
Wearied and worn out, he fell asleep at last, but only to be suddenly
awakened by the rattling of wheels and the quick tramp of horses on the
gravel beneath his window. The one absorbing idea pervading his mind,
he started up, muttering, “_She_ is here.” As he opened his window
and looked down, he at once perceived his mistake--Mrs. Kennyfeck's
well-known voice was heard, giving directions about her luggage--and
Linton closed the casement, half relieved and half disappointed.
For a brief space the house seemed astir. Mrs. Kennyfeck made her way
along the corridor in a mingled commentary on the handsome decorations
of the mansion and Mr. Kennyfeck's stupidity, who had put Archbold's
“Criminal Practice” into her bag instead of Debrett's “Peerage,”
while Linton could overbear a little quizzing conversation between the
daughters, wherein the elder reproached her sister for not having
the politeness to bid them “welcome.” The slight commotion gradually
subsided, all became still, but only for a brief space. Again the same
sound of crashing wheels was heard, and once more Linton flung open
his window and peered out into the darkness. It was now raining
tremendously, and the wind howling in long and dreary cadences.
“What a climate!” exclaimed a voice Linton knew to be Downie Meek's. His
plaint ran thus:--
“I often said they should pension off the Irish Secretary after three
years, as they do the Chief Justice of Gambia.”
“It will make the ground very heavy for running, I fear,” said the deep
full tone of a speaker who assisted a lady to alight.
“How you are always thinking of the turf, Lord Charles!” said she, as he
rather carried than aided her to the shelter of the porch.
Linton did not wait for the reply, but shut the window, and again lay
down.
In that half-waking state, where sleep and fatigue contest the ground
with watchfulness, Linton continued to hear the sound of several
arrivals, and the indistinct impressions became commingled till all were
lost in heavy slumber. So is it. Childhood itself, in all its guileless
freedom, enjoys no sounder, deeper sleep than he whose head is full
of wily schemes and subtle plots, when once exhausted nature gains the
victory.
So profound was that dreamless state in which he lay, that he was never
once aware that the door by which his chamber communicated with the
adjoining one had been opened, while a select committee were debating
about the disposition of the furniture, in total ignorance that he made
part of it.
“Why couldn't Sir Andrew take that small room, and leave this for me? I
like an alcove vastly,” said Lady Janet, as, candle in hand, she took a
survey of the chamber.
“Yes, my leddy,” responded Flint, who, loaded with cloaks, mantles, and
shawls, looked like an ambulating wardrobe.
“You can make him a kind of camp-bed there; he'll do very well.”
“Yes, my leddy.”
“And don't suffer that impertinent Mr. Phillis to poke his head in here
and interfere with our arrangements. These appear to me to be the best
rooms here, and I 'll take them.”
“Yes, my leddy.”
“Where's Sir Andrew?”
“He's takin' a wee drap warm, my leddy, in the butler's room; he was
ower wat in the 'dickey' behind.”
“It rained smartly, but I 'm sure the country wanted it,” dryly observed
Lady Janet.--“Well, sir, _you_ here again?” This sharp interrogatory was
addressed to Mr. Phillis, who, after a vain search for her Ladyship over
half the house, at length discovered her.
“You are not aware, my Lady,” said he, in a tone of obsequious
deference, that nearly cost him an apoplexy, “that these rooms are
reserved for my master.”
“Well, sir; and am I to understand that a guest's accommodation is a
matter of less importance than a valet's caprice? for as Mr. Cashel
never was here himself, and consequently never could have made a choice,
I believe I am not wrong in the source of the selection.”
“It was Mr. Linton, my Lady, who made the arrangement.”
“And who is Mr. Linton, sir, who ventures to give orders here?--I ask
you, who is Mr. Linton?” As there was something excessively puzzling to
Mr. Phillis in this brief interrogatory, and as Lady Janet perceived as
much, she repeated the phrase in a still louder and more authoritative
tone, till, in the fulness of the accents, they fell upon the ears
of him who, if not best able to give the answer, was, at least, most
interested in its nature.
He started, and sat up; and although, from the position of his bed in
a deep alcove he was himself screened from observation, the others were
palpable enough to his eyes.
“Yes,” cried Lady Janet, for the third time, “I ask, who is Mr. Linton?”
“Upon my life, your Ladyship has almost made me doubt if there be such a
person,” said Tom, protruding his head through the curtains.
“I vow he's in the bed yonder!” said Lady Janet, starting back. “Flint,
I think you are really too bad; this is all your doing, or yours, sir,”
turning to Phillis with a face of anger.
“Yes, my Leddy, it's a' his meddlin'.”
“Eh, Leddy Janet, what's this?” said Sir Andrew, suddenly joining the
party, after a very dangerous excursion along dark corridors and back
stairs.
“We've strayed into Mr. Linton's room, I find,” said she, gathering up
various small articles she had on entering thrown on the table. “I must
only reserve my apologies for a more fitting time and place, and wish
him 'good-night.'”
“I've even dune something o' the same wi' Mrs. Kannyfack,” said Sir
Andrew. “She was in bed, though, and so I made my retreat undiscovered.”
“I regret, Lady Janet,” said Linton, politely, “that my present toilet
does not permit me to show you to your apartment, but if you will allow
Mr. Phillis--”
“Dinna get up, man,” broke in Sir Andrew, as he half pushed the invading
party out of the door; “we'll find it vara weel, I 've na doubt.” And
in a confused hubbub of excuses and grumblings they withdrew, leaving
Linton once more to court slumber, if he could.
“I beg pardon, sir,” said Phillis, popping in his head the minute after,
“but Mr. Downie Meek' has taken the rooms you meant for Lady Janet;
they've pillaged all the chambers at either side for easy-chairs and
cushions to--”
“With all my heart; let them settle the question between them, or leave
it to arbitration. Shut the door, pray.”
“Mrs. White, too, and a large party are in the library, and I don't know
where to show them into.”
“Anywhere but here, Phillis. Good-night; there's a good man,
good-night.”
“They 're all asking for you, sir; just tell me what to say.”
“Merely that I have passed a shocking night, and request I may not be
disturbed till late in the afternoon.”
Phillis retired with a groan, and soon a confused hum of many voices
could be heard along the corridor, in every accent of irritation and
remonstrance. Self-reproaches on the mistaken and abused confidence
which had led the visitors to journey so many miles to “such a place;”
mutual condolences over misfortune; abuse of the whole establishment,
and “that insufferable puppy the valet” in particular, went round, till
at last, like a storm that bad spent its fury, a lull succeeded; one by
one the grumblers slipped away, and just as day was breaking, the house
was buried in the soundest sleep.
About an hour later, when the fresh-risen son was glistening and
glittering among the leaves, lightly tipped with the hoar-frost of an
autumnal morning, a handsomely-appointed travelling-carriage, with four
posters, drove rapidly up to the door, and an active-looking figure,
springing from the box, applied himself to the bell with a vigorous
hand, and the next minute, flinging open the carriage-door, said,
“Welcome,--at last, I am able to say,--welcome to Tub-bermore.”
A graceful person, wrapped in a large shawl, emerged, and, leaning
on his arm, entered the house; but in a moment he returned to assist
another and a far more helpless traveller, an old and feeble man, who
suffered himself to be carried, rather than walked, into the hall.
“This is Tubbermore, my Lord,” said the lady, bending down, and with a
hand slightly touching his shoulder seeming to awake his attention.
“Yes--thank you--perfectly well,” said he, in a low soft voice, while a
smile of courteous but vacant meaning stole over his sickly features.
“Not over-fatigued, my Lord?” said Roland, kindly.
“No, sir--we saw the 'Lightship' quite near us.”
“Still thinking of that dreadful night,” said her Ladyship, as she
arranged two braids of her fair brown hair more becomingly on her
forehead; and then turning to a very comely personage, who performed
a series of courtesies, like minute guns, at intervals, added, “If
you please, then, we'll retire to our apartment. Your housekeeper, I
suppose, Mr. Cashel?”
“I conclude so,” said Roland; “but I am equally a stranger here with
yourself.”
“Mrs. Moss, at your service, sir,” said the housekeeper, with another
courtesy.
“Mrs. Moss, then,” said Roland, in an undertone, “I have only to remark
that Lord and Lady Kilgoff must want for nothing here.”
“I understand, sir,” said Mrs. Moss; and whether the words, or the look
that accompanied them, should bear the blame, but they certainly made
Cashel look half angry, half ashamed.
“Then good-night--or good-morrow, I believe it should be,” said Lady
Kilgoff. “I'm sure, in charity, we should not keep you from your bed a
minute longer. You had a severe night outside.”
“Good-night--good-night, my Lord,” said Cashel; and the handsome form of
the lady moved proudly on, while the servant assisted the poor decrepid
husband slowly after.
Roland looked after them for an instant, and whether from some curiosity
to see the possessions which called him master, or that he felt
indisposed to sleep, he passed out into the lawn and stood some minutes
gazing at the strange and somewhat incongruous pile before him.
Perhaps something of disappointment mingled with his thoughts--perhaps
it was only that strange revulsion which succeeds to all long-excited
expectation, when the moment of satisfying it has come, and speculation
is at an end forever--but he was turning away, in half sadness, when he
caught sight of a hand waving to him a salute from one of the windows.
He had just time to answer the gesture, when the shutter was closed.
There was one other saw the motion, and noted well the chamber from
whence it came. Linton, awoke by the arrival of the carriage, had
watched every step that followed, and now sat, with half-drawn curtains,
eagerly marking everything that might minister to his jealous anger.
As for Cashel, he sauntered on into the wood, his mind wandering on
themes separated by nearly half the world from where his steps were
straying.