The doctor's little parlor was the very “ideal” of snugness; there was nothing which had the faintest resemblance to luxury save the deep-cushioned arm-chair, into which he pressed Cashel at entering; but there were a hundred objects that told of home. The book-shelves, no mean indication of the owner's trempe, were filled with a mixture of works on medicine, the older English dramatists, and that class of writers who prevailed in the days of Steele and Addison. There was a microscope on one table, with a great bunch of fresh-plucked fern beside it. A chess-board, with an unfinished game—a problem from a newspaper, for he had no antagonist—stood on another table; while full in front of the fire, with an air that betokened no mean self-importance, sat a large black cat, with a red leather collar, the very genius of domesticity. As Cashel's eyes took a hasty survey of the room, they rested on a picture—it was the only one there—which hung over the mantelpiece. It was a portrait of Mary Leicester, and although a mere water-color sketch, an excellent likeness, and most characteristic in air and attitude.

“Ay!” said Tiernay, who caught the direction of his glance, “a birthday present to me! She had promised to dine with me, but the day, like most Irish days when one prays for sunshine, rained torrents; and so she sent me that sketch, with a note, a merry bit of doggerel verse, whose merit lies in its local allusions to a hundred little things, and people only known to ourselves; but for this, I 'd be guilty of breach of faith and show it to you.”

“Is the drawing, too, by her own hand?”

“Yes; she is a clever artist, and might, it is said by competent judges, have attained high excellence as a painter had she pursued the study. I remember an illustration of the fact worth mentioning. Carringford, the well-known miniature-painter, who was making a tour of this country a couple of years back, passed some days at the cottage, and made a picture of old Con Corrigan, for which, I may remark passingly, poor Mary paid all her little pocket-money,—some twenty guineas, saved up from Heaven knows how long. Con did not know this, of course, and believed the portrait was a compliment to his granddaughter. Carringford's ability is well known, and there is no need to say the picture was admirably painted; but still it wanted character; it had not the playful ease, the gentle, indulgent pleasantry that marks my old friend's features; in fact, it was hard and cold,—not warm, generous, and genial: so I thought, and so Mary thought, and accordingly, scarcely had the artist taken his leave, when she set to work herself, and made a portrait, which, if inferior as a work of art, was infinitely superior as a likeness. It was Con himself; it had the very sparkle of his mild blue eye, the mingled glance of drollery and softness, the slightly curled mouth, as though some quaint conceit was lingering on the lip,—all his own. Mary's picture hung on one side of the chimney, and Carringford's at the other, and so they stood when the painter came through from Limerick and passed one night at Tubber-beg, on his way to Dublin. I breakfasted there that morning, and I remember, on entering the room, I was surprised to see the frame of Carringford's portrait empty, and a bank-note, carefully folded, stuck in the corner. 'What does that mean?' said I to him, for we were alone at the time.

“'It means simply that my picture cannot stand such competitorship as that, said he; mine was a miniature, that is the man himself.' I will not say one half of the flatteries he uttered, but I have heard from others since, that he speaks of this picture as a production of high merit. Dear girl! that meagre sketch may soon have a sadder interest connected with it; it may be all that I shall possess of her! Yes, Mr. Cashel, your generosity may stave off the pressure of one peril, but there is another, from which nothing but flight will rescue my poor friend.”

A sharp knocking at the door here interrupted the doctor's recital, and soon Hoare's voice was heard without, inquiring if Dr. Tiernay was at home.

Hoare's easy familiarity, as he entered, seemed to suffer a slight shock on observing Roland Cashel, who received him with cold politeness.

Tiernay, who saw at once that business alone would relieve the awkwardness of the scene, briefly informed the other that Mr. Cashel was there to learn the exact amount and circumstances of Corrigan's liabilities, with a view to a final settlement of them.

“Very pleasing intelligence this, doctor,” said the moneylender, rubbing his hands, “and I am free to own, very surprising also! Am I to enter into an explanation of the peculiar causes of these liabilities, doctor, or to suppose,” said he, “that Mr. Cashel is already conversant with them?”

“You are to suppose, sir,” interposed Cashel, “that Mr. Cashel is aware of every circumstance upon which he does not ask you for further information.” There was a sternness in the way he spoke that abashed the other, who, opening a huge pocket-book on the table, proceeded to scan its contents with diligence; while Tiernay, whose agitation was great, sat watching him without speaking.

“The transactions,” said Hoare, “date from some years back, as these bills will show, and consist, for the most part, in drafts, at various dates, by Mr. Leicester, of South Bank, New Orleans, on Cornelius Corrigan, Esq., of Tubbermore. Some of these have been duly honored; indeed, at first, Mr. Corrigan was punctuality itself; but bad seasons, distress at home here, greater demands, the consequence of some commercial losses sustained by Mr. Leicester in the States, all coming together, the bills were not met as usual; renewals were given—and, when it comes to that, Mr. Cashel, I need scarcely say difficulties travel by special train.” No one joined in the little laugh by which Mr. Hoare welcomed his own attempt at pleasantry, and he went on: “At first we managed tolerably well. Mr. Corrigan devoted a portion of his income to liquidate these claims; he made certain sales of property; he reduced his establishment; in fact, I believe he really made every sacrifice consistent with his position—”

“No, sir,” broke in Tiernay, “but consistent with bare subsistence.”

The violent tone of the interruption startled the moneylender, who hastened to concur with the sentiment, while he faltered out—

“Remember, gentlemen, I speak only from hearsay; of myself I know nothing.”

“Go on with your statement, sir,” said Cashel, peremptorily.

“My statement,” said Hoare, provoked at the tone assumed towards him, “resolves itself into a debt of three thousand seven hundred and forty-eight pounds some odd shillings. There are the bills. The sums due for interest and commission are noted down, and will, I believe, be found duly correct.”

“Three thousand seven hundred pounds in less than five years!” ejaculated Tiernay. “What iniquity!”

“If your expression is intended to apply to anything in the conduct of this transaction, sir,” said Hoare, growing pale with passion as he spoke, “I beg you to remember that there is such a thing in the land as redress for libel.”

“If the laws will warrant sixty per cent, they may well punish the man who calls it infamy,” said Tiernay, almost choking with anger.

“That will do, gentlemen, that will do,” said Hoare, replacing the bills in the pocket-book, while his fingers trembled with passion. “I was not aware that your object in this meeting was to insult me; I 'll not expose myself a second time to such a casualty. I 'll thank you to hand me that bill, sir!” This request was addressed to Cashel, who, with his eyes riveted on a document which he held in both hands, sat perfectly unmindful of all around him.

“If you will have the kindness to give me that bill, sir?” said Hoare, again.

“Shylock wants his bond,” said Tiernay, who walked up and down the room with clinched hands, and brows knitted into one deep furrow.

Hoare turned a scowling glance towards him, but not trusting himself to reply, merely repeated his question to Cashel.

“How came you by this?” cried Roland, rising from the table, and holding out a written paper towards Hoare; “I ask, sir, how came you by this?” reiterated he, while the paper shook with the hand that held it.

“Oh! I perceive,” said Hoare; “that document has no concern with the case before us; it refers to another and very different transaction.”

“This is no answer to my question, sir,” said Cashel, sternly; “I asked, and I ask you again, how it came into your hands?”

“Don't you think, sir, that it would be more appropriate to express your regret at having examined a paper not intended to have been submitted to you?” said Hoare, in a tone half insolent, half deferential.

“I saw my name upon it,” said Cashel, “coupled, too, with that of another, of whom I preserve too many memories to treat anything lightly wherein he bears a part; besides, there can be but little indiscretion in reading that to which I had attached my own signature. And now, once more, sir, how do I see it in your possession?”

“Really, Mr. Cashel, when the question is put in this tone and manner, I am much disposed to refuse an answer. I can see nothing in our relative situations that can warrant the assumption of these airs towards me!”

“Shylock, again!” exclaimed Tiernay, who continued to pace the room during this scene with hasty strides.

“Not so, sir,” said Cashel, as Hoare moved towards the door, against which Roland now placing a chair, sat down. “Out of this room you shall not stir, till I hear a distinct and clear account of the circumstances by which I find you in possession of this paper.”

“You have no right, sir, to demand such an answer.”

“Possibly not, legally speaking,” said Cashel, whose voice became calmer and deeper as his passion increased. “You are more conversant with law than I am, and so I take it that your opinion is correct. But I have the right which a good conscience and strong will beget, and I tell you again, you 'll not leave this room before you satisfy me, or you 'll not leave it living.”

“I call you to witness, Dr. Tiernay,” said Hoare, whose accents trembled with fear and anger together, “that this is a case of false imprisonment,—that a threat against my life has been uttered, if I do not surrender the possession of certain papers.”

“Nothing of the kind,” broke in Tiernay; “there is no thought of taking anything from you by force. Mr. Roland Cashel—doubtless for good reasons of his own—has asked you a question, which you, demurring to answer, he tells you that you shall not leave the room till you do.”

“And do you fancy, sir, that such conduct is legal?” cried Hoare.

“I cannot say,” rejoined Tiernay; “but that it is far more mild and merciful than I could have expected under the circumstances, I am perfectly ready to aver.”

“May I read the paper out?” said Hoare, with a malicious scowl at Cashel.

“There is no need that you should, sir,” said Roland; “its contents are known to me, whom alone they concern.”

“You can, I opine, have no objection that your friend, Dr. Tiernay, should hear them?”

“I repeat, sir, that with the contents of that paper neither you nor any one else has any concern; they relate to me, and to me alone.”

“Then I must labor under some misapprehension,” said Hoare, affectedly; “I had fancied there was another person at least equally interested.”

“Will you dare, sir!” said Roland; and in the thick guttural utterance there was that which made the other tremble with fear.

“If the matter be one, then,” said he, rallying into his former assurance, “that you deem best kept secret, it would be perhaps a judicious preliminary to any conversation on the subject, that Dr. Tiernay should withdraw.”

“I only await Mr. Cashel's pleasure,” said Tiernay, moving towards the door.

“Then you will remain, sir,” said Roland, firmly. “Remain, and listen to what this gentleman has so menacingly alluded. Here it is: it is the promise, given under my hand, that I will espouse the daughter of a certain Don Pedro Rica, to whom, in the date herein annexed, I have been this day betrothed; or, in forfeiture of such pledge, pay down the sum of seventy thousand dollars, thereby obtaining a full release from the conditions of the contract. It was the rash pledge of a young and thoughtless boy, with regard to one who neither accepted his affection nor acknowledged the contract. I do not say this to absolve myself from the forfeiture, which I am ready to acquit this hour; I speak of it, that, as a man of honor, I may not seem to pay a debt of feeling by a check on my banker.”

“But this betrothal,” said Tiernay,—“what does it imply?”

“It is a ceremony common enough in Old Spain and her once colonies, and is simply the recognition of a private promise of marriage.”

“You have forgotten two circumstances, sir,” said Hoare, whose eyes never quitted Cashel's face.

“Which are they?”

“One is, that this contract should be either fulfilled, or the forfeit paid, within two years,—twenty-one months of which have already expired.”

“True!—and the other condition?”

“That the acceptance or refusal of the forfeit is optional with Don Pedro, who may, at his pleasure, select which clause he likes,—the marriage or the penalty.”

“I never acknowledged this interpretation of the document,” said Cashel, reddening. “I know Don Pedro did, and there we were at issue. Methinks it were somewhat hard to compel a marriage distasteful to both parties, and only to suit the speculations of a ruined adventurer.”

“I hope, sir, the likelihood of future relationship will moderate the warmth of your language.”

“And is the man fool enough to fancy such a promise could be legally enforced in this country?” said Tiernay.

“He is not without the opinion of learned counsel,” said Hoare, “who are strongly of opinion that the interpretations Columbian law would put upon the document would be recognized by our own courts, and recognize the marriage as such.”

“And does he, or do you, suppose,” said Cashel, indignantly, “that I could expose her name, were I indifferent about my own, to be bandied about your assize courts, and printed in newspapers, and made the gossip of the town for a nine days' wonder?” He stopped, for he saw by the elation of Hoare's features with what triumph this avowal had been listened to. “And now, sir, enough has been said of this; I come back to my former question,—How came you by this paper?”

“I received it from Don Pedro, with whom I have had much business intercourse, and who left it in my hands a few days back.”

“Then he is in this country?” said Cashel, anxiously.

Hoare nodded an assent.

“Here, in Ireland! and is Mari—” He stopped suddenly, remembering to whom he was speaking; but Hoare, as if eager to show an intimacy with names and events, said,—

“Yes, sir, she is also here.”

Cashel became silent, his mind a very chaos of confused thought,—memories of his buccaneer life, its lawless habits, its wild companionship, its adventures of love and war, of play, of heroism, and of mad debauch. The villa and MaritaÑa were before him as last he saw her at the fountain; and from these he came to his fine and lordly friendships, with all their fictitious warmth; and he began to fancy how would his present society—the very guests at that moment beneath his roof—receive or recognize his old associates!

The deep pre-occupation of his look suggested to Tiernay's mind the notion that Cashel was overwhelmed by the intelligence he had just received, and drawing close to him, he said, in a whisper,—

“That fellow is watching and enjoying your confusion; put a bolder face on the matter, and we 'll see what is best to be done.”

Roland started, and then, as if by an effort chasing away an unpleasant thought, he said to Hoare,—

“Our first business is Mr. Corrigan's. The sum due is—”

“Three thousand seven hundred and forty.”

“Will you accept my bill for this?”

“At what date, sir?” said Hoare, cautiously.

“At whatever date you please; a month or a week.”

“A month be it.”

“Does that release Mr. Corrigan from every claim so far as your principal is concerned?”

“All, up to this date.”

“By which, probably, you would imply, that new liabilities may begin again. Is that so?”

“I think, from the nature of Mr. Leicester's claim, such an event is not impossible.”

“Never mind the threat,” whispered Tiernay; “it is but a threat.”

“As to the other affair,” said Cashel, approaching Hoare, “I will accompany you to town. I will see Don Pedro myself.”

“That will be difficult, sir. I am not at liberty to mention his place of abode; nor does he wish his presence here to be known.”

“But to me,” said Cashel, “this objection cannot apply.”

“His orders are positive, and without qualification; but any proposition which you desire to submit—”

“Can come through Mr. Hoare?” said Cashel, sneer-ingly. “I prefer doing these things in person, sir.”

“Leave this to me,” whispered Tiernay; “I'll manage him better.”

Cashel squeezed his friend's arm in assent, and turned away; while Hoare, reseating himself, proceeded to draw out the bill for Cashel's signature.

“You are aware,” said Tiernay, “that Corrigan can give you nothing but personal security for this sum, and the lease of Tubber-beg?” But Cashel did not heed the remark, deep as he was in his own reflections. “There is a small sum—a few thousand pounds—of Mary's, settled at her mother's marriage. You are not attending to me,” said he, perceiving the pre-occupation of Roland's look. “I was mentioning that Mary Leicester—”

“Yes,” said Cashel, talking his thoughts aloud, “to marry her would, indeed, be the true solution of the difficulty.”

“What did you say?” whispered Tiernay, upon whose ear the muttered words fell distinctly.

“She would refuse me,” Roland went on; “the more certainly that I am rich. I know her well; the rank, the station, the thousand flatteries that wealth bestows, would be things for her mockery if unallied with power.”

“You are wrong, quite wrong,” said Tiernay; “her ambition is of a different order. Mary Leicester—”

“Mary Leicester!” echoed Cashel; and, in his suddenly awakened look, Tiernay at once perceived that some mistake had occurred. Hoare relieved the awkwardness of the moment as he said,—

“This wants but your signature, sir, and the matter is finished.”

Cashel wrote his name on the bill and was turning away, when Hoare said,—

“These are the bills; they are now your property, sir.”

“For what purpose?”

“They are vouchers for your claim on Mr. Corrigan,” said Hoare.

“His word will suffice,” said Cashel; and, gathering them up, he hurled them into the fire.

“A costly blaze that,” said Hoare, as he watched the conflagration.

“Speak to him, doctor; learn what you can of Rica for me. If money will do it, I 'll not quarrel with the price,” said Cashel to Tiernay, in a low tone. “Another point,—I was nigh forgetting it,—you 'll not tell Mr. Corrigan how the matter has been arranged. Promise me this. Nay, I have a reason for it,—a reason you shall hear to-morrow or next day, and will acknowledge to be good. Keep my secret for a month; I ask no longer.”

“For a month, then, I am silent,” said Tiernay.

“Let me see you to-morrow early,” said Cashel. “Will you breakfast with me?”

“No; I 'll not risk my character by going twice to your grand house in the same week; besides, I am going to Limerick.”

“Good-night, then,” said Cashel; “good-night, sir.” And with a formal bow to Hoare, Roland left the room, and took his way homeward alone.