“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.”