It may save the reader some time, and relieve him from the weary task of twice listening to the same story, if we steal some passages from a letter which, about this time, Jack Massingbred addressed to his former correspondent. He wrote from the inn at Oughterard, and, although still under the influence of the excitement of the late contest, expressed himself with much of his constitutional calm and frankness. We shall not recapitulate his narrative of the election, but proceed at once to what followed on that description.
“I see, Harry, the dubious projection of your nether lip, I appreciate the slow nod of your head, and I fancy I can hear the little half-sigh of deprecation with which you hear all this. Worse again, I don't seek to defend myself. I think my case a bad one; but still I feel there is something to be said in mitigation. You need not trouble yourself to draw up an indictment: I plead guilty—entirely guilty—to all you can say. I have broken with 'the gentlemen' to cast my lot with the canaille. Why have n't we a good wholesome word of our own for a home-made article? I have deserted the ranks where, whatever fortune befell, it was honor to fight; I have given up association with the well-bred and the well-mannered, to rub shoulders with the coarse-minded, the rough-hearted, and the vulgar. There is not a reproach you can make me on this score that I have n't already addressed to myself. I feel all the indignity of my situation,—I experience all the insult of their companionship; but, as the lady detected in possession of her lover's picture pleaded in her defence that it was not like him, so I hope to arrest judgment against me by the honest avowal that I detest and despise my party. I don't talk to you about their principles—still less do I say anything of my own—but merely advert here to the miserable compromise a gentleman is driven to make with every sentiment of his nature who once enlists under their flag. As Travers told us one evening—you were of the party, and must remember it—he was speaking of the Peninsular campaign, in which he served as a volunteer—'So long as you were fighting,' said he, 'it was all very well; the fellows were stout-hearted and full of spirit, and you felt that you couldn't ask for better comrades; but when the struggle was over—when it came to associating, living with them, hearing their sentiments, sharing their opinions, hopes, fears, wishes, and so on—then it became downright degradation!' Not, as he remarked, that they were one jot more vicious or more corrupt than their betters, but that every vice and every corruption amongst them seemed doubly offensive by the contact with their coarse natures. Now, my friends, the Liberals, are somewhat in the same category. They do their work right well on the field of battle; they fight, swear, slander, and perjure themselves just like gentlemen; or rather better of the two. They even come down handsomely with their cash,—the last best evidence any man can tender of his honesty in a cause; but then, Harry, the struggle over, it is sorry work to become their companion and their friend! Oh! if you had but seen the dinners I have eaten, and the women I have handed down to them!—if you could have but heard the sentiments I have cheered,—ay, and even uttered,—only listened to the projects we have discussed, and the plans matured as we sat over our whiskey-punch,—you 'd say, 'Jack must have the ambition of the Evil One himself in his heart, since he pays this price for the mere glimpse of the goal before him!'
“Throughout the whole of your last letter I can detect a sense of apprehension lest, 'with all my tact,' as you phrase it, these people are not really duping we,—using me for a present purpose, with the foregone resolve to get rid of me when it be accomplished. To be sure they are, Harry. I never doubted it for a moment. The only question is, which of us shall trip up the other! They desire to show the world that the operation of the Relief Bill will not be of that exclusive character its opponents proclaimed,—that a Catholic constituency would choose a Protestant,—even prefer one,—as Mr. O'Connell said. The opportunity was a good one to display this sentiment, and so they took me! Now, my notion is, that every great measure can have only one real importance, by throwing weight into the scale of one or other of the two great Parliamentary parties. Do what you will,—agitate, write, speak, pamphleteer, and libel,—but all resolves itself to some question of a harm to one side and good to the other, the country the while being wonderfully little the better or the worse for all the legislation. We used to have a Constitution in England: we have now only got a Parliament, and to be anything in the nation a man must make himself felt there! This, 'if I have the stuff in me,' as old Sherry said, I mean to do—et nous verrons!
“The fatigues of this new life are very great. I 'm up before it is well day, writing and revising newspaper articles, answering letters, and replying to 'queries.' I have my whole mornings taken up in audiences of my constituents, swallowing pledges, and recording promises; and later on I go to dinner, 'with what appetite I may,' to some one of my faithful supporters,—some corn-chandler who spouts 'foreign politics,' or a grocer who ought to be Colonial Secretary! But still I 'm thankful for all this bustle and occupation: it averts reflection, it raises a barrier against thought, and muffles the clapper of that small hand-bell in the human heart men call their conscience! They say few men would have courage for either a battle or a wedding if it were not for the din of the trumpets and the joy-bells; and I'm convinced that noise—mere noise—has no small share in determining the actions of mankind!
“And now, Harry, for a confession. I 'm heartily sorry for the whole of this business, and were it to be done again, nothing would tempt me to play the same part in it. I was leading the jolliest life imaginable at Cro' Martin. I had made the place and the people my own. It was a kind of existence that suited me,—sufficient of occupation, and enough of leisure. There were oddities to laugh at, eccentricities to quiz, an old lawyer to sharpen one's wits upon, and a governess—such a governess—to flirt with! Don't mistake me, Harry; it was not one of those hand-pressing, downcast-gazing, low-speaking cases in which you are such a proficient. It was far more like the approaches one might be supposed to make to a young tigress in a cage,—a creature with whom a mistake would be your ruin, and whom you always caressed with a sense of impending peril.
“I told you how ably she aided me in this contest,—how she labored to obtain information—secret information—for me as to every voter in the borough. What prompted her to this course I cannot fathom. She does not appear to bear any grudge against the Martins,—she had been but a few weeks amongst them,—and is, all things considered, well treated and well received. As little was it any special favor towards myself. Indeed, on that head she will not permit me to fall into any error. I cannot suppose that with her foreign education and foreign habits she cares a jot for the small schemes and intriguings of home politics,—so what can it possibly mean? Help me to the solution of this riddle, and I 'll be more deeply your debtor than I can well say. Brought up as she has been,—and as I have told you in my last letter,—nothing would be more natural than her adoption of every prejudice of the class by whom she has been so singularly distinguished; and in this light I have always viewed her. Under the calm reserve of a most polished manner you can still detect a shrinking horror of all the vulgar association of the rank she came from. Her quiet deference, haughtier by far than the domination of those above her; the humility that no flatteries ever breached; a self-possession that never seemed so strong as when resisting the blandishments of praise,—these are strange gifts in a young girl with beauty enough to turn half the heads of half the fools we know of, and more than enough to make crazy that of him who writes this.
“I tried twenty things to resist this tendency on my part. I laughed at myself for the absurdity it would lead to. I ridiculed to my own heart all the extravagance of such a project. I even wrote a paragraph for the 'Times' announcing the marriage of Jack Massingbred with Kate Henderson, the only daughter of Paul Henderson, the Land Steward, and pasted it above my chimney to shock and outrage me. I did more. I made love to Miss Martin—as an alterative, as the doctors would call it—but I fell at a stone wall, got laughed at, and cured of my passion; and, lastly, I climbed that lofty tree of my family, and sat high among the branches of defunct barons and baronets, to get a bird's-eye view of the small mushrooms that grow on the earth beneath, but hang me, Harry, if the agarics did n't seem better company, and I was glad to get down amongst them again, meaning thereby to sit beside that one dear specimen of the class I allude to!
“I see that you are curious to know how all these late events have modified my relations with my father, and really I cannot answer your inquiry. It is more than likely that my obtaining a seat in Parliament will embarrass rather than serve him with his party, since he will be expected to control a vote over which he can exert no influence.
“As yet, nothing has occurred to draw us any closer, and my only communications to him have been certain recommendatory letters, which my constituents here have somewhat peremptorily demanded at my hands. I gave them freely, for, after all, application is an easier task than refusing, and besides, Harry, it is very difficult to persuade your election friends that you cannot be a patriot and a patron at the same time, and that, in the luxurious pastime of badgering a government, a man surrenders some of the pretensions to place. I gave them, therefore, all the letters they asked for; and if the Chief Secretary but answer one half of my appeals, Galway—or at least that small portion of it called Oughter-ard—will have no cause of complaint on the score of its claims to office.
“You are, I perceive, astonished that I continue to remain here. So am I, Harry. The place is detestable in almost every way. I am beset with entreaties, persecuted with vulgar attentions, bored to death by the insolent familiarity of people I cannot—do all that I will—grow intimate with; and yet I stay on, pretexting this, that, and t' other to myself, and shrinking even to my own heart to avow the real reason of my delay!
“I want once again, if only for a few moments, to see her. I want to try if by any ingenuity I could discover the mystery of her conduct with regard to myself; and I want also, if there should be the need to do so, to justify to her eyes many things which I have been forced by circumstances to do in this contest.
“I have not the slightest suspicion as to how she views all that has occurred here. Two notes which I addressed to her, very respectful, businesslike epistles, have not been answered, though I entreated for a few words to acknowledge their receipt. The Martins, since the election, seem to have quarantined the whole town and neighborhood. They suffer none of their people to enter here. They have sent eight miles further off to market, and even changed the post-town for their letters. Their policy is, so far, shortsighted, as it has called into an exaggerated importance all that small fry—like the Nelligans—who have hitherto been crushed under the greater wealth of the rich proprietor. But I am again drifting into that tiresome tideway of politics which I have sworn to myself to avoid, if only for a few days; in pursuance of which wise resolve I shall betake myself to the mountains, under the pretext of shooting. A gun is an idler's passport, and a game-bag and a shot-pouch are sufficient to throw a dignity over vagabondism. You will therefore divine that I am not bent on snipe slaughter, but simply a good excuse to be alone!
“I mean to go to-morrow, and shall first turn my steps towards the coast, which, so far as I have seen, is singularly bold and picturesque. If nothing occurs to alter my determination, I 'll leave this unclosed till I can tell you that I have come back here, which in all probability will be by the end of the week.
“Once more here, my dear Harry, I sit down to add a few lines to this already over-lengthy epistle. Wishing to give you some notion of the scenery, I set out with all the appliances of a sketcher, and have really contrived to jot down some spots which, for general wildness and grandeur, it would be difficult to surpass within the bounds of our country. Nor is it alone the forms that are so striking, although I could show you outlines here perfectly Alpine in their fantastic extravagance; but the colors are finer than anything I have seen north of the Alps,—heaths and lichens grouped over rugged masses of rock, with shades of purple and gold such as no diadem ever equalled. The sunsets, too, were gorgeous! You remember how struck we both were at the moment when the dome and aisle of St. Peter's burst into light, and from the darkness of midnight every column and every statue became illuminated in a second; but a thousand times beyond this in grandeur of effect was the moment of the sun's decline below the horizon. The instant before, the great sullen sea was rolling and heaving with its leaden blue surface, slightly traced here and there with foam, but no sooner had the sun touched the horizon, than a flood of purple glory spread over the whole ocean, so that it became like a sea of molten gold and amber. The dark cliffs and rugged crags, the wave-beaten rocks, and the rude wild islands, darksome and dismal but a moment back, were now all glittering and glowing, every pinnacle and every peak in deep carbuncle red. How suggestive to him who would describe an enchanted land or region of magic splendor! and what a hint for your scene-painter, who, with all his devices of Bengal and blue light, with every trick that chemistry and optics could aid in, never fancied anything so splendid or so gorgeous.
“I have half filled a sketch-book for you, and more than half filled my game-bag with mosses and ferns, and such-like gear, which, knowing your weakness, I have gathered, but, not understanding their virtues, may, for aught I know, be the commonest things in creation. I can only vouch for their being very beautiful, and very unlike anything else I ever saw before; fragments of marble, too, and specimens of Irish jasper and onyx, are amidst my rubbish, or my treasures, whichever you shall pronounce them to be.
“I got through—don't fancy that the phrase denotes weariness or ennui—I got through four days in these pursuits, and then I took boat, and for three more I paddled about the coast, dipping in amongst the cliffs and creeks and caves of this wonderful coast, gathering shells and seaweed, and shooting curlews and eating lobsters, and, in fact, to all intents and purposes, suffering a 'sea change' over myself and my spirit as unearthlike as well may be imagined; and at last I bethought me of my new openiug career, and all that I ought to be doing in preparation of St. Stephen's, and so I turned my steps landward and towards 'my borough.' I like to say 'my borough;' it sounds feudal and insolent and old Torylike; it smacks of the day when people received their representative thankfully, as an alms, and your great proprietor created his nominee as the consul ennobled his horse!
“Revolving very high thoughts, reciting Edmund Burke's grandest perorations, and picturing very vividly before me the stunning triumphs of my own eloquence in the House, I plodded along, this time at least wonderfully indifferent to the scenery, and totally oblivious of where I was, when suddenly I perceived the great trees of Cro' Martin demesne shadowing the road I travelled, and saw that I was actually within a mile or so of the Castle! You, Harry, have contrived, some way or other, to have had a very rose-colored existence. I never heard that you had been jilted by a mistress, 'cut' by a once friend, or coldly received by the rich relative from whom you derived all your expectations. I am not even aware that the horse you backed ever went wrong, or that the bill you endorsed for another ever came back protested. In fact, you are what the world loves best, cherishes most, and lavishes all its blandishments on,—a devilish lucky fellow! Lucky in a capital fortune, abundance of good gifts, good looks, and an iron constitution,—one of those natures that can defy duns, blue-devils, and dyspepsia! Being, therefore, all this, well received everywhere, good company where pheasants are to be shot, Burgundy to be drunk, or young ladies to be married,—for you are a good shot, a good wine-taster, and a good parti,—with such gifts, I say, it will be very difficult to evoke your sympathy on the score of a misfortune which no effort of your imagination could compass. In fact, to ask you to feel what I did, as I found myself walking along outside of those grounds within which, but a few days back, I was the cherished visitor, and in sight of that smoke which denoted a hearth beside which I was never to sit again, and from which I was banished with something not very unlike disgrace! No sophistry I could summon was sufficient to assuage the poignancy of this sentiment. I feel certain that I could stand any amount of open public abuse, any known or unknown quantity of what is genteelly called 'slanging,' but I own to you that the bare thought of how my name might at that moment be mentioned beneath that roof, or even the very reserve that saved it from mention, caused me unutterable bitterness, and it was in a state of deep humiliation of spirit that I took the very first path that led across the fields and away from Cro' Martin.
“They tell me that a light heart makes easy work of a day's journey. Take my word for it, that to get over the ground without a thought of the road, there's nothing like a regular knock-down affliction. I walked eight hours, and at a good pace, too, without so much as a few minutes' halt, so overwhelmed was I with sensations that would not admit of my remembering anything else. My first moment of consciousness—for really it was such—came on as I found myself breasting a steep stony ascent, on the brow of which stood the bleak residence of my friend Mr. Magennis, of Barnagheela. I have already told you of my visit to his house, so that I need not inflict you with any new detail of the locality, but I confess, little as it promised to cheer or rally the spirits, I was well pleased to find myself so near a roof under which I might take refuge. I knocked vigorously at the door, but none answered my summons. I repeated my demand for admittance still more loudly, and at last went round to the back of the house, which I found as rigidly barred as the front. While still hesitating what course to take, I spied Joan Landy—you remember the girl I spoke of in a former letter—ascending the hill at a brisk pace. In a moment I was beside her. Poor thing, she seemed overjoyed at our meeting, and warmly welcomed me to her house. 'Tom is away,' said she, 'in Dublin, they tell me, but he 'll be back in a day or two, and there 's nobody he 'd be so glad to see as yourself when he comes.' In the world, Harry,—that is, in your world and mine,—such a proposition as Joan's would have its share of embarrassments. Construe it how one might, there would be at least some awkwardness in accepting such hospitality. So I certainly felt it, and, as we walked along, rather turned the conversation towards herself, and whither she had been.
“'I 'm not more than half an hour out of the house,' said she, 'for I only went down the boreen to show the short cut by Kell Mills to a young lady that was here.'
“'A visitor, Mrs. Joan?'
“'Yes. But to be sure you know her yourself, for you came with her the day she walked part of the way back with me from Cro' Martin.'
“'Miss Henderson?'
“'Maybe that's her name. She only told me to call her Kate.'
“'Was she here alone?—did she come on foot?—which way is she gone?' cried I, hurrying question after question. Perhaps the tone of my last was most urgent, for it was to that she replied, by pointing to a glen between two furze-clad hills, and saying, 'That's the road she 's taking, till she crosses the ford at Coomavaragh.'
“'And she is alone?'
“'That she is; sorra a one with her, and she has five good miles before her.'
“I never waited for more. If I did say good-bye to poor Joan, I really forget; but I dashed down the mountain at speed, and hurried onward in the direction she had pointed out. In an instant all my fatigue of the day was forgotten, and as I went along I remembered nothing, thought of nothing, but the object of my pursuit.
“You who have so often bantered me on the score of my languor—that 'elegant lassitude,' as you used to call it, which no zeal ever warmed, nor any ardor ever could excite—would have been somewhat astonished had you seen the reckless, headlong pace at which I went,—vaulting over gates, clearing fences, and dashing through swamps, without ever a moment's hesitation. Picture to yourself, then, my splashed and heated condition as, after a two-miles' chase in this fashion, I at length overtook her, just as she was in search of a safe spot to ford the river. Startled by the noise behind her, she turned suddenly round, and in an instant we stood face to face. I 'd have given much to have seen some show of confusion, even embarrassment in her looks, but there was not the slightest. No, Harry, had we met in a drawing-room, her manner could not have been more composed, as she said,—'Good-morning, Mr. Massingbred. Have you had much sport?' 'My chase was after you, Miss Henderson,' said I, hurriedly. 'I just reached Barnagheela as Mistress Joan returned, and having learned which road you took, followed you in all haste.'
“'Indeed!' exclaimed she, and in a voice wherein there were blended a vast variety of meanings.
“'Yes,' I resumed, 'for an opportunity of meeting you alone—of speaking with you even for a few moments—I have delayed my departure this week back. I wrote to you twice.'
“'Yes; I got your letters.'
“'But did not deign to answer them.'
“' I did not write to you, because, situated as I was, and regarded as you were at Cro' Martin, there would have been a species of treason in maintaining anything like correspondence, just as I feel there is somewhat akin to it in our intercourse at this moment.'
“'And have the events occurring lately changed your feeling with regard to me?' asked I, half reproachfully.
“'I don't exactly know to what former condition you refer, Mr. Massingbred,' said she, calmly. 'If to the counsels which you were gracious enough to receive at hands humble and inexperienced as mine, they were given, as you remember, when you were the chosen representative of the family at Cro' Martin, and continued only so long as you remained such.'
“'Then I have deceived myself, Miss Henderson,' broke I in. 'I had fancied that there was a personal good-will in the aid you tendered me. I even flattered myself that I owed my success entirely and solely to your efforts.'
“'You are jesting, Mr. Massingbred,' said she, with a saucy smile; 'no one better than yourself knows how to rely upon his own abilities.'
“'At least, confess that it was you who first suggested to me that they were worth cultivating; that it was you who pointed out a road to me in life, and even promised me your friendship as the price of my worthily adopting it!'
“'I remember the conversation you allude to. It was on this very road it occurred.'
“'Well, and have I done anything as yet to forfeit the reward you spoke of?'
“'All this is beside the real question, Mr. Massingbred,' said she, hurriedly. 'What you are really curious to learn is, why it is that I, being such as I am, should have displayed so much zeal in a cause which could not but have been opposed to the interests of those who are my patrons. That you have not divined the reason is a proof to me that I could not make you understand it. I don't want to talk riddles,—enough that I say it was a caprice.'
“'And yet you talked seriously, persuasively to me, of my future road in life; you made me think that you saw in me the qualities that win success.'
“'You have a wonderful memory for trifles, sir, since you can recall so readily what I said to you.'
“'But it was not a trifle to me,' said I.
“'Perhaps not, Mr. Massingbred, since it referred to yourself. I don't mean this for impertinence!'
“'I am glad that you say so!' cried I, eagerly. 'I am but too happy to catch at anything which may tend to convince me that you would not willingly hurt my feelings.'
“For several minutes neither of us uttered a word; at last I said, 'Should I be asking too much, if I begged Miss Henderson to tell me whether she is dissatisfied with anything I may have done in this contest? There may be matters in which I have been misrepresented; others of which I could make some explanation.'
“'Are you quite satisfied with it yourself, sir?' said she, interrupting me.
“'No,' said I; 'so little am I so, that were it all to do over again, I 'd not embark in it. The whole affair, from beginning to end, is a false position.'
“'Ignoble associates—low companionships—very underbred acquaintances,' said she, in a tone of scorn that seemed far more directed at me than the others. I believe I showed how I felt it. I know that my cheek was on fire for some seconds after.
“'The Martins, I take it, are outrageous with me?' said I, at last.
“'They never speak of you!' was the reply.
“'Not my Lady?'
“'No!'
“'Nor even Repton?'
“'Not once.'
“'That, at least, is more dignified; and if any accident should bring us together in county business—'
“'Which is not likely.'
“'How so?' asked I.
“'They are going away soon.'
“'Going away—to leave Cro' Martin—and for any time?'
“'My Lady speaks of the Continent, and that, of course, implies a long absence.'
“'And has this miserable election squabble led to this resolve? Is the neighborhood to be deprived of its chief ornament—the people of their best friend—just for the sake of a petty party triumph?'
“'It is fortunate Mr. Massingbred's constituents cannot hear him,' said she, laughing.
“'But be serious, and tell me how far am I the cause of all this.'
“'The whole cause of it,—at least, so far as present events can reveal.'
“'How they must abhor me!' said I, half involuntarily.
“'Avec les circonstances atténuantes,' said she, smiling again.
“'How so?—what do you mean?'
“'Why, that my Lady is thankful at heart for a good excuse to get away,—such a pretext as Mr. Martin himself cannot oppose. Repton, the Grand Vizier, counsels economy, and, like all untravelled people, fancies France and Italy cheap to live in; and Miss Mary is, perhaps, not sorry with the prospect of the uncontrolled management of the whole estate.'
“'And is she to live here alone?'
“'Yes; she is to be sole mistress of Cro' Martin, and without even a governess, since Miss Henderson is to accompany her Ladyship as private secretary, minister of the household, and, in fact, any other capacity you may please in flattery to assign her. And now, Mr. Massingbred, that I have, not over-discreetly, perhaps, adventured to talk of family arrangements to a stranger, will you frankly ac-knowledge that your pride, or self-love, or any other quality of the same nature, is rather gratified than otherwise at all the disturbance you have caused here? Don't you really feel pleased to think that you have revolutionized a little neighborhood, broken up a society, severed the ties that bound proprietor and peasant, and, in fact, made a very pretty chaos, out of which may come anything or everything?'
“'When you address such a question as this to me, you don't expect an answer. Indeed, the query itself is its own reply,' said I.
“'Well said, sir, and with consummate temper, too. Certainly, Mr. Massingbred, you possess one great element of success in public life.'
“'Which is—'
“'To bear with equanimity and cool forbearance the impertinences of those you feel to be your inferiors.'
“'But it is not in this light I regard Miss Henderson, be assured,' said I, with earnestness; 'and if I have not replied to her taunts, it is not because I have not felt them.'
“I thought I detected a very faint flush on her cheek as I said this, and certainly her features assumed a more serious expression than before.
“'Will you let me speak to you of what is far nearer my heart?' said I, in a low voice,—'far nearer than all this strife and war of politics? And will you deign to believe that what I say is prompted by whatever I know in myself of good or hopeful?'
“'Say on,—that is, if I ought to hear it,' said she, coldly.
“Deterred a second or two by her manner, I rallied quickly, and with an ardor of which I cannot convey an impression, much less explain,—one of those moments of rhapsody, you 'd call it,—poured forth a warm declaration of love. Aye, Harry, sincere, devoted love!—a passion which, in mastering all the common promptings of mere worldly advantage and self-interest, had really inspired me with noble thoughts and high aspirations.
“A judge never listened to a pleading with more dignified patience than she did to my appeal. She even waited when I had concluded, as it were to allow of my continuing, had I been so minded; when, seeing that I had closed my argument, she quietly turned about, and facing the road we had just been travelling, pointed to the bleak, bare mountain on which Barnagheela stood. 'It was yonder, then, that you caught up this lesson, sir. The admirable success of Mr. Magennis's experiment has seduced you!'
“'Good heavens! Kate,' cried I—
“'Sir,' said she, drawing herself proudly up, 'you are continuing the parallel too far.'
“'But Miss Henderson cannot for a moment believe—'
“'I can believe a great deal, sir, of what even Mr. Massingbred would class with the incredible; but, sir, there are certain situations in life which exact deference, from the very fact of their humility. Mine is one of these, and I am aware of it.'
“'Will you not understand me aright?' cried I, eagerly. 'In offering to share my fortune in life with you—'
“'Pray, sir, let this stop here. Poor Joan, I have no doubt, felt all the grandeur of her elevation, and was grateful even in her misery. But I should not do so. I am one of those who think that the cruellest share in a mésalliance is that of the humbler victim. To brave such a fate, there should be all the hopeful, sanguine sense of strong affection; and, as a reserve to fall back on in reverses, there should be an intense conviction of the superiority over others of him from whom we accept our inferiority. Now, in my case, these two conditions are wanting. I know you like frankness, and I am frank.'
“'Even to cruelty,' said I.
“'We are very near Cro' Martin, sir, and I think we ought to part,' said she, calmly.
“'And is it thus you would have us separate? Have I nothing to hope from time,—from the changes that may come over your opinions of me?'
“'Calculate rather on the alterations in your own sentiments, Mr. Massingbred; and perhaps the day is not very distant when you will laugh heartily at yourself for the folly of this same morning,—a folly which might have cost you dearly, sir, for I might have said, Yes.'
“'Would that you had!'
“'Good-bye, sir,' said she, not noticing my interruption, 'and remember that, if I should ever need it, I have a strong claim on your gratitude. Good-bye!'
“She did not give me her hand at parting, but waved it coldly towards me as she went. And so she passed the little wicket, and entered the dark woods of the demesne, leaving me in a state wherein the sense of bewilderment alone prevailed over all else.
“I have given you this narrative, Harry, as nearly as I can remember, every step of it; but I do not ask you to understand it better than I do, which means, not at all! Nor will I worry you with the thousand-and-one attempts I have made to explain to myself what I still confess to be inexplicable. I mean to leave this at once. Would that I had never come here! Write to me soon; but no bantering, Harry. Not even my friendship for you—oldest and best of all my friends—could stand any levity on this theme. This girl knows me thoroughly, since she comprehends that there is no so certain way to engage my affections as to defy them!
“Write to me, I entreat. Address me at my father's, where I shall be, probably, within a week. Were I to read over what I have just written, the chances are I should burn the letter; and so, sans adieu,
“Yours ever,
“Jack Massingbred.”
Three large and stately travelling-carriages, heavily laden, and surrounded with all the appliances for comfort possible, rolled from under the arched gateway of Cro' Martin. One eager and anxious face turned hastily to catch a last look at the place he was leaving, and then as hastily concealing his emotion with his handkerchief, Mr. Martin sat back in the carriage in silence.
“Twenty minutes after eight!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, looking at her watch. “It is always the case; one never can get away in time.”
Rousted by the speech, Martin started, and turned again to the window.
“How handsome those larches are!” cried he; “it seems but yesterday that I planted them, and they are magnificent trees now.”
Her Ladyship made no reply, and he went on, half as though speaking to himself: “The place is in great beauty just now. I don't think I ever saw it looking so well. Shall I ever see it again?” muttered he, in a still lower tone.
“I really cannot think it ought to break your heart, Mr. Martin, if I were to say 'No' to that question,” said she, testily.
“No—no!” exclaimed he, repeating the word after her; “not come back here!”
“There is nothing to prevent us if we should feel disposed to do so,” replied she, calmly. “I only observed that one could face the alternative with a good courage. The twenty years we have passed in this spot are represented to your mind by more leafy trees and better timber. To me they are written in the dreary memory of a joyless, weary existence. I detest the place,” cried she, passionately, “and for nothing more, that even on leaving it my spirits are too jaded and broken to feel the happiness that they ought.”
Martin sighed heavily, but did not utter a word.
“So it is,” resumed she; “one ever takes these resolutions too late. What we are doing now should have been done sixteen or eighteen years ago.”
“Or not at all,” muttered Martin, but in a voice not meant to be overheard.
“I don't think so, sir,” cried she, catching up his words; “if only as our protest against the insolence and ingratitude of this neighborhood,—of these creatures who have actually been maintained by us! It was high time to show them their real condition, and to what they will be reduced when the influence of our position is withdrawn.”
“If it were only for that we are going away—” And he stopped himself as he got thus far.
“In itself a good and sufficient reason, sir; but I trust there are others also. I should hope that we have paid our debt to patriotism, and that a family who have endured twenty years of banishment may return, if only to take a passing glance at the world of civilization and refinement.”
“And poor Mary!” exclaimed Martin, with deep feeling.
“Your niece might have come with us if she pleased, Mr. Martin. To remain here was entirely her own choice; not that I am at all disposed to think that her resolution was not a wise one. Miss Mary Martin feels very naturally her utter deficiency in all the graces and accomplishments which should pertain to her condition. She appreciates her unfitness for society, and selects—as I think, with commendable discretion—a sphere much better adapted to her habits.”
Martin again sighed heavily.
“To leave any other girl under such circumstances would have been highly improper,” resumed her Ladyship; “but she is really suited to this kind of life, and perfectly unfit for any other, and I have no doubt she and Catty Broon will be excellent company for each other.”
“Catty loves her with all her heart,” muttered Martin.
And her Ladyship's lip curled in silent derision at the thought of such affection. “And, after all,” said he, half involuntarily, “our absence will be less felt so long as Molly stays behind.”
“If you mean by that, Mr. Martin, that the same system of wasteful expenditure is still to continue,—this universal employment scheme,—I can only say I distinctly and flatly declare against it. Even Rep ton—and I 'm sure he 's no ally of mine—agrees with me in pronouncing it perfectly ruinous.”
“There's no doubt of the cost of it,” said Martin, gravely.
“Well, sir, and what other consideration should weigh with us?—I mean,” added she, hastily, “what should have the same weight? The immaculate authority I have just quoted has limited our personal expenditure for next year to five thousand pounds, and threatens us with even less in future if the establishment at Cro' Martin cannot be reduced below its present standard; but I would be curious to know why there is such a thing as an establishment at Cro' Martin?”
“Properly speaking, there is none,” said Martin. “Rep-ton alludes only to the workpeople,—to those employed on the grounds and the gardens. We cannot let the place go to ruin.”
“There is certainly no necessity for pineries and forcing-houses. Your niece is not likely to want grapes in January, or camellias in the early autumn. As little does she need sixteen carriage-horses and a stable full of hunters.”
“They are to be sold off next week. Mary herself said that she only wanted two saddle-horses and the pony for the phaeton.”
“Quite sufficient, I should say, for a young lady.”
“I 'm sure she 'd have liked to have kept the harriers—”
“A pack of hounds! I really never heard the like!”
“Poor Molly! It was her greatest pleasure,—I may say her only amusement in life. But she would n't hear of keeping them; and when Repton tried to persuade her—”
“Repton's an old fool,—he's worse; he's downright dishonest,—for he actually proposed my paying my maids out of my miserable pittance of eight hundred a year, and at the same moment suggests your niece retaining a pack of foxhounds!”
“Harriers, my Lady.”
“I don't care what they 're called. It is too insolent.”
“You may rely upon one thing,” said Martin, with more firmness than he had hitherto used, “there will be nothing of extravagance in Mary's personal expenditure. If ever there was a girl indifferent to all the claims of self, she is that one.”
“If we continue this discussion, sir, at our present rate, I opine that by the time we reach Dublin your niece will have become an angel.”
Martin dropped his head, and was silent; and although her Ladyship made two or three other efforts to revive the argument, he seemed resolved to decline the challenge, and so they rolled along the road sullen and uncommunicative.
In the second carriage were Repton and Kate Henderson,—an arrangement which the old lawyer flatteringly believed he owed to his cunning and address, but which in reality was ordained by Lady Dorothea, whose notions of rank and precedence were rigid. Although Repton's greatest tact lay in his detection of character, he felt that he could not satisfactorily affirm he had mastered the difficulty in the present case. She was not exactly like anything he had met before; her mode of thought, and even some of her expressions were so different that the old lawyer owned to himself, “It was like examining a witness through an interpreter.”
A clever talker—your man of conversational success—is rarely patient under the failure of his powers, and, not very unreasonably perhaps, very ready to ascribe the ill-success to the defects of his hearer. They had not proceeded more than half of the first post ere Repton began to feel the incipient symptoms of this discontent.
She evidently had no appreciation for bar anecdote and judicial wit; she took little interest in political events, and knew nothing of the country or its people. He tried the subject of foreign travel, but his own solitary trip to Paris and Brussels afforded but a meagre experience of continental life, and he was shrewd enough not to swim a yard out of his depth. “She must have her weak point, if I could but discover it,” said he to himself. “It is not personal vanity, that I see. She does not want to be thought clever, nor even eccentric, which is the governess failing par excellence. What then can it be?” With all his ingenuity he could not discover. She would talk, and talk well, on any theme he started, but always like one who maintained conversation through politeness and not interest; and this very feature it was which piqued the old man's vanity, and irritated his self-love.
When he spoke, she replied, and always with a sufficient semblance of interest; but if he were silent, she never opened her lips.
“And so,” said he, after a longer pause than usual, “you tell me that you really care little or nothing whither Fortune may be now conducting you.”
“To one in my station it really matters very little,” said she, calmly. “I don't suppose that the post-horses there have any strong preference for one road above another, if they be both equally level and smooth.”
“There lies the very question,” said he; “for you now admit that there may be a difference.”
“I have never found in reality,” said she, “that these differences were appreciable.”
“How is it that one so young should be so—so philosophic?” said he, after a hesitation.
“Had you asked me that question in French, Mr. Repton, the language would have come so pleasantly to your aid, and spared you the awkwardness of employing a grand phrase for a small quality; but my 'philosophy' is simply this: that, to fill a station whose casualties range from courtesies in the drawing-room to slights from the servants' hall, one must arm themselves with very defensive armor as much, nay more, against flattery than against sarcasm. If, in the course of time, this habit render one ungenial and uncompanionable, pray be lenient enough to ascribe the fault to the condition as much as to the individual.”
“But, to be candid, I only recognize in you qualities the very opposite of all these; and if I am to confess a smart at this moment, it is in feeling that I am not the man to elicit them.”
“There you do me wrong. I should be very proud to captivate Mr. Repton.”
“Now we are on the good road at last!” said he, gayly; “for Mr. Repton is dying to be captivated.”
“The fortress that is only anxious to surrender offers no great glory to the conqueror,” replied she.
“By Jove! I 'm glad you 're not at the bar.”
“If I had been, I could never have shown the same forbearance as Mr. Repton.”
“How so? What do you mean?”
“I never could have refused a silk gown, sir; and they tell me you have done so!”
“Ah! they told you that,” said he, coloring with pleasurable pride. “Well, it's quite true. The fact is correct, but I don't know what explanation they have given of it!”
“There was none, sir,—or, at least, none that deserved the name.”
“Then what was your own reading of it?” asked he.
“Simply this, sir: that a proud man may very well serve in the ranks, but spurn the grade of a petty officer.”
“By Jove; it is strange to find that a young lady should understand one's motives better than an old Minister,” said he, with an evident satisfaction.
“It would be unjust, sir, were I to arrogate any credit to my own perspicuity in this case,” said she, hastily; “for I was aided in my judgment by what, very probably, never came under the Minister's eyes.”
“And what was that?”
“A little volume which I discovered one day in the library, entitled 'Days of the Historical Society of Trinity College,' wherein I found Mr. Repton's name not only one of the first in debate, but the very first in enunciating the great truths of political liberty. In fact, I might go further, and say, the only one who had the courage to proclaim the great principles of the French Revolution.”
“Ah,—yes. I was a boy,—a mere boy,—very rash,—full of hope,—full of enthusiasm,” said Repton, with an embarrassment that increased at every word. “We all took fire from the great blaze beside us just then; but, my dear young lady, the flame has died out,—very fortunately, too; for if it had n't, it would have burned us up with it. We were wrong,—wrong with Burke, to be sure,—Errare Platone, as one may say,—but still wrong.”
“You were wrong, sir, in confounding casualties with true consequences; wrong as a physician would be who abandoned his treatment from mistaking the symptoms of disease for the effects of medicine. You set out by declaring there was a terrible malady to be treated, and you shrink back affrighted at the first results of your remedies; you did worse; you accommodated your change of principles to party, and from the great champions of liberty you descended to be—modern Whigs!”
“Why, what have we here? A Girondist, I verily believe!” said Repton, looking in her face with a smile of mingled surprise and amazement.
“I don't much care for the name you may give me; but I am one who thinks that the work of the French Revolution is sure of its accomplishment. We shall very probably not do the thing in the same way, but it will be done, nevertheless; for an Act of Parliament, though not so speedy, will be as effectual as a 'Noyade,' and a Reforming Administration will work as cleanly as a Constituent!”
“But see; look at France at this moment. Is not society reconstituted pretty near to the old models? What evidence is there that the prestige of rank has suffered from the shock of revolution?”
“The best evidence. Nobody believes in it,—not one. Society is reconstituted just as a child constructs a card-house to see how high he can carry the frail edifice before it tumbles. The people—the true people of the Continent—look at the pageantry of a court and a nobility just as they do on a stage procession, and criticise it in the same spirit. They endure it so long as their indolence or their caprice permit, and then, some fine morning, they 'll dash down the whole edifice; and be assured that the fragments of the broken toy will never suggest the sentiment to repair it.”
“You are a Democrat of the first water!” exclaimed Repton, in half amazement.
“I am simply for the assertion of the truth everywhere and in everything,—in religion and in politics, as in art and literature. If the people be the source of power, don't divert the stream into another channel; and, above all, don't insist that it should run up-hill! Come abroad, Mr. Repton,—just come over with us to Paris,—and see if what I am telling you be so far from the fact. You 'll find, too, that it is not merely the low-born, the ignoble, and the poor who profess these opinions, but the great, the titled, and the wealthy men of fourteen quarterings and ancient lineage; and who, sick to death of a contest with a rich bourgeoisie, would rather start fair in the race again, and win whatever place their prowess or their capacity might giye them. You 'll hear very good socialism from the lips of dukes and princesses who swear by Fourier.”
Repton stared at her in silence, not more amazed at the words he heard than at the manner and air of her who spoke them; for she had gradually assumed a degree of earnestness and energy which imparted to her features a character of boldness and determination such as he had not seen in them before..
“Yes,” resumed she, as though following out her own thoughts, “it is your new creations, your ennobled banker, your starred and cordoned agitator of the Bourse, who now defends his order, and stands up for the divine right of misrule! The truly noble have other sentiments!”
“There 's nothing surprises me so much,” said Repton, at last, “as to hear these sentiments from one who has lived surrounded by all the blandishments of a condition that owes its existence to an aristocracy, and never could have arisen without one,—who has lived that delightful life of refined leisure and elevating enjoyment, such as forms the atmosphere of only one class throughout the whole world. How would you bear to exchange this for the chaotic struggle that you point at?”
“As for me, sir, I only saw the procession from the window. I may, perhaps, walk in it when I descend to the street; but really,” added she, laughing, “this is wandering very far out of the record. I had promised myself to captivate Mr. Repton, and here I am, striving to array every feeling of his heart and every prejudice of his mind against me.”
“It is something like five-and-fifty years since I last heard such sentiments as you have just uttered,” said Repton, gravely. “I was young and ardent,—full of that hopefulness in mankind which is, after all, the life-blood of Republicanism; and here I am now, an old, time-hardened lawyer, with very little faith in any one. How do you suppose that such opinions can chime in with all I have witnessed in the interval?”
“Come over to Paris, sir,” was her reply.
“And I would ask nothing better,” rejoined he. “Did I ever tell you of what Harry Parsons said to Macnatty when he purposed visiting France, after the peace of '15? 'Now is the time to see the French capital,' said Mac. 'I 'll put a guinea in one pocket and a shirt in the other, and start to-morrow.' 'Ay, sir,' said Parsons, 'and never change either till you come back again!'”
Once back in his accustomed field, the old lawyer went along recounting story after story, every name seeming to suggest its own anecdote. Nor was Kate, now, an ungenerous listener; on the contrary, she relished his stores of wit and repartee. Thus they, too, went on their journey!
The third carriage contained Madame Hortense, Lady Dorothea's French maid; Mrs. Runt, an inferior dignitary of the toilet; and Mark Peddar, Mr. Martin's “gentleman,”—a party which, we are forced to own, seemed to combine more elements of sociality than were gathered together in the vehicles that preceded them. To their share there were no regrets for leaving home,—no sorrow at quitting a spot endeared to them by long association. The sentiment was one of unalloyed satisfaction. They were escaping from the gloom of a long exile, and about to issue forth into that world which they longed for as eagerly as their betters. And why should they not? Are not all its pleasures, all its associations more essentially adapted to such natures; and has solitude one single compensation for all its depression to such as these?
“Our noble selves,” said Mr. Peddar, filling the ladies' glasses, and then his own; for a very appetizing luncheon was there spread out before them, and four bottles of long-necked gracefulness rose from amidst the crystal ruins of a well-filled ice-pail. “Mam'selle, it is your favorite tipple, and deliciously cool.”
“Perfection,” replied mademoiselle, with a foreign accent, for she had been long in England; “and I never enjoyed it more. Au revoir,” added she, waving her hand towards the tall towers of Cro' Martin, just visible above the trees,—“Au revoir!”
“Just so,—till I see you again,” said Mrs. Runt; “and I 'm sure I 'll take good care that day won't come soon. It seems like a terrible nightmare when I think of the eight long years I passed there.”
“Et moi, twelve! Miladi engage me, so to say, provisoirement, to come to Ireland, but with a promise of travel abroad; that we live in Paris, Rome, Naples,—que sais-je? I accept,—I arrive,—et me voici!” And mademoiselle threw back her veil, the better to direct attention to the ravages time and exile had made upon her charms.
“Hard lines, ma'am,” said Peddar, whose sympathy must not be accused of an equivoque; “and here am I, that left the best single-handed situation in all England,—Sir Augustus Hawleigh's,—a young fellow just of age, and that never knew what money was, to come down here at a salary positively little better than a country curate's, and live the life of—of—what shall I say?—”
“No, the leg, if you please, Mr. Peddar; no more wine. Well, just one glass, to drink a hearty farewell to the old house.”
“I 'm sure I wish Mary joy of her residence there,” said Peddar, adjusting his cravat; “she is a devilish fine girl, and might do better, though.”
“She has no ambitions,—no what you call them?—no aspirations for le grand monde; so perhaps she has reason to stay where she is.”
“But with a young fellow of ton and fashion, mam'selle,—a fellow who has seen life,—to guide and bring her out, trust me, there are excellent capabilities in that girl.” And as Mr. Peddar enunciated the sentiment, his hands ran carelessly through his hair, and performed a kind of impromptu toilet.
“She do dress herself bien mal.”
“Disgracefully so,” chimed in Mrs. Runt “I believe, whenever she bought a gown, her first thought was what it should turn into when she 'd done with it.”
“I thought that la Henderson might have taught her something,” said Peddar, affectedly.
“Au contraire,—she like to make the contrast more strong; she always seek to make say, 'Regardez, mademoiselle, see what a tournure is there!'”
“Do you think her handsome, Mr. Peddar?” asked Mrs. Runt.
“Handsome, yes; but not my style,—not one of what I call my women; too much of this kind of thing, eh?” And he drew his head back, and threw into his features an expression of exaggerated scorn.
“Just so. Downright impudent, I'd call it.”
“Not even that,” said Mr. Peddar, pondering; “haughty, rather,—a kind of don't-think-to-come-it-on-me style of look, eh?”
“Not at all amiable,—point de cela,” exclaimed mam'selle; “but still, I will say, très bon genre. You see at a glance that she has seen la bonne société.”
“Which, after all, is the same all the world over,” said Peddar, dogmatically. “At Vienna we just saw the same people we used to have with us in London; at Rome, the same; so, too, at Naples. I assure you that the last time I dined at Dolgorouki's, I proposed going in the evening to the Haymarket. I quite forgot we were on the Neva. And when Prince Gladuatoffski's gentleman said, 'Where shall I set you down?' I answered carelessly, 'At my chambers in the Albany, or anywhere your Highness likes near that.' Such is life!” exclaimed he, draining the last of the champagne into his glass.
“The place will be pretty dull without us, I fancy,” said Mrs. Runt, looking out at the distant landscape.
“That horrid old Mother Broon won't say so,” said Peddar, laughing. “By Jove! if it was only to escape that detestable hag, it 's worth while getting away.”
“I offer her my hand when I descend the steps, but she refuse froidement, and say, 'I wish you as much pleasure as you leave behind you.' Pas mal for such a creature.”
“I did n't even notice her,” said Mrs. Runt.
“Ma foi! I was good with all the world; I was in such Joy—such spirits—that I forgave all and everything. I felt nous sommes en route, and Paris—dear Paris—before us.”
“My own sentiments to, a T,” said Mr. Peddar. “Let me live on the Boulevards, have my cab, my stall at the Opera, two Naps, per diem for my dinner, and I'd not accept Mary Martin's hand if she owned Cro' Martin, and obliged me to live in it.”
The speech was fully and warmly acknowledged, other subjects were started, and so they travelled the same road as their betters, and perhaps with lighter hearts.