Simple and commonplace as the words were, Cashel read them over more than once.
I know not if any of my male readers can corroborate me, but I have always thought there is some mysterious attraction in even the most every-day epistle of a young and pretty woman. The commonest social forms assume a different meaning, and we read the four letters which spell “dear” in an acceptation very remote from what they inspire when written by one's law agent; and then, the concluding “yours truly,” or “faithfully yours,” or better again, “ever yours,”—what suggestive little words they are! how insinuating in their portraiture of a tie which possibly might, but does not actually, bind the parties.
If my readers concur not in these sympathies; I have great satisfaction in saying that Roland Cashel did. He not only sat gazing at the few lines, but he looked so long at them as to half believe that the first word was a superlative; then, suddenly rousing himself he asked the hour. It was already past six. He had only time, then, for a verbal, “With pleasure,” and to dress for dinner.
It seemed like a reproach on his late mode of living, the pile of unopened letters, which in imposing mass Mr. Phillis had arrayed on his master's dressing-table. They contained specimens of everything epistolary which falls to the lot of those favored children of fortune who, having “much to give,” are great favorites with the world. There were dear little pressing invitations signed by the lady of the house, and indited in all the caligraphy of the governess. There were begging letters from clergymen with large families, men who gave so “many hostages to fortune,” that they actually ruined themselves in their own “recognizances.” Flatteries, which, if not written on tinted paper, might have made it blush to bear them, mixed up with tradesmen's assurances of fidelity and punctuality, and bashful apologies for the indelicacy of any allusion to money.
Oh, it is a very sweet world this of ours, and amiable withal! save that the angelic smile it bestows on one part of the creation has a sorry counterpart in the sardonic grin with which it regards the other. Our friend Cashel was in the former category, and he tossed over the letters carelessly, rarely breaking a seal, and, even then, satisfied with a mere glance at the contents, or the name of the writer, when he suddenly caught sight of a large square-shaped epistle, marked “Sea-letter.” It was in a hand he well knew, that of his old comrade Enrique; and burning with anxiety to hear of him, he threw himself into a chair, and broke the seal.
The very first words which met his eye shocked him.
“St. Kitt's, Jamaica.
“Ay, Roland, even so. St. Kitt's, Jamaica! heavily ironed
in a cell at the top of a strong tower over the sea, with an
armed sentry at my door, I write this! a prisoner fettered
and chained,—I, that could not brook the very orders of
discipline! Well, well, it is only cowardice to repine.
Truth is, amigo, I 've had no luck since you left us. It
was doubtless yours that sustained me so long, and when
you withdrew from the firm, I became bankrupt, and yet,
this is pretty much what we used once, in merry mood, to
predict for each other, 'the loop and the leap.'
“How shall I tell you so briefly as neither to weary you to
read, nor myself to write it, my last sad misfortune? I say
the last, because the bad luck took a run against me. First,
I lost everything I possessed at play,—the very pistols you
sent me, I staked and lost. Worse still, Roland,—and faith
I don't think I could make the confession, if a few hours,
or a few days more, were not to hide my shame in a felon's
grave,—I played the jewels you sent here for Maritaña. She
refused them with words of bitterness and anger. Partly from
the irritated feeling of the moment, partly from the curse
of a gambler's spirit,—the hope to weary out the malice of
fortune,—I threw them on the monte-table. Of course I lost.
It was soon after this Barcelonetta was laid in ruin by a
shock of earthquake, the greatest ever experienced here. The
'Quadro' is a mere mass of chaotic rubbish. The 'Puerta
Mayor,' with all its statues, is ingulfed, and an arm of the
sea now washes up and over the beautiful gardens where the
Governor gave his fête. The villa, too, rent from roof to
basement, is a ruin; vast yawning gulfs intersect the
parterres everywhere; the fountains are dried up; the
trees blasted by lightning; and a red-brown surface of
ashes strewn over the beauteous turf where we used to stroll
by moonlight. The old tree that sheltered our monte-table
stands uninjured, as if in mockery over our disasters!
Maritaña's hammock was slung beneath the branches, and there
she lay, careless of—nay, I could almost say, if the words
did not seem too strange for truth, actually pleased by—the
dreadful event. I went to take leave of her; it was the last
night we were to spend on shore. I little knew it was to be
the last time we should ever meet. Pedro passed the night
among the ruins of the villa, endeavoring to recover papers
and valuables amid that disastrous mass. Geizheimer was
always with him, and as Noronja and the rest soon fell off
to sleep, wearied by a day of great fatigue, I sat alone
beside her hammock till day was breaking. Oh, would that
night could have lasted for years, so sweetly tranquil were
the starlit hours, so calm and yet so full of hopeful
promise. What brilliant pictures of ambition did she, that
young, untaught girl, present to my eyes,—how teach me to
long for a cause whose rewards were higher, and greater, and
nobler than the prizes of this wayward life. I would have
spoken of my affection, my deep-felt, long-cherished love,
but, with a half-scornful laugh, she stopped me, saying, 'Is
this leafy shade so like a fair lady's boudoir that you can
persuade yourself to trifle thus, or is your own position so
dazzling that you deem the offer to share it a flattery?'”
“I 'm afraid, sir,” said Mr. Phillis, here obtruding his head into the room, “that you 'll be very late. It is already more than half-past seven o'clock.”
“So it is!” exclaimed Cashel, starting up, while he muttered something not exceedingly complimentary to his host's engagement. “Is the carriage ready?” And without staying to hear the reply, hurried downstairs, the open letter still in his hand.
Scarcely seated in the carriage, Cashel resumed the reading of the letter. Eager to trace the circumstances which led to his friend's captivity, he hastily ran his eyes over the lines till he came to the following:—