It was nightfall when Roland Cashel entered Dublin. The stir and movement of the day were over, and that brief interval which separates the life of business from that of pleasure had succeeded. Few were stirring in the streets, and they were hastening to the dinner-parties whose hour had now arrived. It was little more than a year since Cashel had entered that same capital, and what a change had come over him within that period! Then he was buoyant in all the enjoyment of youth, health, and affluence; now, although still young, sorrow and care had worn him into premature age. His native frankness had become distrust; his generous reliance on the world's good faith had changed into a cold and cautious reserve which made him detestable to himself.

Although he passed several of his former acquaintance without being recognized, he could not persuade himself but that their avoidance of him was intentional, and he thought he saw a purpose-like insolence in the pressing entreaties with which the news-vendors persecuted him to buy “The Full and True Report of the Trial of Roland Cashel for Murder.”

And thus it was that he, whose fastidious modesty had shrunk from everything like the notoriety of fashion, now saw himself exposed to that more terrible ordeal, the notoriety of crime. The consciousness of innocence could not harden him against the poignant suffering the late exposure had inflicted. His whole life laid bare! Not even to gratify the morbid curiosity of gossips; not to amuse the languid listlessness of a world devoured by its own ennui; but far worse! to furnish motives for an imputed crime! to give the clew to a murder! In the bitterness of his torn heart, he asked himself: “Have I deserved all this? Is this the just requital for my conduct towards others? Have the hospitality I have extended, the generous assistance I have proffered—have the thousand extravagances I have committed to gratify others—no other fruits than these?” Alas! the answer of his enlightened intelligence could no longer blind him by its flatteries. He recognized, at last, that to his abuse of fortune were owing all his reverses; that the capricious extravagance of the rich man—his misplaced generosity, his pompous display—can create enemies far more dangerous than all the straits and appliances of rebellious poverty; that the tie of an obligation which can ennoble a generous nature, may, in a bad heart, develop the very darkest elements of iniquity; and that he who refuses to be bound by gratitude is enslaved by hate!

He stopped for an instant before Kennyfeck's house; the closed shutters and close-drawn blinds bespoke it still the abode of mourning. He passed the residence of the Kilgoffs, and there the grass-grown steps and rusted knocker spoke of absence. They had left the country. He next came to his own mansion,—that spacious building which, at the same hour, was wont to be brilliant with wax-lights and besieged by fast-arriving guests, where the throng of carriages pressed forward in eager haste, and where, as each step descended, some form or figure moved by, great in fame or more illustrious still by beauty. Now, all was dark, gloomy, and deserted. A single gleam of light issued from the kitchen, which was speedily removed as Roland knocked at the door.

The female servant who opened the door nearly dropped the candle as she recognized the features of her master, who, without speaking, passed on, and, without even removing his hat, entered the library. Profuse in apologies for the disorder of the furniture, and excuses for the absence of the other servants, she followed him into the room, and stood, half in shame and half in terror, gazing at the wan and worn countenance of him she remembered the very ideal of health and youth.

“If we only knew your honor was coming home tonight—”

“I did not know it myself, good woman, at this hour yesterday. Let me have something to eat—well, a crust of bread and a glass of wine—there's surely so much in the house?”

“I can give your honor some bread, but all the wine is packed up and gone.”

“Gone! whither, and by whose order?” said Roland, calmly.

“Mr. Phillis, sir, sent it off about ten days ago, with the plate, and I hear both are off to America!”

“The bread alone, then, with a glass of water, will do,” said he, without any emotion or the least evidence of surprise in his manner.

“The fare smacks of the prison still,” said Roland, as he sat at his humble meal; “and truly the house itself is almost as gloomy.”

The aspect of everything was sad and depressing; neglect and disorder pervaded wherever he turned his steps. In some of the rooms the remains of past orgies still littered the tables. Smashed vases of rare porcelain, broken mirrors, torn pictures—all the work, in fact, which ruffian intemperance in its most savage mood accomplishes—told who were they who replaced his fashionable society; while, as if to show the unfeeling spirit of the revellers, several of the pasquinades against himself, the libellous calumnies of the low press, the disgusting caricatures of infamous prints, were scattered about amid the wrecks of the debauch.

Roland saw these things with sorrow, but without anger. “I must have fallen low indeed,” muttered he, “when it is by such men I am judged.”

In the room which once had been his study a great pile of unsettled bills covered the table, the greater number of which he remembered to have given the money for; there were no letters, however, nor even one card of an acquaintance, so that, save to his creditors, his very existence seemed to be forgotten.

Wearied of his sad pilgrimage from room to room, he sat down at last in a small boudoir, which it had been his caprice once to adorn with the portraits of “his friends!” sketched by a fashionable artist. There they were, all smiling blandly, as he left them. What a commentary on their desertion of him were the looks so full of benevolence and affection! There was Frobisher, lounging in all the ease of fashionable indifference, but still with a smile upon his languid features; there was Upton, the very picture of straightforward good feeling and frankness; there was Jennings, all beaming with generosity; and Linton, too, occupying the chief place, seemed to stare with the very expression of resolute attachment that so often had imposed on Cashel, and made him think him a most devoted but perhaps an indiscreet friend. Roland's own portrait had been turned to the wall, while on the reverse was written, in large characters, the words “To be hung, or hanged, elsewhere.” The brutal jest brought the color for an instant to his cheek, but the next moment he was calm and tranquil as before.

Lost in musings, the time stole by; and it was late in the night ere he betook himself to rest His sleep was the heavy slumber of an overworked mind; but he awoke refreshed and with a calm courage to breast the tide of fortune, however it might run.

Life seemed to present to him two objects of paramount interest. One of these was the discovery of Kennyfeck's murderer; the second was the payment of his debt of vengeance to Linton. Some secret instinct induced him to couple the two together; and although neither reason nor reflection afforded a clew to link them, they came ever in company before his mind, and rose like one fact before him.

Mr. Hammond, the eminent lawyer, to whom he had written a few lines, came punctually at ten o'clock to confer with him. Roland had determined to reveal no more of his secret to the ears of counsel than he had done before the Court, when an accidental circumstance totally changed the course of his proceeding.

“I have sent for you, Mr. Hammond,” said Cashel, as soon as they were seated, “to enlist your skilful services in tracing out the real authors of a crime of which I narrowly escaped the penalty. I will first, however, entreat your attention to another matter, for this may be the last opportunity ever afforded me of personally consulting you.”

“You purpose to live abroad, sir?” asked Hammond.

“I shall return to Mexico,” said Roland, briefly; and then resumed: “Here is a document, sir, of whose tenor and meaning I am ignorant, but of whose importance I cannot entertain a doubt: will you peruse it?”

Hammond opened the parchment, but scarcely had his eyes glanced over it, when he laid it down before him and said,—

“I have seen this before, Mr. Cashel. You are aware that I already gave you my opinion as to its value?”

“I am not aware of that,” said Roland, calmly. “Fray, in whose possession did you see it, and what does it mean?”

Hammond seemed confused for a few seconds; and then, as if overcoming a scruple, said,—

“We must both be explicit here, sir. This document was shown to me by Mr. Linton, at Limerick, he alleging that it was at your desire and by your request. As to its import, it simply means that you hold your present estates without a title; that document being a full pardon, revoking the penalty of confiscation against the heirs of Miles Corrigan, and reinstating them and theirs in their ancient possessions. Now, sir, may I ask, do you hear this for the first time?”

Roland nodded in acquiescence; his heart was too full for utterance, and the sudden revulsion of his feeling had brought a sickly sensation over him.

“Mr. Linton,” resumed Hammond, “in showing me this deed, spoke of a probable alliance between you and the granddaughter of Mr. Corrigan; and I freely concurred in the propriety of a union which might at once settle the difficulty of a very painful litigation. He promised me more full information on the subject, and engaged me to make searches for a registry, if such existed, of the pardon; but I heard nothing more from him, and the matter escaped my memory till this moment.”

“So that all this while I have been dissipating that which was not mine,” said Roland, with a bitterness of voice and manner that bespoke what he suffered.

“You have done what some thousands have done, are doing, and will do hereafter,—enjoyed possession of that which the law gave you, and which a deeper research into the same law may take away.”

“And Linton knew this?”

“He certainly knew my opinion of this document; but am I to suppose that you were ignorant of it up to this moment?”

“You shall hear all,” said Cashel, passing his hand across his brow, which now ached with the torture of intense emotion. “To save myself from all the ignominy of a felon's death, I did not reveal this before. It was with me as a point of honor, that I would reserve this man for a personal vengeance; but now a glimmering light is breaking on my brain, that darker deeds than all he worked against me lie at his door, and that in following up my revenge I may be but robbing the scaffold of its due. Listen to me attentively.” So saying, Cashel narrated every event of the memorable day of Kennyfeck's death, detailing his meeting with Enrique in the glen, and his last interview with Linton in his dressing-room.

Hammond heard all with deepest interest, only interrupting at times to ask such questions as might throw light upon the story. The whole body of the circumstantial evidence against Roland not only became easily explicable, but the shrewd perception of the lawyer also saw the consummate skill with which the details had been worked into regular order, and what consistency had been imparted to them. The great difficulty of the case lay in the fact that, supposing Kennyfeck's death had been planned by others, with the intention of imputing the crime to Cashel, yet all the circumstances, or nearly all, which seemed to imply his guilt, were matters of perfect accident, for which they never could have provided, nor even ever foreseen,—such as his entrance by the window, his torn dress, the wound of his hand, and the blood upon his clothes.

“I see but one clew to this mystery,” said Hammond, thoughtfully; “but the more I reflect upon it, the more likely does it seem. Kennyfeck's fate was intended for you,—he fell by a mistake.”

Roland started with astonishment, but listened with deep attention as Hammond recapitulated everything which accorded with this assumption.

“But why was one of my own pistols taken for the deed?”

“Perhaps to suggest the notion of suicide.”

“How could my death have been turned to profit? Was I not better as the living dupe than as the dead enemy?”

“Do you not see how your death legalized the deed with a forged signature? Who was to dispute its authenticity? Besides, how know we what ambitions Linton may not have cherished when holding in his hands the only title to the estate. We may go too fast with these suspicions, but let us not reject them as inconsistent Who is this same witness, Keane? What motives had he for the gratitude he evinced on the trial?”

“None whatever; on the contrary, I never showed him any favor; it was even my intention to dismiss him from the gate-lodge!”

“And he was aware of this?”

“Perfectly. He had besought several people to intercede for him, Linton among the rest.”

“So that he was known to Linton? And what has become of him since the trial?”

“That is the strangest of all; my wish was to have done something for the poor fellow. I could not readily forget the feeling he showed, at a moment, too, when none seemed to remember me; so that when I reached Tubbermore, I at once repaired to the lodge, but he was gone.”

“And in what direction?”

“His wife could not tell. The poor creature was distracted at being deserted, and seemed to think, from what cause I know not, that he would not return. He had come back after the trial in company with another, who remained on the roadside while Keane hastily packed up some clothes, after which they departed together.”

“This must be thought of,” said Hammond, gravely, while he wrote some lines in his note-book.

“It is somewhat strange, indeed,” said Cashel, “that the very men to whom my gratitude is most due are those who seem to avoid me. Thus—Jones, who gave me his aid upon the trial—”

“Do not speak of him, sir,” said Hammond, in a voice of agitation; “he is one who has sullied an order that has hitherto been almost without a stain. There is but too much reason to think that he was bribed to destroy you. His whole line of cross-examination on the trial was artfully devised to develop whatever might injure you; but the treachery turned upon the men who planned it. The Attorney General saw it, and the Court also; it was this saved you.”

Cashel sat powerless and speechless at this disclosure. It seemed to fill up in his mind the cup of iniquity, and he never moved nor uttered a word as he listened.

“Jones you will never see again. The bar of some other land across the sea may receive him, but there is not one here would stoop to be his colleague. But now for others more important. I will this day obtain the judge's notes of the trial, and give the whole case the deepest consideration. Inquiry shall be set on foot as to Keane, with whom he has gone, and in what direction. Linton, too, must be watched; the report is that he lies dangerously ill at his country house, but that story may be invented to gain time.”

Cashel could scarcely avoid a smile at the rapidity with which the lawyer detailed his plan of operation, and threw out, as he went, the signs of distrust so characteristic of his craft As for himself, he was enjoined to remain in the very strictest privacy,—to see no one, nor even to leave the house, except after nightfall.

“Rely upon it,” said Hammond, “your every movement is watched; and our object will be to ascertain by whom. This will be our first clew; and when we obtain one, others will soon follow.”

It was no privation for Cashel to follow a course so much in accordance with his wishes. Solitude—even that which consigned him to the saddest reveries—was far more pleasurable than any intercourse; so that he never ventured beyond the walls of his house for weeks, nor exchanged a word, except with Hammond, who regularly visited him each day, to report the progress of his investigation.

The mystery did not seem to clear away, even by the skilful contrivances of the lawyer. Of Keane not a trace could be discovered; nor could any clew be obtained as to his companion. All that Hammond knew was that although a doctor's carriage daily drove to Linton's house, Linton himself had long since left the country,—it was believed for the Continent.

Disappointed by continual failures, and wearied by a life whose only excitement lay in anxieties and cares, Cashel grew each day sadder and more depressed. The desire for vengeance, too, that first had filled his mind, grew weaker as time rolled on. The wish to reinstate himself fully in the world's esteem diminished, as he lived apart from all its intercourse, and he sank into a low and gloomy despondency, which soon showed its ravages upon his face and figure.

One object alone remained for him,—this was to seek out Corrigan and place in his hand the document of his ancestor's pardon; this done, Roland resolved to betake himself to Mexico, and again, among the haunts of his youth, to try and forget that life of civilization which had cost him so dearly.