To save our reader the tedious task of following Mr. Linton's movements, however necessary to our story some insight into them may be, we take the shorter, and therefore pleasanter course, of submitting one of his own brief notes to Roland Cashel, written some three days after his arrival at Tubbermore:—

There was no erasure but one, and that very slight, and seeming unimportant; he had written Tubber-beg at the top of the letter, and, perceiving it, had changed it to Tubber-more, the fact being that he had already established himself as an inmate of the “Cottage,” and a guest of Mr. Corrigan. We need not dwell on the arts by which Linton accomplished this object, to which, indeed, Mr. Corrigan's hospitable habits contributed no difficulty. The “doctor” alone could have interposed any obstacle; and he, knowing the extent of Linton's power, did not dare to do so, contenting himself to watch narrowly all his proceedings, and warn his friend whenever warning could no longer be delayed.

Without enjoying the advantages of a careful education, Linton's natural quickness counterfeited knowledge so well that few, in every-day intercourse, could detect the imposition. He never read a book through, but he skimmed some thousands, and was thoroughly familiar with that process so popular in our Universities, and technically termed “cramming” an author. In this way, there were few subjects on which he could not speak fairly,—a faculty to which considerable fluency and an easy play of fancy lent great assistance. His great craft, however, was—and whatever may be said on the subject, it would seem the peculiar gift of certain organizations—that he was able, in an inconceivably short time, to worm himself into the confidence of almost all with whom he came in contact. His natural good sense, his singularly clear views, his ever ready sympathy, but, more than all, the dexterity with which he could affect acquaintance with topics he was all but totally ignorant of, pointed him out as the very person to hear the secrets of a family.

Mr. Corrigan was not one to exact any great efforts of Linton's tact in this walk; his long isolation from the world, Joined to a character naturally frank, made him communicative and open; and before Linton had passed a week under his roof, he had heard all the circumstances of the old forfeiture, and the traditionary belief of the family that it had been withdrawn under a special order of the King in council.

“You are quite right,” said Linton, one night, as this theme bad been discussed for some hours, “never to have alluded to this in any correspondence with Cashel. His hasty and excitable temper would have construed the whole into a threat; and there is no saying how he might have resented it.”

“I did not speak of it for a very different reason,” said old Corrigan, proudly; “I had just accepted a favor—and a great one—at his hands, and I would not tarnish the lustre of his noble conduct by even the possibility of self-interest.”

Linton was silent; a struggle of some kind seemed working within him, but he did not speak, and at last sauntered from the room, and passed out into the little garden in front.

He had not gone far, when he heard a light footstep on the gravel behind him. He turned, and saw Mary Leicester.

“I have followed you, Mr. Linton,” said she, in a voice whose agitation was perceptible, “because I thought it possible that some time or other, in your close intimacy with Mr. Cashel, you might allude to this topic, and I know what distress such a communication would occasion to my grandfather. Our claim—if the word be not inapplicable—can never be revived; for myself, there is no condition of privation I would not rather meet, than encounter the harassing vicissitudes of a struggle which should embitter my poor dear grandfather's few years on earth. The very mention of the theme is sure to render him irritable and unhappy. Promise me, then, to avoid the subject as much as possible here, and never to advert to it elsewhere.”

“Should I not be doing you a gross injustice by such a pledge?” said Linton, mildly.

“I can endure that; I cannot support the alternative. Make me this promise.”

“I make it, truly and solemnly; would it were in my power to pledge myself to aught of real service to Miss. Leicester.”

“There is one such,” said Mary, after a pause, “and yet I am ashamed to ask it,—ashamed of the presumption it would imply,—and yet I feel acquitted to my own heart.”

“What is it?—only tell me how I can serve you,” said Linton, passionately.

“I have scarce courage for the avowal,” said she, in a low, faint voice. “It is not that my self-love can be wounded by any judgment that may be pronounced; it is rather that I dread failure for itself. In a word, Mr. Linton, certain circumstances of fortune have pressed upon my grandfather's resources, some of which I am aware of—of others ignorant. So much, however, do I know, that the comforts, so necessary to his age and habits, have diminished one by one, each year seeing some new privations, where increasing infirmity would demand more ease. In this emergency, I have thought of an effort—you will smile at the folly, perhaps, but be lenient for the motive—I have endeavored to make some of the many reminiscences of his own early years contribute to his old age, and have written certain short sketches of the time when, as a youth, he served as a soldier of the body-guard of Louis XVI. I know how utterly valueless they are in a literary point of view, but I have thought that, as true pictures of a time now probably passed away never to return again, they might have their interest Such is my secret. My entreaty is, to ask of you to look at them, and, if not utterly unworthy, to assist me regarding their publication.”

“I not only promise this, but I can pledge myself to the success,” said Linton; “such recitals of life and manners as I have listened to from Mr. Corrigan would be invaluable; we know so little in England—”

“Nay, let me stop you; they are written in French. My hope is to procure their insertion in some French journal, as is the custom now-a-days. Here they are,” said she, handing him a packet with a trembling hand. “I have but to say, that if they be all I fear them, you will be too true a friend to peril me by a rejection.” And without waiting for a reply, she hurried back to the house.

Many minutes had not elapsed ere Linton found himself in his room, with the open manuscript before him. It was quite true, he had not in anticipation conceived a very high idea of Miss Leicester's efforts, because his habit, like that of a great number of shrewd people, was to regard all amateur performances as very inferior, and that only they who give themselves wholly up to any pursuit attain even mediocrity. He had not, however, read many pages ere he was struck by the evidence of high ability. The style was everywhere simple, chaste, and elegant; the illustrations natural and graceful; and the dialogue, when, occurring, marked by all the epigrammatic smartness which characterized the era.

The sketches also had the merit of life-pictures,—real characters of the day, being drawn with a vigor that only actual knowledge could impart. All these excellences Linton could perceive and estimate; but there were many very far above his power of appreciation. As it was, he read on, fascinated by the interest the scenes inspired, nor ceased till the last page was completed, when, throwing himself on his bed, he fell soon asleep, and dreamed of Mary Leicester.

His very first care, on waking, was to resume the manuscript, and see how far the impression first made might be corroborated by afterthought. It was while reading, that the post had just arrived, bringing, among other letters, one in Phillis's hand, which was, though brief, significant:—

The same day which brought this secret despatch saw one from Linton to Cashel, saying, that by the aid of four hundred workmen in various crafts, unceasing toil, and unwearied zeal, Tubbermore would be ready to receive his guests by the following Wednesday. A steamer, hired specially, had brought over from London nearly everything which constitutes the internal arrangement of a house; and as money had been spent without control, difficulties melted away into mere momentary embarrassments,—impossibilities, there were none. The letter contained a long list of commissions for Cashel to execute, given, however, with no other object than to occupy his time for the remaining few days in town as much as possible. This written and sent off, Linton addressed himself to his task of preparation with an energy few could surpass, and while the trades-people were stimulated by increased pay to greater efforts, and the work was carried on through the night by torchlight; the whole demesne swarmed with laborers by whom roads were cut, paths gravelled, fences levelled, flower-plots devised; even the garden—that labyrinth of giant weeds—was reduced to order, till in the hourly changing aspect of the place it was hard not to recognize the wand of enchantment It was, indeed, like magic to see how fountains sprang up, and threw their sprayey showers over the new-planted shrubs; new paths led away into dense groves of trees; windows, so late half walled up, now opened upon smooth, shaven turf, or disclosed a reach of swelling landscape; and chambers, that a few days back were the gloomy abode of the bat and the night-owl, became of a sudden cheerful and lightsome.

Stuccoed ceilings, mirror-panelled windows, gilded cornices, and carved architraves—all of which would imply time and long labor—were there at once and on the moment, for the good fairy who did these things knows not failure,—the banker's check-book. From the great hall to the uppermost chamber the aspect of all bespoke comfort. The elegances of life, Linton well knew, are like all other refinements,—not capable of being “improvised,” but the daily comforts are. The meaner objects which make up the sum of hourly want,—the lazy ottoman, the downy-pillowed fauteuils, the little squabs that sit in windows to provoke flirtations and inspire confidences; the tempting little writing-tables that suggest pen and ink; the billiard-table, opening on the flower-garden, so redolent of sweet odors that you feel exonerated for the shame of an in-door occupation; the pianos and guitars and harps scattered about in various places, as though to be ever ready to the touch; the books and prints and portfolios that give excuse to the lounging mood, and text for that indolent chitchat so pleasant of a morning,—all these, and a thousand other things, seen through the long perspective of a handsome suite of rooms, do make up that sum, for which our own dear epithet, “comfort,” has no foreign equivalent.

We have been often compelled, in this veracious history, to reflect with harshness on certain traits of Mr. Linton's morality. Let us make him the small amende in our power to say, that in his present functions he was unsurpassable; and here, for the moment, we leave him.