Let us turn from him to another, in whose fortunes we are more interested. Roland Cashel, after parting with Enrique, hastened on towards Tubbermore; his thoughts engaged on every topic save that which might be supposed to occupy the mind of a host at such a time. Pleasure assuredly held a weaker hold upon him than the thirst for vengeance, and the ardent longing to throw off the thraldom of that servitude he had endured too long.
It was only by observing the long string of carriages, whose lamps flashed and disappeared at intervals among the trees, that he remembered anything of the fête, and bethought him of that character of entertainer he, at the moment, should have been performing. There seemed to him a terrible inconsistency between his own thoughts and that scene of pleasure,—between the object in pursuit of which so many were hastening with furious speed, and that to which his slower steps were leading him!
“There can be but one amende for such infamous conduct,” muttered he; “he shall pay it with his life's blood.” And as he spoke, he opened the documents which Enrique had given him, and endeavored to read them; the dusky shadows of the fast-falling night prevented him, and he stood for some minutes lost in thought.
One of the papers, he was aware, bore the forged signature of his name; the other, whose antique form and massive seal bespoke an importance far greater, he tried again and again to decipher, but in vain. As he was thus occupied, he chanced to look up, and suddenly perceived that a stream of light issued from beneath the shutters of his own dressing-room, the door of which he had himself locked at his departure, taking the key along with him. Enrique's words flashed across his memory at once. It was Linton was there! “At his old work again,” muttered he, in deep anger; “but it shall be for the last time.” A moment of coming peril was all that Cashel needed to elicit the resources of his character. The courage tried in many a danger supplied him with a calm foresight, which the ordinary occasions of life rarely or never called forth. He bethought him that it were best at such a conjuncture to deposit the sealed document in some place of safety ere he went forth upon an enterprise the result of which must be doubtful; for all purposes of confronting Linton it were sufficient to take the forged deed along with him. These were conclusions formed as rapidly as they occurred, and acted upon no less speedily; for, folding up the parchment, he inserted it into a cleft in an aged elm-tree, noting well the spot, and marking all the signs by which he would be able to return to it. His next thought was how to reach his chamber: to enter the house at such a time undiscovered was of course out of the question; he would be seen and recognized at once, and then there would be an end forever of all the secrecy by which he hoped to cover the proceedings with Linton.
It neither suited his inclinations nor his plans that the world should be a party to his vengeance. “Let them discover it when it is over,” said he, “but let them not be able to interfere with its course.” All approach to his dressing-room through the house being thus impracticable, nothing remained but to reach it from without. The chamber was in the second story of the building, at a great height from the ground; but the walls were here covered with thick ivy of ancient growth, and by this Cashel resolved to make the attempt.
The act was not devoid of danger; but there are times when peril is a relief to the mad conflict of thought, and this was such a moment to Cashel. In an instant he made himself ready for the attempt, and with an activity that many a danger had tested, began the ascent. There are occasions when rashness is safety, and now, the headlong intrepidity of Roland's attempt proved its security, for at each step, as the ivy gave way beneath his grasp or his footing, by an upward spring he reached another spot, which in its turn broke with his weight: every instant the danger increased, for the frail tendrils grew weaker as he ascended, and beneath him the jagged and drooping branches hung down in ruinous disorder. By one bold spring he reached the window-sill, and after a momentary struggle, in which his athletic frame saved him from certain death, he gained a footing upon the stone, and was able to see what was passing within the room.
At a table covered with papers and open letters Linton sat, searching with eager haste for the missing documents; open boxes and presses on every side, rifled of their contents, were seen, some of which lay in disordered masses upon the floor, some in charred heaps within the fender. As the light fell upon his features, Cashel remarked that they were lividly pale,—the very lips were colorless; his hands, too, trembled violently as they moved among the papers, and his mouth continued to be moved by short convulsive twitches. To Roland these signs of suffering conveyed a perfect ecstasy of pleasure. That careworn, haggard face, that tremulous cheek and lustreless eye, were already an instalment of his vengeance.
There was one box which contained many of Cashel's early letters, when he was following the wild buccaneering life of the West; and this, secured by a lock of peculiar construction, Linton had never succeeded in opening. It stood before him, as with a last effort he tried every art upon it. The hinges alone seemed to offer a prospect of success, and he was now endeavoring to remove the fastenings of these. With more of force than skill, for defeat had rendered him impatient, Linton had already loosened the lid, when Cashel burst open the sash with one vigorous blow, and leaped into the room.
The terrible crash of the shattered window made Linton spring round; and there he stood, confronted with the other,—each, motionless and silent. In Cashel's steady, manly form there was a very world of indignant contempt; and Linton met the gaze with a look of deadly hatred. All the dissimulation by which he could cover over a treachery was at an end; his deceit was no longer of use, and he stood forth in the full courage of his scoundrelism,—bold, steady, and assured.
“This admits of no excuse, no palliation,” said Cashel, as he pointed to the open letters and papers which covered the floor; and although the words were uttered calmly, they were more disconcerting than if given with passionate vehemence.