Lord Kilgoff was stretched upon a bed, breathing heavily; one arm lay straight beside him, and the other crossed upon his breast. His features were deadly pale, save in the centre of each cheek, where a deep-red spot seemed to burn. A slight, very slight, distortion marked his features, and a faint tremor seemed to quiver on his lip. Beside the bed, with an expression of some conscious terror in her face, sat Lady Kilgoff; her white dressing-gown, over which her hair fell in long abundant masses, added pallor to her looks. Her eyes met Cashel's as he entered, and then reverted to the bed where the sick man lay, but with an expression less of sorrow than of bewilderment and confusion.

She looked, indeed, like one whose faculties had been stunned by some sudden shock, and had, as yet, made no effort to recall them to their wonted exercise. At the foot of the bed stood the maid, whose half-uttered sobs were the only sounds to break the stillness.

Cashel drew near, and placed his fingers on the sick man's pulse. Often had he, in his former adventurous career, felt the ebbing current of a life's blood, and measured its power by its resistance. The full but laboring swell of the heart might well deceive him, then, into the impression that no grave consequences were near. He knew not that in such affections the pulse can be round and strong and impulsive; and it was with an earnest conviction of truth he whispered to her,—

“There is no danger.”

She looked up, but it was easy to see that although the words had sounded like comfort, they had not pierced the dense veil that clouded her mind.

Cashel repeated the phrase, and said,—

“Tiernay will soon be here, but have no fears; my own slight skill can tell you there is nothing of peril. Had you not better retire from this—even to the window?”

A faint “No” was all she uttered.

“He was in perfect health this afternoon?” said Cashel to the maid.

“My Lord was better than usual, sir; he took out his collar and his star to look at them, and he spoke very pleasantly of going abroad in the spring. He was reading in the library when Mr. Linton went to him.”

“Linton!” muttered Lady Kilgoff, with a shudder.

“I think I hear voices in the corridor,” said Cashel. “If it be the doctor, say I wish to speak with him before he sees my Lord.”

The maid left the room to perform the commission, and scarcely had the door closed, than Lady Kilgoff started up, and seizing an object which lay on the bed, exclaimed, “How came it in your keeping?”

“What?” cried Cashel, in amazement

“This bracelet,” said she, holding out towards him the massive bracelet which Linton had contrived to detach from her arm at their meeting in the “Park.”

“I never saw it before—never in my life.”

She sank slowly back upon the chair without speaking, while a faint tremor shook her frame.

“The doctor is without, sir,” said the maid at this moment, and Cashel hastened out. He spoke a few hurried words to Tiernay, and then walked towards his own room. That some deep and artful treachery had drawn its web around and about him, involving not himself alone, but another too, he now clearly felt. He saw danger, as the sailor sees it in the lowering sky and fleeting scud, but as yet he knew not from what quarter the “squall” was coming. His suspicions all pointed to Linton; but why attribute such a game to him? and if such were his purpose, to what end could be practise this treachery?

“Would it not be better,” thought he, “to see him at once; tell him my suspicions openly; say, that I no longer trust him as my friend, but feel towards him the misgivings of a secret enemy? If there is manliness about him, he will avow his enmity, or resent my distrust; either or both would be a relief to what I now suffer. Ah! here he comes,” said he; but he was deceived; it was Tiernay entered.

“What say you, doctor? Is the case a grave one?”

“Worse; it is nearly hopeless!”

“What! do you fear for his life?”

“Life or intellect, one or the other, must pay the penalty. This is the second shock. The shipwreck gave the first, and rent the poor edifice almost in twain; this will, in all likelihood, lay it in ashes.”

“This is very dreadful!” said Cashel, upon whom the attendant event and the consequences were weighing heavily.

“He has told me all!” said Tiernay, almost sternly. “His jealousy and her levity, the rampant pride of station, the reckless freedom of a broken heart,—such are the ingredients that have made up a sad story, which may soon become a tragedy.”

“But there was no reason for it; his jealousy was absurd—unfounded.”

“As you will. You may go further, and say he could not lose what he never owned. I saw the peril—I even warned you of it.”

“I can only comprehend you by half,” said Cashel, impatiently. “You imply blame to me where I can feel none.”

“I blame you as I will ever do those who, not fearing danger for themselves, are as indifferent about their neighbors. It is not of this silly old man I am thinking here,—it is of her who, without a protector, should have found one in every man of generous and honorable feeling; not as you, perhaps, understand protection,—not by the challenge hurled in the face of all who would dare to asperse her fair name, but by that studied respect, that hallowed deference, that should avert detraction. Neither you nor any other could be the champion of her honor; but you might have been its defender by a better and a nobler heroism. It is too late to think of this now; let us not lose time in vain regrets. We must take measures that ungenerous reports should not be circulated.”

The door suddenly opened at the instant, and Linton, in his dressing-gown, entered; but, seeing Tiernay, made a motion to retire.

“Come in,” said Cashel; and there was something almost peremptory in the words.

“I feared I might prove an intruder, seeing the doctor here. Is it true what my servant says, that Kilgoff is dangerously ill?”

Cashel nodded.

“Poor fellow! he has no command over himself in those paroxysms of passion, which his folly and vanity are so constantly stirring up. But is the case serious?”

“He will scarcely recover, sir,” said Tiernay; “and it was because my functions as a physician can be of so little benefit, that I ventured to offer my services as a friend in the case, and give some counsel as to what should be done.”

“Most considerate, indeed,” said Linton, but in an accent at once impossible to say whether ironical or the reverse.

“I said, sir,” resumed Tiernay, “that it would be becoming that no false representation should obtain currency as to the origin of the illness, nor that a momentary excitement of a feeble intellect should be assumed as the settled conviction of a sound mind. My Lord Kilgoff has had something like altercation with his wife, and being a weak and failing man, with breaking faculties, has been seized with a paralytic attack.”

“Very thoughtful, all this,” said Linton, gravely; “pray command me in any part of your plan where I may be serviceable.”

“The plan is this,” said Cashel: “here is a case where a terrible calamity has befallen, and which can be made worse only by calumny. To make the slanderer pay the heaviest penalty of his infamy—”

“Nay, nay; this is not our plan,” said Tiernay, gently. “Lord Kilgoff's attack must be spoken of without connection with any circumstances which preceded it this evening. Nothing was more likely to occur than such a seizure; his age, his late illness, his peculiar habit, all predisposed to it.”

“Just so,” interposed Cashel, hastily; “and as none, save you, Linton, and myself, know anything of the matter, it need never gain wider publicity.”

“Of course nothing can be easier than this. The Lady 'Janets' need never hear a word more than you choose to tell them,” said Linton.

“In a few days he will bear removal. Change will be necessary for him; and, in fact, our caution is, doubtless, greater than the necessity warrants,” added Tiernay.

“You will, of course, leave everything to take its course in the house?” said Linton. “To interfere with all the plans of pleasure would be to give rise to malicious rumors.”

“I scarcely know how to act,” said Cashel. “It looks unfeeling and unkind that we should give ourselves up to gayety at such a moment.”

“Mr. Linton's counsel may be wise, notwithstanding,” said Tiernay. “His Lordship may continue a long time in his present state.”

“Exactly what I mean,” said Linton. “He will probably linger on, unchanged; so that if events follow their habitual train, there will be little time or temptation to spread scandal about him; and then, what, at first blush, seems to lack kindness, is, in reality, the very truest and most considerate service we can render.”

“Then you will look to this part of the matter, Linton?” said Cashel, on whom his apparent frankness had resumed its former ascendancy.

“Leave it all to me,” said he; “and so good-night.” And, with that, he departed, leaving Cashel and Tiernay together.

They were silent for some minutes, as Linton's retiring steps were heard going towards his own room. Soon after the loud bang of a door resounded through the house, and all was still. Little knew they, that scarcely had he gained his room than he left it noiselessly, and, slipping down the great stairs, crossed the hall, and, entering the theatre, proceeded by the secret passage which led to Cashel's dressing-room, and through the thin panel that covered which, he could easily overhear whatever was spoken within.

“At least you will allow that he has been candid with us here?” said Cashel, in a tone of remonstrance.

“I cannot afford to give a man my confidence, because I am unable to sound his intentions,” said Tiernay. “I disliked this Linton from the first, and I never yet saw any distinct reason to alter the sentiment. That he has puzzled me—ay, completely puzzled me and all my calculations, within the last few days, is quite true. He has done that which, in a man like himself, disconcerts one altogether, because it is so difficult to trace his probable motive. What would you say, were I to tell you that this deep man of the world, this artful and subtle gambler in the game of life, has actually proposed for a girl who is utterly without fortune or family influence? That she is endowed with noble attributes—that she is one a prince might have chosen to share his fortunes, I deem as nothing to the purpose, for I cannot conceive such qualities as hers could weigh with him; but so it is,—he has actually made an offer of his hand.”

“Dare your confidence go further?” said Cashel, eagerly, “and tell me—to whom?”

“Yes. I have been guilty of one breach of faith in telling you so much, and I 'll hazard all, and let you hear the remainder. It was Mary Leicester.”

“Mary Leicester!” echoed Cashel, but in a voice barely audible.

“Mary Leicester,” continued Tiernay, “may count it among her triumphs to have attracted one whom all the world regards as an adventurer; a man living by the exercise of his clever wits, profiting by the weaknesses and follies of his acquaintances, and deriving his subsistence from the vices he knows how to pamper.”

“And what answer has he received?” asked Cashel, timidly.

“None, as yet. Poor Corrigan, overwhelmed by misfortune, threatened by one whose menace, if enforced, would be his death-stroke, has begged for a day or two to consider; but the reply is certain.”

“And will be—” Cashel could not command his emotion as he spoke.

“Refusal.”

“You are certain of this, Tiernay? You are positive of what you say?”

“I know it. My old friend, were, he even inclined to this alliance, could never coerce her; and Mary Leicester has long since learned to distinguish between the agreeable qualities of a clever man and the artful devices of a treacherous one. She knows him; she reads him thoroughly, and as thoroughly she despises him. I will not say that her impressions have been unaided; she received more than one letter from a kind friend—Lady Kilgoff; and these were her first warnings. Poor Corrigan knows nothing of this; and Mary, seeing how Linton's society was pleasurable to the old man, actually shrank from the task of undeceiving him. 'He has so few pleasures,' said she to me one evening; 'why deny him this one?'—'It is a poison which cannot injure in small doses, doctor,' added she, another time; and so, half jestingly, she reasoned, submitting to an intimacy that was odious to her, because it added a gleam of comfort to the chill twilight of his declining life.”

“And you are sure of this—you are certain she will refuse him?” cried Cashel, eagerly.

“I am her confidant,” said Tiernay; “and you see how worthily I repay the trust! Nay, nay! I would not tell these things to any other living; but I feel that I owe them to you. I have seen more misery in life from concealment, from the delicacy that shuns a frank avowal, than from all the falsehood that ever blackened a bad heart. Mary has told me all her secrets; ay—don't blush so deeply—and some of yours also.”

Cashel did indeed grow red at this speech, and, in his effort to conceal his shame, assumed an air of dissatisfaction.

“Not so, my dear young friend,” said Tiernay; “I did not mean to say one word which could offend you. Mary has indeed trusted me with the secret nearest to her heart She has told me of the proudest moment of her life.”

“When she rejected me?” said Cashel, bitterly.

“So was it—when she rejected you,” re-echoed Tiernay. “When poor, she refused wealth; when friendless in all that friendship can profit, she declined protection; when almost homeless, she refused a home; when sought by one whom alone of all the world she preferred, she said him nay! It was at that moment of self-sacrifice, when she abandoned every thought of present happiness and of future hope, and devoted herself to one humble but holy duty, she felt the ecstasy of a martyr's triumph. You may think that these are exaggerations, and that I reckon at too exalted a standard such evidences of affection, but I do not think so. I believe that there is more courage in the patient submission to an obscure and unnoticed fortune, beset with daily trials and privations, than in braving the stake or the scaffold, with human sympathies to exalt the sacrifice.”

“But I offered to share this duty with her; to be a son to him whom she regarded as a father.”

“How little you know of the cares—the thoughtful, watchful, anxious cares—you were willing to share! You could give wealth and splendor, it is true; you could confer all the blandishments of fortune, all the luxuries that rich men command; but one hour of gentle solicitude in sickness—one kind look, that recalled years of tenderness—one accustomed service, the tribute of affection—were worth all that gold could purchase, told ten times over. And these are not to be acquired; they are the instincts that, born in childhood, grow strong with years, till at length they form that atmosphere of love in which parents live among their children. No! Mary felt that it were a treason to rob her poor old grandfather of even a thought that should be his.”

“But, I repeat it,” cried Cashel, passionately, “I would participate in every care; I would share her duties, as she should share my fortunes.”

“And what guarantee did you give for your fitness to such a task?” said Tiernay. “Was it by your life of pleasure, a career of wild and wasteful extravagance—was it by the unbridled freedom with which you followed every impulse of your will—was it by the example your friendships exhibited—was it by an indiscriminating generosity, that only throws a shade over better-regulated munificence, you would show that you were suited to a life of unobtrusive, humble duties?”

“You wrong me,” said Cashel. “I would have lived in that cottage yonder, without a thought or a wish for the costly pleasures you think have such attractions for me.”

“You had already sold it to your friend.”

“Sold it I—never!—to whom?”

“I thought Linton had purchased it.”

“Never!”

“Well, you gave it as a gift?”

“I did intend to do so; but seeing the value Corrigan puts upon it, I will give Linton double—thrice the value, rather than part with it.”

“What if he refuse?”

“He will not. Linton's fancies never run counter to solid advantages. A thousand pounds, with him, is always twice five hundred, come with what condition it may.”

“But Linton may, for his own reasons, think differently here; his proposal to marry seems as though it were part of some settled plan; and if you have already given him a legal claim here, my opinion is that he will uphold it.”

“That I have never done; but my word is pledged, and to it he may hold me, if he will. Meanwhile, I have seen Kennyfeck this morning. The man Hoare has offered us a large sum on mortgage, and I have promised to meet them both the day after to-morrow. If I read Tom aright, £10,000 will free me from every claim he has upon me.”

“A heavy sum, but not ill spent if it liberate you from his friendship,” cried Tiernay, eagerly.

“And so it shall.”

“You promise me this—you give me your word upon it?”

“I do.”

“Then there are good days in store for you. That man's intimacy has been your bane; even when you thought least of it, his influence swayed your actions and perverted your motives. Under the shadow of his evil counsels your judgment grew warped and corrupted; you saw all things in a false and distorted light; and your most fatal error of all was, that you deemed yourself a 'gentleman.'”

“I have done with him forever,” said Cashel, with slow, deliberate utterance.

“Again I say, good days are in store for you,” said Tiernay.

“I cannot live a life of daily, hourly distrust,” said Cashel; “nor will I try it. I will see him to-morrow; I will tell him frankly that I am weary of his fashionable protectorate; that as a scholar in modish tastes I should never do him credit, and that we must part. Our alliance was ever a factitious one; it will not be hard to sever it.”

“You mistake much,” said Tiernay; “the partnership will not be so easily relinquished by him who reaps all the profit.”

“You read me only as a dupe,” said Cashel, fiercely.

Tiernay made no reply, but waving his hand in adieu, left the room.