Roland Cashel, Volume II (of II)

CHAPTER VII. FORGERY

We left Mr. Linton and Mr. Hammond seated opposite each other, the former lost in seeming reflection, the latter awaiting with eager expectancy for something which might explain the few strange words he had just listened to.

“May I venture on a bit of confidence, Mr. Hammond?” said Linton, clearing his brow as he spoke; “you’ll never betray me?”

“Never – on my honor.”

“Never, willingly, I well know; but I mean, will you strictly keep what I shall tell you – for yourself alone – because, as I am the only depositary of the fact, it would be inevitable ruin to me if it got about?”

“I give you my solemn pledge – I promise.”

“Quite enough – well – ” Here he leaned on the other’s shoulder, and putting his lips close to his ear, said: “Malone will retire – Repton will be chief – and” – here he prodded the listener with his finger – “Attorney-General.”

“You mean me, sir – do you mean that I am to be Attor – ”

“Hush!” said Linton, in a long low note; “do not breathe it, even in your sleep! If I know these things, it is because I am trusted in quarters where men of far more influence are hoodwinked. Were I once to be suspected of even this much, it would be ‘up’ with me forever.”

“My dear friend – will you pardon me for calling you so? – I ‘d suffer the torture of the rack before I ‘d divulge one syllable of it. I own to you, my family and my friends in general have not been patient under what they deemed the Government neglect of me.”

“And with too good reason, sir,” said Linton, assuming the look and air of a moralizer. “And do you know why you have been passed over, Mr. Hammond? I’ll tell you, sir; because your talents were too brilliant, and your integrity too spotless, for promotion, in times when inferior capacities and more convenient consciences were easier tools to handle! – Because you are not a man who, once placed in a conspicuous position, can be consigned to darkness and neglect when his capabilities have been proved to the world! – Because your knowledge, sir, your deep insight into the political condition of this country, would soon have placed you above the heads of the very men who appointed you. But times are changed; capable men, zealous men – ay, sir, and I will say, great men – are in request now. The public will have them, and ministers can no longer either overlook their claim or ignore their merit. You may rely upon it; I see something of what goes on behind the scenes of the great State drama, and be assured that a new era is about to dawn on the really able men of this country.”

“Your words have given me a degree of encouragement, Mr. Linton, that I was very far from ever expecting to receive. I have often deplored – not on my own account, I pledge my honor – but I have grieved for others, whom I have seen here, unnoticed and undistinguished by successive Governments.”

“Well, there is an end of the system now, and it was time!” said Linton, solemnly. “But to come back. Is there no chance of stealing you away, even for a couple of days?”

“Impossible, my dear Mr. Linton. The voluminous mass of evidence yonder relates to an appeal case, in which I am to appear before ‘the Lords.’ It is a most important suit; and I am at this very moment on my way to London, to attend a consultation with the Solicitor-General.”

“How unfortunate! – for us, I mean – for, indeed, your client cannot join in the plaint. By the way, your mention of ‘the Lords’ reminds me of a very curious circumstance. You are aware of the manner in which my friend Cashel succeeded to this great estate here?”

“Yes. I was consulted on a point of law in it, and was present at the two trials.”

“Well, a most singular discovery has been made within the last few days. I suppose you remember that the property had been part of a confiscated estate, belonging to an old Irish family, named Corrigan?”

“I remember perfectly, – a very fine old man, that used to be well known at Daly’s Club, long ago.”

“The same. Well, this old gentleman has been always under the impression that shortly after the accession of George III. the Act of Confiscation was repealed, and a full pardon granted to his ancestors for the part they had taken in the events of the time.”

“I never knew the descendants of one of those ‘confiscated’ families who had not some such hallucination,” said Hammond, laughing; “they cling to the straw, like the drowning man.”

“Exactly,” said Linton. “I quite agree with you. In the present case, however, the support is better than a straw; for there is an actual bona fide document extant, purporting to be the very pardon in question, signed by the king, and bearing the royal seal.”

“Where is this? In whose possession?” said Hammond, eagerly.

Linton did not heed the question, but continued, —

“By a very singular coincidence, the discovery is not of so much moment as it might be; because, as Cashel is about to marry the old man’s granddaughter – his sole heiress – no change in the destination of the estate would ensue, even supposing Corrigan’s title to be all that he ever conceived it. However, Cashel is really anxious on the point: he feels scruples about making settlements and so forth, with the consciousness that he may be actually disposing of what he has no real claim to. He is a sensitive fellow; and yet he dreads, on the other side, the kind of exposure that would ensue in the event of this discovery becoming known. The fact is, his own ancestors were little better than bailiffs on the estate; and the inference from this new-found paper would lead one to say, not over-honest stewards besides.”

“But if this document be authentic, Mr. Linton, Cashel’s title is not worth sixpence.”

“That is exactly what I ‘m coming to,” said Linton, who, the reader may have already perceived, was merely inventing a case regarding a marriage, the better to learn from the counsel the precise position the estate would stand in towards Mary Leicester’s husband. “If this document be authentic, Cashel’s title is invalid. Now, what would constitute its authenticity?”

“Several circumstances: the registry of the pardon in the State Paper Office – the document itself, bearing the unmistakable evidences of its origin – the signature and seal – in fact, it could not admit of much doubt when submitted to examination.”

“I told Cashel so,” said Linton. “I said to him, ‘My opinion unquestionably is that the pardon is genuine; but,’ said I, ‘when we have Hammond here, he shall see it, and decide the question.’”

“Ah! that is impossible – ”

“So I perceive,” broke in Linton; “we then hoped otherwise.”

“Why did n’t you bring it over with you?”

“So I did,” said Linton; “here it is.” And opening a carefully folded envelope, he placed the important document in the lawyer’s bands.

Hammond spread it out upon the table, and sat down to read it over carefully, while Linton, to afford the more time to the scrutiny, took the opportunity of descending to his breakfast.

He stopped as he passed the bar to say a few words to the landlord, – one of those easy speeches he knew so well how to make about the “state of trade,” “what travellers were passing,” and “how the prospect looked for the coming season,” – and then, when turning away, as if suddenly recollecting himself, said: —

“By the way, Swindon, you are a cautious fellow, that a man may trust with a secret – you know who the gentleman is that came with me?”

“No, sir; never saw him before. Indeed, I did not remark him closely.”

“All the better, Swindon. He does not fancy anything like scrutiny. He is Mr. Roland Cashel.”

“Of Tubbermore, sir?”

“The same. Hush, man, – be cautious! He has come up here about a little law business on which he desired to consult Mr. Hammond, and now we have a document for signature, if you could only find us another person equally discreet with yourself to be the witness, for these kind of things, when they get about in the world, are misrepresented in a thousand ways. Do you happen to have any confidential man here would suit us?”

“If my head waiter, sir, Mr. Nipkin, would do; he writes an excellent hand, and is a most reserved, cautious young man.”

“Perfectly, Swindon; he’ll do perfectly. Will you join us upstairs, where my friend is in waiting? Pray, also, give Nipkin a hint not to bestow any undue attention on Mr. Cashel, who wants to be incog. so far as may be; as for yourself, Swindon, no hint is necessary.”

A graceful bow from the landlord acknowledged the compliment, and he hastened to give the necessary orders, while Linton continued his way to the apartment where the Italian awaited him.

“Impatient for breakfast, I suppose, Giovanni?” said Linton, gayly, as he entered. “Well? sit down, and let us begin. Already I have done more than half the business which brought me here, and we may be on our way back within an hour.”

Giovanni seated himself at the table without any of that constraint a sense of inferiority enforces, and began his breakfast in silence.

“You understand,” said Linton, “that when you have written the name ‘Roland Cashel,’ and are asked if that be your act and deed, you have simply to say ‘Yes;’ a bow – a mere nod, indeed – is sufficient.”

“I understand,” said he, thoughtfully, as if reflecting over the matter with himself. “I conclude, then,” added he, after a pause, “that the sooner I leave the country afterwards, the better – I mean the safer – for me.”

“As to any positive danger,” said Linton, affecting an easy carelessness, “there is none. The document is merely a copy of one already signed by Mr. Cashel, but which I have mislaid, and I am so ashamed of my negligence I cannot bring myself to confess it.”

This tame explanation Linton was unable to finish without faltering, for the Italian’s keen and piercing dark eyes seemed to penetrate into him as he was speaking.

“With this I have nothing to do,” said he, abruptly. “It is quite clear, however, that Giovanni Santini is not Roland Cashel; nor, if there be a penalty on what I have done, am I so certain that he whose name I shall have forged will undergo it in my place.”

“You talk of forgery and penalties as if we were about to commit a felony,” said Linton, laughing. “Pray give me the cream. There is really no such peril in the case, and if there were, it would be all mine.”

“I know nothing of your laws here – I desire to know nothing of them,” said the Italian, haughtily; “but if it should be my lot to be arraigned, let it be for something more worthy of manhood. I ‘ll sign the paper, but I shall leave the country at once.”

No words could have been more grateful to Linton’s ears than these; he was, even at that very moment, considering in his own mind in what way to disembarrass himself of his “friend” when this service should have been effected.

“As you please, Giovanni,” said be, gravely. “I regret to part company so soon with one whose frankness so well accords with my own humor.”

The Italian’s lips parted slightly, and a smile of cold and dubious meaning flitted across his dark features.

“We part here, then,” said he, rising from the table. “There is a vessel leaves this for Bristol at noon to-day; it is already past eleven o’clock.”

“I’ll not delay,” said Linton, rising and ringing the bell; “send Mr. Swindon here,” said he to the waiter, while he opened a parchment document upon the table, and after hastily glancing over it, folded it carefully again, leaving uppermost the margin, where certain pencil-marks indicated the places of signature. “This is yours, Giovanni,” said he, placing a weighty purse in the Italian’s hand, who took it with all the easy indifference of one whose feelings of shame were not too acute. “Remember what I have – ”

There was no time to finish, for already a light tap was-heard at the door, and the landlord, followed by the head waiter, entered.

“We were pressed for time, Swindon,” said Linton, as he examined the pens, which, like all hotel ones, seemed invented for ruling music paper, “and have sent for you to witness the signature to this document. Here, Cashel, you are to sign here,” said he, turning to Giovanni, who-had just lighted a cigar, and was smoking away with all imaginable coolness. The Italian took the pen, and with a bold and steady hand wrote the words “Roland Cashel.”

“Mr. Swindon at this side; Mr. Nipkin’s name comes underneath.”

“You acknowledge this for your hand and seal, sir?” said Swindon, turning towards Giovanni.

“I do,” said the Italian, in an accent which did not betray the slightest emotion, nor any trace of foreign pronunciation.

“All right; thank you, Swindon – thanks, Mr. Nipkin,” said Linton, as, with an elation of countenance all his efforts could not suppress, he folded up the parchment; “and now, will you order my horses at once?”

The landlord and the waiter left the room, and Linton found himself once more alone with Giovanni; the only consolation he felt being that it was for the last time. There was a pause, in which each gazed steadily at the other without a word. At last, with a long-drawn sigh, Giovanni exclaimed, —

“Perdio! but it is hard to do.” And with this he pressed his hat upon his brows, and waving a careless farewell with his hand, walked out, leaving Linton in a state of amazement not altogether unmingled with fear. Tom watched the tall and stalwart figure of the foreigner as he moved through the crowd that filled the quay, and it was with a sense of relief he could not explain to himself that he saw him cross the plank that led to the steamer, on whose deck numerous passengers were already assembled.

The bell rang out in warning of her approaching departure, and Linton kept his eyes intently fixed upon the one figure, which towered above the others around him. Already the scene of bustle portended the moment of starting, and some were hastening on board, as others, with not less eagerness, were endeavoring to get on shore; when, just at that instant, the landlord’s voice was heard.

“Mr. Hammond is just going off, sir; he wants to say one word to you before he goes.”

Mr. Hammond had just taken his seat in his carriage, and sat with one hand upon the door, awaiting Linton’s coming.

“I am run sharp for time, Mr. Linton,” cried he, “and have not a second to lose. I wish sincerely I could have given a little more time to that document – not indeed that any feature of difficulty exists in forming an opinion, only that I believe I could have put your friend on the safe road as to his future course.”

“You regard it then as authentic – as a good and valid instrument?” said Linton, in a low but eager voice.

“So much so,” said Hammond, lowering his tone to a mere whisper, “that if he does not marry the young lady in question, I would not give him twenty shillings for his title.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Linton, leaning his head on the door of the carriage, as if to conceal his chagrin, but in reality to hide the exuberance of his joy; “and this is your candid opinion of the case?”

“I am willing to stake my fame as a lawyer on the issue; for, remember, the whole history of the suit is familiar to me. I recollect well the flaws in the course of proofs adduced, and I see how this discovery reconciles each discrepancy, and supplies every missing link of the chain.”

“Poor fellow! – it will be a sad blow for him,” said Linton, with admirably feigned emotion.

“But it need not, Mr. Linton; the church can tie a knot not even an equity suit can open. Let him marry.”

“Ay, if he will.”

“Tell him he must; tell him what I now tell you, that this girl is the greatest heiress in the land, and that he is a beggar. Plain speaking, Mr. Linton, but time is short Good-bye.”

“One word more. Is the document of such a nature that leaves him no case whatever? Is all the ground cut away beneath his feet?”

“Every inch of it. Once more, good-bye. Here is your parchment; keep it safely. There are few men in this city hold in their hands a paper of such moment.”

“I’ll take good care of it,” said Linton, sententiously; “and so good-bye, and a safe journey to you. I ‘ll not forget our conversation of this morning; Meek shall hear of it before I sleep to-night. Adieu.”

“The richest heiress in the land, and Cashel a beggar,” repeated Linton, slowly, to himself, as the carriage drove off. “Charley Frobisher would say, ‘Hedge on the double event,’ but I ‘ll keep my book.” And, with this slang reflection, he sauntered into the inn to wait for his horses.

CHAPTER VIII. ROLAND DISCOVERS THAT HE HAS OVERDRAWN

Long before the guests of Tubbermore were astir, Cashel sat in his library awaiting the arrival of Dr. Tiernay. In obedience to Roland’s request, Mr. Kennyfeck was present, and affected to look over books or out of windows, – to scan over prints or inspect maps, – anything, in short, which should pass the time and shorten the interval of waiting, doubly awkward from being the first moment he had been alone with Cashel since his arrival. Cashel was silent and absorbed, and, more intent upon following out the train of his own thoughts, never noticed the various arts by which Kennyfeck affected to interest himself. The solicitor, too, bent from time to time a stealthy look on the young man, on whose features he had rarely seen the same traces of deep reflection.

At last, with a half start, as if suddenly awaking, Cashel sat up in his chair, and said, —

“Have I explained to you what Dr. Tiernay’s business is here this morning? It is to make a proposition from Mr. Corrigan for the sale of his interest in Tubber-beg. He wishes to leave the country and go abroad.”

“His interest, sir,” replied Kennyfeck, calmly, “although more valuable to you than to any one else, must be a matter of small amount; for years back, he has done little more than vegetate on the property, without capital or skill to improve it.”

“I ‘m not asking you to appraise it, just yet,” said Roland, snappishly; “I was simply informing you of the object of the gentleman’s visit. It is the advantage of this purchase that I wished you to consider, not its cost.”

“The cost will define the advantage, sir,” rejoined Kennyfeck, “particularly as the demand may be high, and the payment inconvenient.”

“How do you mean, inconvenient?”

Kennyfeck hesitated. There was something in the hurried abruptness of the question, as well as in the excited expression of the questioner’s face, that confused him; so that Cashel had time to repeat the words before he could reply.

“Is it that I am straitened for money?” said he, passionately.

“Not quite – that – sir,” replied Kennyfeck, stopping between every word. “You have resources – very great resources – untouched, and you have considerable sums in foreign securities, intact – ”

“Never mind these,” broke in Roland, hurriedly. “How do we stand with those London fellows?”

Kennyfeck shook his head gravely, but without speaking.

“I pray you, sir,” said Roland, in a voice of hardly suppressed passion, “keep pantomime for another moment, or a keener interpreter of it, and condescend, in plain English, to answer me my last question.”

“There is no difficulty with Bigger and Swain, sir,” said Kennyfeck, as his cheek grew slightly red. “They will neither be pressing for a settlement, nor exacting when making it; besides, you have not overdrawn very heavily, After all.”

“Overdrawn, said you? – did you say overdrawn, Mr. Kennyfeck?”

“Yes, sir. In the account last forwarded, your debit was eleven thousand four hundred and forty pounds; since that you have drawn – but not for any large amount.”

“Overdrawn!” repeated Cashel, as though his thoughts had never wandered beyond the first shock of that fact; then rallying into something like his habitual easy humor, he said, “I am, I need not tell you, the stupidest man of business that ever breathed, so pray forgive me if I ask you once more if I understood you aright, that I have not only expended all the money I owned in these people’s hands, but actually had contracted a debt to them?”

“That is the case, sir,” said Kennyfeck, gravely.

A deep groan broke from Cashel, and he sat silent and still.

“I would wish to observe, sir,” said Kennyfeck, who was shocked at the alteration a few moments had made in the young man’s countenance – “I would wish to observe, sir, that if you desire a sum of money for any purpose – ”

“Stay – let me interrupt you here,” said Cashel, laying his hand on Kennyfeck’s arm, and using a tone whose earnest distinctness thrilled through his hearer’s heart; “I should deceive you, were you to suppose that it is the want of money gives me the pain I am now suffering. That I had believed myself rich a few moments back, and now found myself a beggar, could not give one-thousandth part of that suffering which I feel here. I have braved poverty in every form, and I could brave it again; but I ‘ll tell you what it is that now cuts me to the soul, and lowers me to myself. It is that, in a senseless, heartless career, I should have squandered the wealth by which I once imagined I was to bless and succor hundreds. It is to think, that of all the gold I have wasted, not one memory has been purchased of a sick-bed consoled, a suffering lessened, a sinking spirit encouraged, – I have done nothing, actually nothing, save pamper vice and sensual heartlessness. I came to this kingdom a few months back, my very dreams filled with schemes of benevolence; I felt as if this wealth were given to me that I might show the world how much of good may be done by one who, having experienced narrow fortune, should best know how to relieve it in others; and now, here am I, the wealth and the high aspirations alike departed, with no tradition to carry away, save of a life passed in debauch, the friendship of worthless, the pitying contempt of good men! Hear me out I was nurtured in no school of sentiment; I belonged to a class who had too little time or taste to indulge in scruples. We were reckless, passionate, – cruel, if you will, – but we were not bad in cold blood; we seldom hated long; we never could turn on a benefactor. These are not the lessons I ‘ve lived to learn here! It is over, however – it is past now! I ‘ll go back to the old haunts, and the old comrades. It will go hard with me if I quarrel with their rude speech and rough demeanor. I ‘ll think of gentlemen! and be grateful.”

The rapid utterance in which he poured forth these words, and the fervid excitement of his manner, abashed Kenny-feck, and deterred him from reply. Cashel was the first to speak.

“This arrangement, however, must be provided for; whatever Mr. Corrigan’s interest be worth – or rather, whatever he will accept in lieu of it – I insist upon his having. But I see Dr. Tiernay coming up to the door; we can talk of these things at another time.”

When Tiernay entered the library he was heated with his walk, and his face betrayed unmistakable signs of recent irritation; indeed, he did not long conceal the reason.

“Is it true, Mr. Cashel, that Mr. Linton is your nominee for the borough of Derraheeny?”

“Yes; what of that?”

“Why, that he canvasses the constituency in a fashion we have not yet been accustomed to; at least your tenants, of whom I am one, are told that our votes are the condition on which our leases will receive renewal; that you will not brook opposition in any one who holds under you. Are these your sentiments, Mr. Cashel, or only his?”

“Not mine, assuredly,” replied Cashel, gravely.

“I said as much. I told several of my neighbors that if this mode of canvass had your sanction, it was from not knowing the privileges of an elector.”

“I neither sanctioned nor knew of it,” rejoined Cashel, eagerly.

“So much the better – at least for me,” said Tiernay, seating himself at the breakfast-table, “for I shall not lose a good breakfast, as I should have been forced to do had these been your intentions.”

“I would observe, Dr. Tiernay,” interposed Kennyfeck, mildly, “that the borough, being entirely the property of Mr. Cashel, its charities maintained by his bounty, and its schools supported at his cost, he has a fair claim on the gratitude of those who benefit by his benevolence.”