Roland Cashel, Volume I (of II)

CHAPTER XVI. WHAT ROLAND OVERHEARD AT THE MONEY LENDER’S

“Good night, or rather good morrow,” said Linton, as he stood with Cashel on the steps of his newly taken residence.

Cashel made no reply; his thoughts were recurring to the scene of the late debauch, and in some pangs of self-reproach he was recalling the heavy sum he had lost. “You spoke of my being able to raise this money, Linton, without Kennyfeck’s knowing; for I am really ashamed of the affair. Tell me how can it be done?”

“Nothing easier.”

“Nay, but when? for, if I must confess it, I can think of nothing else till it be arranged.”

“What a timid conscience yours must be,” said Linton, laughing, “that cannot sleep lest the ghosts of his I. O.‘s should haunt him.”

“The fact is so, nevertheless. The very gloomy moments of my life have been associated with play transactions. This shall be the last.”

“What folly! You suffer mere passing impressions to wear deep into your nature, – you that should be a man of nerve and vigor. What can it possibly signify that you have thrown away a few hundreds, or a few thousands either?”

“Very little as regards the money, I own; but I’m not certain how long my indifference respecting play might last. I am not sure how long I could endure being beaten – for that is the sense losing suggests – without a desire to conquer in turn. Now up to this I have played to oblige others, without interest or excitement of any kind. What if I should change and become a gambler from choice?”

“Why, if you propound the question with that solemn air, you’ll almost frighten me into believing it would be something very terrible; but if you ask me simply what would be the result of your growing fond of play, I ‘ll tell you fairly, it’s a pleasure gained, – one of the few resources which only a rich man can afford with impunity, so much the more fascinating that it can be indulged in such perfect accordance with every humor of a man’s mind. If you are so inclined, you play low, and coquet with fortune, or if lavishly given, you throw the reins loose and go free. Now it seems to me that nothing could better suit the careless, open-handed freedom of your habits than the vacillations of high play. It’s the only way that even for a moment you can taste the sensation of being hard pressed, while in the high flood of luck you can feel that gushing sense of power that somehow seems to be the secret soul of gold!”

“Men must lose with a very different look upon their features before I can win with the ecstasy you speak of,” cried Cashel. “But where are we straying to, – what part of the town have we got into?”

“This is the cattle-market,” said Linton, “and I have brought you here because I saw you ‘d not close your eyes till that silly affair was settled; and here we are now at Dan Hoare’s counting-house, the man of all others to aid us. Follow me; I ought to know the stairs well, in daylight or dark.”

Cautiously following his guide, Cashel mounted a half-rotten, creaky stair, which passed up between two damp and mildewed walls, and entered a small chamber whose one window looked out in a dirty court. The only furniture consisted of two deal chairs and a table, on which various inscriptions made by penknives betokened the patience and zeal of former visitors.

Linton passed on to the end of the chamber, where was a narrow door, but suddenly halted as his eye caught a little slip of paper attached to a sliding panel, and which bore the word “Engaged.” “Ha!” cried he, “one here already! You see, early as it is, Dan is at work, discounting and protesting as usual. By the way, I have forgot one essential: he never gives a stamp, and so I must provide one. Wait for me here; there is a place in the neighborhood where they can be had, and I ‘ll be back presently.”

Cashel sat himself down in the cheerless little den, thinking of the many who might have waited there before, in so many frames of anxiety and torturing suspense. His own memory could recall a somewhat similar character in Geiz-heimer, and while he was thus remembering some features of the past he fell into a reverie, forgetting time and place together, the sound of voices from the adjoining room serving rather to lull than arouse his attention. At last a word caught his ear. He started suddenly, and, looking about him for a second, experienced almost a difficulty to remember where he was. Could it be possible, or was it mere fancy? but he believed he heard his name mentioned by some one within that room. Less caring to know how or by whom the name was spoken than if the fact were actually so, he leaned forward on his chair, and bent his ear to listen, when he heard, in a voice louder than had been used before, the following words: —

“It may be all as you say, sir; I won’t pretend to throw a doubt upon your words; but, as a mere man of business, I may be permitted to say that this promise, however satisfactory to your friend’s feelings, is not worth a sixpence in law. Corrigan asks for a renewal of his lease, and the other says, ‘Keep your holding, – don’t disturb yourself,’ – and there he is, a tenant at will. Now, for the purposes you have in view towards me, that pledge goes for nothing. I cannot renew these bills upon such frail security. If the old man cannot find means to meet them, Leicester must, that’s all.”

“Leicester is a villain!” cried another and a deeper voice, whose tones seemed not quite strange to Roland’s ears. “He has ruined my poor old friend; he will soon leave him houseless, and he threatens to leave him almost friendless too.”

“He told me,” said the other, “he should certainly claim his daughter, and means to return next summer for that purpose.”

“I almost hope poor Con will never live to see that day,” said the former, with a heavy sigh.

“Well, to return to our own affair, sir, I tell you frankly, I don’t consider Cashel’s promise deserving of any consideration. He doubtless means to keep it; that’s the very most anybody can say about it. But remember what a life he is leading: he has drawn about thirty thousand out of Latrobe’s hands in three months, – no one knows for what. He has got among a set of men who play high, and cannot pay if they lose. Now, his estate is a good one; but it can’t last forever. My notion is that the young fellow will end as he began, and become a buccaneer once more.”

“He has a long course to run ere that comes,” said the other.

“Not so long as you fancy. There are demands upon him from quarters you little suspect, or that, for the moment, he little suspects himself. It would surprise you to hear that he is in Leicester’s hands too.”

“Roland Cashel – Mr. Cashel – in Leicester’s hands! How do you mean?”

Just at this instant Linton’s foot was heard ascending the stairs, and Cashel, whose eagerness to hear the remainder became a perfect torture of anxiety, was forced to lose the opportunity.

“What a hunt I have had!” said Linton, as he entered, flushed and weary-looking. “Our amount is rather above the ordinary mark, and I found it almost impossible to procure the stamps. Are you tired waiting?”

“No, – nothing to speak of,” said Cashel, confusedly.

“Well, I fancy our friend here has had much more than his share of an audience. I’ll see, and unearth him.”

And so saying, Linton knocked with his cane at the door. A low murmuring of voices succeeded, the sound of feet followed, and soon after the door was opened, and a small, thin, pale-faced man in black appeared.

“Good morning, Mr. Hoare. Here have we been playing antechamber to your serene highness for full an hour. This is Mr. Roland Cashel, Mr. Hoare, who wishes to make your acquaintance.”

The little man turned his quick gray eyes towards Cashel with a most scrutinizing keenness; but, as suddenly withdrawing them, invited both to enter.

“Be seated, gentlemen. Pardon the humble accommodation of this place. Take a chair, Mr. Linton.”

“We want tin, Mr. Hoare,” said Linton, slapping his boot with his cane, – “that most universal and vulgar want My friend here desires to raise a sum without having recourse to his agent, and I believe no man can aid in a little secret-service transaction like yourself.”

“Is the sum a large one, sir?” said Hoare, addressing Cashel.

“I cannot tell you exactly,” said Cashel, in some confusion at the confession of his ignorance. “I fancy it must be close on ten or twelve thousand pounds.”

“More like twenty!” cried Linton, coolly. Then, turning to Hoare, he went on: “My friend here is, happily for him, very little skilled in affairs of this kind, and, as his security is about the best that can be offered, he need not buy his experience very dearly. Now just tell us, frankly, how, when, and on what terms he can have this money.”

“Money is scarce just now, sir,” said Hoare; “but as to securities, Mr. Cashel’s bills are quite sufficient. There is no necessity for any legal expenses whatever. I need not say that the transaction shall be perfectly secret: in fact, I’ll keep the bills in my own hands till due.”

“There, that’s the man I told you he was,” cried Linton. “A Croesus in generosity as in gold. I would I were your son, or your son-in-law, Hoare.”

“Too much honor, Mr. Linton,” said the money-lender, whose slight flush did not betoken a concurrence in his own words. “Now to business,” continued he, addressing Cashel. “If you favor me with your name on four bills for five thousand each, and the accompanying charges for interest, discount, commission, and so on, I ‘ll engage that you have this money within the week.”

“Could it not be to-morrow? I should like greatly to have the whole off my mind; and as I mean not to play again – ”

“Pooh, pooh,” said Linton, stopping an explanation he was by no means pleased Hoare should hear; “time enough for resolutions, and time enough for payment too. By the end of the week, Hoare, will do perfectly. You can bring the bills with you to my quarters, say on Saturday morning, and we ‘ll drive over to Mr. Cashel’s.”

“Very well. I ‘ll be punctual. At eleven on Saturday expect me. May I bring that little thing of yours for two hundred pounds with it, Mr. Linton?”

“Of course you may not. Where do you expect me to find money for the debts of last year? My dear Hoare, I have no more memory for such things than I have for the sorrows of childhood.”

“Ah, very well, sir, we’ll keep it over,” said Hoare, smiling.

“Let him bring it,” whispered Cashel, “and include it in one of my bills. There’s nothing so worrying as an overhanging debt.”

“Do you think so?” replied Linton. “Bless me, I never felt that. A life without duns is like a sky without a cloud, very agreeable for a short time, but soon becoming wearisome from very monotony. You grow as sick of uninterrupted blue as ever you did of impending rain and storm. Let me have the landscape effect of light and shadow over existence. The brilliant bits are then ten times as glorious in color, and the dark shadows of one’s mortgages only heighten the warmth of the picture. Ask Hoare, there, he’ll tell you. I actually cherish my debts.”

“Very true, sir; you cannot bear to part with them either.”

“Well said, old Moses; the ‘interest’ they inspire is too strong for one’s feelings. But hark! I hear some fresh arrivals without. Another boat-load of the d – d has crossed the Styx.”

“Thanks for the simile, sir,” said Hoare, smiling faintly, – “on Saturday.”

“On Saturday,” repeated Linton.

Cashel lingered as he left the room; a longing desire to speak one word, to ask one question of Hoare – who was this Leicester of whom he spoke? – was uppermost in his mind, and yet he did not dare to own he had heard the words. He could have wished, too, to communicate his thoughts to Linton, but a secret fear told him that perhaps the mystery might be one he would not wish revealed.

“Why so thoughtful, Roland?” said Linton, after traversing some streets in silence. “My friend Hoare has not terrified you?”

“No, I was not thinking of him,” said Cashel. “What kind of a character does he bear?”

“Pretty much that of all his class. Sharp enough, when sharpness is called for, and seemingly liberal if liberality pays better. To me he has been ever generous. Why, Heaven knows; I suppose the secret will out one of these days. I’m sure I don’t ask for it.”

Linton’s flippancy, for the first time, was distasteful to Cashel. If the school in which he was bred taught little remorse about the sin of incurring debt, it inculcated, however, a manly self-reliance to clear off the encumbrance by some personal effort, and he by no means sympathized with the cool indifference of Linton’s philosophy. Linton, always shrewd enough to know when he had not “made a hit,” at once turned the conversation into another channel, by asking at what time Cashel proposed to receive his visitors at Tubbermore.

“Is the honor seriously intended me?” said Cashel, “or is it merely a piece of fashionable quizzing, this promised visit, for I own I scarcely supposed so many fine people would like to encounter the hard usage of such an old ruin as I hear this must be.”

“You’ll have them to a certainty. I doubt if there will be a single apology. I know at this instant the most urgent solicitations have been employed to procure invitations.”

“With all my heart, then,” cried Cashel; “only remember the order of the course depends on you. I know nothing of how they ought to be entertained or amused. Take the whole affair into your own hands, and I shall concur in everything.”

“Originality is always better than imitation, but still, if one cannot strike out a totally new line, what do you think of taking old Mathews of Johnstown for our model, and invite all our guests with free permission to dine, breakfast, and sup at what hour and in what parties they please? This combines the unbridled freedom of an inn with the hospitality of a country house. Groups form as fancy dictates. New combinations spring up each day, – no fatigue, no ennui, can ensue with such endless changes in companionship, and you yourself, instead of the fatiguing duties of a host, are at liberty, like any of your guests, to join this party or that.”

“I like the notion immensely. How would our friends take it, for that is the point?”

“It would be popular with every one, for it will suit your people, who know and like to mix with every set in society, and at the same time gratify your ‘exclusives,’ who can form their own little coteries with all the jealous selection they love. Besides, it avoids another and a great difficulty. Had you received in ordinary fashion, you must have asked some lady friend to have done the honors for you. This would have been a matter of the greatest embarrassment. The Kennyfecks have not rank enough; old Lady Janet would have frightened every one away; Mrs. White would have filled the house with her own ‘blues,’ and banished every one else; and as for Lady Kilgoff, who, besides being a very pretty woman and well-mannered, has an exceedingly fascinating way with strangers, ‘my Lord’ is so jealous, so absurdly, madly jealous, that she dare not ask after the success of a shooting-party without his suspecting an allegorical allusion to Cupid and his shafts.”

“Well, then, let us resolve to receive ‘en Mathews;’ and now, when shall we name the day?”

“Let us wait till the result of the division be known in Parliament. A change of ministers is hinted at, and if it were to occur, you’ll have every one hastening away to his county for the new election; by Saturday we shall learn everything, and that will be time enough.”

“In any case, I had better set off and see what can be done to put the house in a fit state to receive them.”

“Leave all that to me. I ‘ll take Popham, the architect, down with me, and you need never trouble your head about the matter. It’s quite clear people who accept an invitation like the present must put up with a hundred small penalties on convenience. The liberty of such a house always repays whatever is wanting on the score of ceremonial and order, and your fine guests, who would perhaps give themselves airs towards the Kennyfecks and their set if meeting them elsewhere, will here affect, at least, a tone of good-natured equality, just as in revolutionary times people shake hands with their hairdresser.”

“But how to amuse or even occupy them! that is a great puzzle to me.”

“Leave them perfectly to their own devices. In fun there should be always free-trade. Protection ruins it. But all this is Egyptian to you, so go to bed and sleep soundly, and leave the cares of state to me.

“Then I ‘ll think no more of the matter,” said Cashel; “and so good-by.”

“Now for a twenty-four hours’ sleep,” said Linton, “and then once more to roll the stone of life, which, by the way, gives the lie to the old adage, for unquestionably it does ‘gather moss’ as we grow older.”

CHAPTER XVII. SCANNING THE POLITICAL HORIZON

Confound their politics!

Linton was very far from indulging that dreamy inactivity of which he spoke. Plans and schemes of various kinds occupied his thoughts too intently to admit of slumber. Indeed, his theory was, that, if a man could not dream of some happy mode of advancing his fortune, sleep was a fearful inroad upon his worldly career.

He at once hastened home to read his letters and newspapers, and so important did their intelligence seem, that he only delayed to change his dress and eat a hurried breakfast, when he repaired to the Castle, where a few minutes previously the secretary, Mr. Downie Meek, had arrived from his lodge in the Park.

“Safe once more, Meek,” said he, entering the official chamber, where, immersed in printed returns, petitions, and remonstrances, sat the busy secretary.

“Ah, Linton! you are the bien venu. We are to have another heat for the race, though I own it scarcely looks promising.”

“Particularly as you are going to carry weight,” said Linton, laughing. “It’s true, I suppose, that the Irish party have joined you?”

“There was no help for it,” said the secretary, with a despondent gesture of the eyebrows; “we had no alternative save accepting the greasy voices, or go out. Some deemed the former the better course, but others remembered the story of the Brahmin, who engaged to teach the ass to speak in ten years, or else forfeit his own head.”

“And perfectly right,” interrupted Linton. “The Brahmin had only three chances in his favor. Now, your king may die too, and you have any number of asses to be got rid of.”

“Let us be serious, Tom. What are our prospects at a general election? Are the landed gentry growing afraid of the O’Gorman party, or are they still hanging back, resentful of Peel’s desertion?”

“They are very conservative, – that is, they want to keep their properties and pay the least possible taxation. Be cautious, however, and you have them all your own. The Irish party being now with you, begin by some marked favor to the Protestant Church. Hear me out. This will alarm the Romanists, and cause a kind of split amongst them. Such as have, or expect to have place, will stand by you; the others will show fight. You have then an opportunity of proclaiming yourselves a strong Protestant Cabinet, and the ultras, who hate Peel, will at least affect to believe you. While the country is thus agitated, go to the elections. Your friends, amid so many unsettled opinions, cannot be expected to take pledges, or, better still, they cannot accept any, subject to various contingencies never to arise.”