The groom rapidly overtook him; and then, mounting, he rode at a brisk trot down the road, and drew up at the door of the doctor's house. To his question, “If Mr. Tiernay were at home?” he received for answer, that “He had set out for Limerick that morning;” nor did the servant know when he might be expected back.
For a moment this intelligence appeared to derange his plans; but he rallied soon, and turning his horse's head towards Tubbermore, muttered to himself, “As well,—perhaps better as it is.” He rode fast till he gained the wood, and then dismounting, he gave the horse to the groom, with directions to go home, as he would return on foot.
He stood looking after the horses as they retired, and it seemed as if his thoughts were following them, so intent was his gaze; but, long after they had disappeared, he remained standing in the same place, his features still wearing the same expression of highly-wrought occupation. The spot where he stood was a little eminence, from which the view stretched, upon one side, over the waving woods of the demesne, and, on the other, showed glimpses of the Shannon, as, in its sweeping curves, it indented the margin of the grounds. Perhaps not another point could be found which displayed so happily the extent and importance of the demesne, and yet concealed so well whatever detracted from its picturesque effect. The neighboring village of Derra-heeny—a poor, straggling, ruinous street of thatched hovels, like most Irish villages—was altogether hidden from view; while of the great house itself,—an object with few pretensions to architectural elegance,—only so much was visible as indicated its size and extent. The little cottage of Tubber-beg, however, could be seen entire, glittering in the morning's sun like a gem, its bright-leaved hollies and dark laurels forming a little grove of foliage in the midst of winter's barrenness.
If this was by far the most striking object of the picture, it was not that which attracted most of Linton's attention. On the contrary, his eye ranged more willingly over the wide woods which stretched for miles along the river's side, and rose and fell in many a gentle undulation inland. A commonplace observer, had such been there to mark him, would have pronounced him one passionately devoted to scenery,—a man who loved to watch the passing cloud-shadows of a landscape, enjoying with all a painter's delight the varying tints, the graceful lines, the sharp-thrown shadows, and the brilliant lights of a woodland picture; a deeper physiognomist would, however, have seen that the stern stare and the compressed lip, the intense preoccupation which every feature exhibited, did not denote a mind bent upon such themes.
“Tom Linton, of Tubbermore,” said he, at length,—and it seemed as if uttering the words gave relief to his overburdened faculties, for his face relaxed, and his habitual easy smile returned to his mouth,—“Linton, of Tubbermore; it sounds well, too.” And then the great game! that game for which I have pined so long and wished so ardently,—which I have stood by and seen others play and lose, where I could have won,—ay, won rank, honor, station, and fame. The heaviest curse that lies on men like me is to watch those who rise to eminence in the world, and know their utter shallowness and incapacity. There will soon be an end to that now.
“Stand by, gentlemen; make way, my Lords Charles and Harry; it is Tom Linton's turn—not Linton the 'adventurer,' as you were gracious enough to call him—not the bear-leader of a marquis, or the hanger-on of his grace the duke, but your equal in rank and fortune—more than your equal in other things; the man who knows you all thoroughly, not fancying your deficiencies and speculating on your shortcomings, as your vulgar adversaries, your men of cotton constituencies, are wont to do, but the man who has seen you in your club and your drawing-room, who has eaten, drunk, betted, played, and lived with you all! who knows your tactics well, and can expound your 'aristocratic prejudices better than ever a Quaker of them all!'—Not but,” said he, after a pause, “another line would satisfy me equally. The peerage, with such a fortune as this, is no inordinate ambition; a few years in the House, of that dogged, unmanageable conduct Englishmen call independence—a capriciousness in voting—the repute of refusing office, and so on. There's no originality in the thought, but it succeeds as well as if there were! Besides, if hard pressed, I can be a Romanist, and, as times go, with every party; that is a strong claim. And why not Lord Linton? I have no doubt”—and he laughed as he spoke this—“there is a peerage in the family already, if I only knew where to look for it!
“And now, sufficient of speculation! to open the campaign!” So saying, he descended the knoll and took the path which led to the cottage. As he drew near the wicket, he saw a man lounging beside it, in all that careless indifference which an Irish peasant can assume, and soon perceived it was Tom Keane, the gatekeeper.
“Good-morrow, Tom; how comes it you are up here so early?”
“'T is in throuble I am, your honer,” said he, taking off his hat, and putting on that supplicating look so characteristic of his class. “The master's going to turn me out of the little place beyant.”
“What for?”