“I rather like that young Nelligan,” said Martin, the day after Joseph had made his first appearance at dinner. “He talks pleasantly, and nothing of a pedant, as I half dreaded he might be.”
“I thought his manner respectful, and very proper for his station,” said Lady Dorothea, with an air of dignity.
“He spoke of politics, too, with less of prejudice, less of class bitterness, than I could have expected.”
“Some policy, perhaps, in that,” remarked her Ladyship.
“Possibly!” said Martin, with a careless shrug of the shoulders.
“He was in a measure on his trial amongst us, and felt the importance of making a favorable first impression.”
“It was more trouble than his father would have taken, then,” said Martin, smiling. “Old Dan, as they call him, is not a very conciliating personage.”
“I cannot imagine that the disposition of such a person is a matter of much moment. Does n't the man deal in tea, candles, and such like?”
“That he does, and in loans, and in mortgages, too; not to add that he exercises a very considerable share of influence in his town of Oughterard.”
“A very shocking feature of the time we live in!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea.
“So it may be; but there it is,—just like the wet weather, and the typhus, and the sheep-rot, and fifty other disagreeable things one can't help.”
“But at least they can avoid recurring to them in conversation, sir. There is no necessity to open the window when the look-out is a dreary one.”
Martin made no reply, and a pause of some moments ensued.
“What arrangement did you come to with him about his party in the borough?” said she at last.
“I didn't even allude to the topic,” replied he, half testily. “These things are not to be done in that hasty fashion; they require management, discretion, and a fitting opportunity, too.”
“Why, you talk of your grocer's boy as if he were a Cabinet Minister, Mr. Martin; you treat him like a great diplomatist!”
“It was not exactly on the first occasion of his being in my house that I could have broached the matter.”
“Which implies that you mean to invite him again.”
“Possibly!” was the abrupt rejoinder.
“And must the odious attorney always be of the party?”
“No, madam, the odious attorney has set out for Dublin; but I shortly expect here one whom your Ladyship will, doubtless, call an odious lawyer,—though he happens to be one of the foremost men of the Irish bar.”
“A class I detest,” said her Ladyship.
“He has one consolation, at least, madam,” said Martin; “he figures in a pretty long category.”
“And why should he not, sir? What have I ever met in the dreary eighteen years and seven months I have passed here, except unmitigated self-conceit, vulgarity, and presumption,—the very type of all three being your Dublin barrister.”
“Their countrymen certainly entertain another estimate of them,” said Martin, laughing, for he had a lazy man's enjoyment of any passionate excitement of another's temper.
“And it was,” resumed she, “in some sort the contrast presented to such which pleased me in that young man's manner yesterday. Not but I feel assured that erelong you and Miss Martin will spoil him.”
“I! aunt?” said Mary, looking up from her work; “how am I to exercise the evil influence you speak of?”
“By the notice—the interest you vouchsafe him, Miss Martin,—the most flattering compliment to one in his station.”
“If he bears collegiate honors so meekly, aunt,” said Mary, quietly, “don't you think his head might sustain itself under my attentions?”
“Possibly so, young lady, if not accompanied by the accessories of your rank in life,” said Lady Dorothea, haughtily; “and as to college honors,” added she, after a pause, “they are like school distinctions, of no earthly value out of the class-room.”
“Faith, I don't know that,” said Martin. “At least, in my own experience, I can say, every fellow that has made a figure in life gave indications of high ability in his college years. I could go over the names of at least a dozen.”
“Pray don't, sir,—spare your memory, and spare us. Miss Martin and I will take it for granted that this young man is destined to be Lord Chancellor,—Ambassador at St. Petersburg,—or anything else you please. I have no doubt that the time is approaching when such things are very possible.”
“It has come already, my Lady,” said Martin; and in the manner he uttered the words there was no saying whether the sentiment was pleasurable or the reverse.
“And yet I trust that there is a little interval still left to us ere that consummation,” said she, with pretentious dignity. “Birth and blood have not lost all their prestige!”
“But they soon would,” said Mary, “if they feared to enter the lists against those less well-born than themselves.”
“Miss Martin!” exclaimed her Ladyship, “what words are these?”
“I hope they are void of offence, aunt. Assuredly I never conceived that I could wound any susceptibilities here by saying that the well-born are ready to meet the plebeian on any ground.”
“There is no necessity for such trials, Miss Martin; the position of each has been so accurately defined by—by—by Providence,” said she, at last, blushing slightly as she uttered the word, “that the contest is almost impossible.”
“The French Revolution reveals another story, aunt, and tells us, besides, how inferior were the nobles of that country in the day of struggle.”
“Upon my word, these are very pretty notions, young lady. Have they been derived from the intelligent columns of the “Galway Monitor,” or are they the teachings of the gifted Mr. Scanlan? Assuredly, Mr. Martin,” said she, turning to him, “papa was right, when he said that the Irish nature was essentially rebellious.”
“Complimentary, certainly,” said Martin, laughing.
“He founded the remark on history. Papa was uncommonly well read, and used to observe that there seemed something in the Celtic nature incompatible with that high-souled, chivalrous loyalty Englishmen exhibit.”
“But how much of the Celt have Mary and myself got in us, if your observation is meant for us? Why, my Lady, what with intermarriage centuries ago, and change of blood ever since, the distinctive element has been utterly lost.”
“And yet we are not English, uncle,” said Mary, with something that smacked of pride. “Confess it: we have our nationality, and that our people have traits of their own.”
“That they have; but I never heard them made matter of boastfulness before,” said Lady Dorothea, sneeringly.
“Well, aunt, it is not too late to hear it now; and I, for one, am proud of my country,—not of its political station, for it is dependent,—not of its wealth, for it is poor,—but of its genial courtesy, its free-hearted hospitality, its manly patience under many a crushing calamity, and not least of all, its gallantry on every field where England has won honor.”
“I have read of all these things; but my own experiences are limited to the rags and restlessness of a semi-barbarous people. Nay, Miss Martin, I'm not going to discuss the matter. I have lived elsewhere,—you have not. I have acquired habits—prejudices, perhaps you 'd call them—in behalf of twenty things that Irish civilization sees no need of.”
“Would it not be kind, aunt, were you to aid us by the light of these same experiences?” said Mary, with an air of well-assumed humility.
“Certainly not, at the price of intercourse with the natives!” exclaimed her Ladyship, haughtily. “I detest, on principle, the Lady Bountiful character. The whole of the hymn-book, castor-oil, and patent-barley sympathy is shockingly vulgar. Like many things, well done at first, it fell into low hands, and got spoiled.”
The tone of sarcasm in which this was spoken made Mary's cheeks crimson, and the flush spread itself over her neck. Still she made no reply, but bending down her head, continued to work more assiduously.
“When are we to leave this place, Mr. Martin?” asked her Ladyship, abruptly.
“I believe we are only waiting here till it be your pleasure to quit.”
“And I dying to get away this fortnight past! Some one certainly told me that Cro' Martin was not ready for us. Was it you, Miss Martin?”
“No, aunt.”
“It ran in my head it was you, then. Well, can we go at once—to-day—this afternoon?”
“To-morrow we might, perhaps,” said Mary.
“Scarcely so,” said Martin, interposing, “seeing that I have asked Repton to come down here and see the place.”
“But you can drive him over from Cro' Martin. It would be intolerable, the idea of remaining here just for him. So we shall go to-morrow, Miss Martin.” And with this, uttered in the tone of an order, her Ladyship swept proudly out of the room, from which Martin, not overanxious for a tête-à-tête with his niece, stepped noiselessly at the same moment by another door.
Scarcely had the door closed behind Lady Dorothea, when it was reopened to admit Joe Nelligan, who had met her Ladyship in the corridor and been received with such palpable coldness of manner that he entered the room bashful and awkward, and hardly knowing whether to advance or retire.
“I fear I have made my visit at an untimely hour, Miss Martin,” said he, blushing; “but the truth is, I know next to nothing of society and its habits, and if you would only be kind enough to tell me when I am a transgressor—”
“The notion of learning from me is perfect,” said Mary, interrupting him with a pleasant laugh. “Why, Mr. Nelli-gan, I never could be taught anything, even of the most ordinary rules of ceremonial life! though,” added she, slyly, “I have lived certainly in the midst of great opportunities.”
“But then, I have not,” said Nelligan, gravely, and accepting the speech in all seriousness. “Well, it comes pretty much to the same thing,” said she, smiling, “since I have profited so little by them.”
“I came thus early, however,” said he, earnestly, “because I was impatient to correct an impression which might have remained from something that fell from me last night. You smile, I perceive,” said he, “that I should attach so much importance to my own words!”
“It was not at that I smiled,” said Mary, archly.
“No matter,” continued he. “It is better, at the cost of a little wounded vanity, that I should escape a misconception. When your uncle spoke to me, last night, about the division of parties in the borough—You are smiling again, Miss Martin!”
“Don't you perceive, sir, that what amuses me is the mistaken estimate you have formed of me, by addressing me on such topics?”
“But I came here expressly to speak to you,” said he, with increased eagerness; “for I have always heard—always understood—that none ever took a deeper interest in all that regarded the country than yourself.”
“If you mean, by the country, the lives and fortunes of those who live in it,—the people by whose toil it is fertilized, by whose traits it is a nation,—I tell you frankly that I yield to none for interest in all that touches them; but if you come to talk of privileges and legislative benefits, I know nothing of them: they form a land of whose very geography I am ignorant.”
“But the subject is the same, and the mind which comprehends one could embrace the other.”
“In the one, however, I can labor usefully and fittingly, without much risk of mistake,—never, indeed, of any mistake that might prove of serious moment. The other involves great questions, and has great hazards, perils, to affright stronger heads than mine!”
“There is much in what you say,” said he, reflectingly.
“There is far more than I am able to express,” said she, warmly. “Just remember, for a moment, that of all the laws you great and wise men are making, over which you rant and wrangle, and assail each other so vindictively, how few ever touch the interests or descend to the fortunes of those for whom you assume to make them,—that the craftiest devices of your legislation never uproot ah old prejudice nor disturb an antiquated superstition; while I, and such as I,—and there need be nothing more humble,—can by a little timely help in trouble—a little care, or even a little counsel—comfort many a failing heart, cheer up many a sinking spirit, and, better still, do good service by teaching the poor man that he is of one family with those better off than himself, and that he is not an outcast because he is lowly!”
As Mary went on, her eyes shone more brilliantly, and her cheeks glowed, till Nelligan forgot even the words she spoke in admiration of the speaker.
“But here comes my uncle,” cried she, hastily, “to rescue you from further amplification of the theme. Come in, uncle,”—for Martin was already about to retire,—“it is Mr. Nelligan, who wants to speak to you.”
“Oh, I was in terror of a regular morning visitor!” said Martin, shaking the young man's hand cordially. “They didn't tell me you were here.”
“I came, sir,” said Joseph, hesitatingly, “to rectify what might, perhaps, require correction in an observation I made last night. We were talking about the proper basis of a representation—”
“My dear boy,” broke in Martin, laughingly, “there's nothing kills me like asking me to go over the past, either in reading an old letter or recalling an old conversation. And as to calling on me to justify something I once defended in argument, I 'd give up the cause at once, and say I was all wrong, in preference.”
“Then I need not fear you will hold me responsible—”
“Not for anything, except your pledge to dine here tomorrow at seven.”
Notwithstanding all the ease and frankness of Martin's manner—and as manner it was perfect—the young man felt far from satisfied. His want of breeding—that cruel want strong enough to mar the promise of high ability, and even impair the excellence of many a noble nature—seemed to hold him fast bound to the object of his visit. He had come for an explanation, and he couldn't go away without it. Mary read his difficulty at once, and as she passed him to leave the room, said in a low voice, “To-morrow evening.”
Nelligan started at the words, and his face became scarlet. What could she have meant? Was it that she wished him to come, and had thus condescended to remind him of his promise? or was it to suggest a more fitting moment to return to the late discussion?
“Are you coming to luncheon, Nelligan?” said Martin, rising.
“No, sir; not to-day. I have a call—a visit—some miles off.” And while he was yet stammering out his excuses, Martin waved a familiar good-bye with his hand, and passed into the adjoining room.
“And what can this mean?” said Nelligan to himself. “Is this the cordial treatment of an intimate, or is it contemptuous indifference for an inferior?” And, far more puzzled than he should have been with the knottiest problem of the “Principia,” he quitted the house and strolled homewards.
His way led along the shore, and consequently in front of that straggling row of cottages which formed the village. It chanced to be the last day of the month, and, by the decree of the almanac, the close of the bathing-season. The scene then going forward was one of unusual and not unpicturesque confusion. It was a general break-up of the encampment, and all were preparing to depart to their homes, inland. Had young Nelligan been—what he was not—anything of a humorist, he might have been amused at the variety of equipage and costume around him. Conveyances the most cumbrous and most rickety, drawn by farm horses, or even donkeys, stopped the way before each door, all in process of loading by a strangely attired assemblage, whose Welsh wigs, flannel dressing-gowns, and woollen nightcaps showed how, by a common consent, all had agreed to merge personal vanity in the emergency of the moment. The innumerable little concealments which had sheltered many a narrow household, the various little stratagems that had eked out many a scanty wardrobe, were now abandoned with a noble sincerity; and had there been a cork leg or a glass eye in the company, it would not have shrunk from the gaze of that open-hearted community.
Such of the travellers as had taken their places were already surrounded with the strangest medley of household gods it is possible to conceive. Like trophies, bird-cages, candlesticks, spits, cullenders, fenders, and bread-baskets bristled around them, making one marvel how they ever got in, or, still more, how they were ever to get out again; the croaking of invalids, with crying children, barking terriers, and scolding owners, making a suitable chorus to the confusion.
Still, amidst all the discomforts of the moment, amidst the last wranglings with landlords, and the last squabbles over broken furniture and missing movables, it must be owned that the prevailing temper of the scene was good-humor and jollity. The Irish temperament seems ever to discover something congenial in those incidents of confusion and bustle which to other people are seasons of unmitigated misery, and even out of its own sources of discomfiture can derive matter for that quaint humor with which it can always regard life. In this wise was it that few now dwelt much upon their own inconveniences, so long as they were free to laugh at those of their neighbors.
Before he was well aware of it, young Nelligan found himself in the very midst of this gathering, whose mirthful accents suddenly subsided at his approach, and an air of constraint and reserve seemed to take their place. Never very quick to appreciate such indications, he drew nigh to a very lofty “conveniency” in which, with an air of stately dignity, Mrs. Cronan sat enthroned on a backgammon-table, with a portentous-looking cap-case in her lap.
“My mother will be sorry not to have seen you before you went away, Mrs. Cronan,” said he to that lady, whose demure and frigid demeanor made the speech sound like a bold one.
“I 'd have left my card and my compliments, sir, if I wasn't so pressed for time,” responded she, with a haughty gravity.
“With P. P. C. on the corner,” said the Captain from his pony-gig alongside; “which means, pour prendre 'congo,' or 'congee,' I never knew which.”
“She 'll be very lonely now, for the few days we remain,” resumed Joe, conscious of some awkwardness, without knowing where or how.
“Not with the society of your distinguished acquaintances at 'The Nest,' sir!” the sarcastic import of which reply was more in the manner than the mere words; while the old Captain murmured,—
“Begad, she gave it to him there,—a regular double-headed shot!”
“We hope to follow you by the end of the week,” said Nelligan, trying to seem at ease.
“If you can tear yourselves away, I suppose,” said Miss Busk, through a double veil of blue gauze; for that lady's auburn ringlets reposed at the moment in the small mahogany casket beside her.
“There is not much attraction in the spot just now,” said Joseph, smiling.
“Not for the like of us, perhaps, sir,” retorted Mrs. Cronan,—“not for persons in our station; but your fashionable people, I believe, always prefer a place when the vulgar company have left it.”
“Good again,—grape and canister!” chuckled out the Captain, who seemed to derive a high enjoyment from the scene.
“Would you move a little to one side, Mr. Nelligan?” said the doctor; “my pony won't stand.”
“Oh, he's mettlesome,” said Joe, good-humoredly, as he stepped out of the way.
“That he is, sir, though he never was leader in a four-in-hand; but, you see, poor creatures of quadrupeds forget themselves down here, just like their betters!”
And the success of this sally was acknowledged by a general laugh from the company. The tone of the speakers, even more than their words, convinced Joseph that, from some cause or other, he was the object of their sarcasms; and although slow to take offence,—even to the verge of what many might have called an unfeeling indifference,—he felt their treatment most acutely. It was, then, in something like a haughty defiance that he wished them a careless good-bye, and continued his way.
“The world seems bent on puzzling me this morning,” muttered he, as he sauntered slowly on. “People treat me as though I were playing some deep game to their detriment,—I, who have no game, almost no future!” added he, despondingly. “For what avails it to attain eminence amidst such as these; and, as for the others, I was not born for them.”
To these moody thoughts succeeded others still gloomier. It had only been within a short time back that the young man had begun to appreciate the difficulties of a position to which his early successes imparted increasing embarrassment; and darkly brooding over these things, he drew near his mother's cottage. She was already at the door to meet him, with a letter in her hand.
“This is from your father, Joe,” said she. “He wants you in all haste up at the town; and I've packed your clothes, and sent off Patsey for Mooney's car; so come in and eat something at once.”
Joseph took the note from her hand and perused it in silence. It was brief, and ran thus:—
“What does that mean, Joe?” asked his mother.
He only shrugged his shoulders in reply.
“And who can it be?” said she again.
“Some of the townspeople, of course,” said he, carelessly.
“No, no, Joe; it must be a stranger. Maybe it's Morgan Drake; his aunt expected him back from Jamaica before Christmas. Or it 's Corny Dwyer 's come home from Africa; you know he went on the deploring expedition—” “Exploring, mother,—exploring.”
“Well, exploring or deploring, it's all the same. He went four years ago, and all the tidings they 've had of him was an elephant's tooth he sent home to his stepfather. I know it's Corny, for your father always liked him and the funny stories he told.”
“Perhaps so!” replied Joe.
“I wonder, is he grown any bigger? He was little better than a dwarf when he went away, and the same age as yourself. No, indeed, he was older,—fourteen months older. It was Catty Henderson was running in my head. Is n't she a fine young woman, Joe?”
“Remarkably so,” said he, with more animation in his tone.
“A little bit too haughty-looking and proud, maybe, considering her station in life, and that she has to go to service—”
“Go to service, mother?”
“To be sure she has. If they can't get her a place as a governess or a companion, she 'll have to take what she can get. Her father's married again, my dear Joe; and when men do that!” And here Mrs. Nelligan uplifted her hands and eyes most expressively. “Ay, indeed,” continued she, with a heavy sigh, “and if it was once it was fifty times, Catty's poor mother said to me, 'Sarah,' says she,—she never called me Sally, but always Sarah,—'Sarah,' says she, 'I 've but one comfort, and that is that Catty will never want a mother while you live. You 'll be the same to her as myself,—just as fond, and just as forgiving;' them was her very words!”
“And I hope you have never forgotten them, mother?” said Joe, with emotion.
“Don't you see I have n't; an't I repeating them to you this minute?”
“Yes; but I mean the spirit and the meaning of them,” rejoined he, “and that you feel the obligation they 've laid upon you.”
“To be sure I feel it; don't I fret over it every time I 'm alone? for I can't get it out of my head that maybe she 'd appear to me—”
“No, but her mother. Oh, it 's nothing to laugh at, Joe. There was Eliza Keane came back every Easter Monday for two-and-twenty years to search for a gravy-spoon. Well, if it's laughing you are, I won't say any more; but here 's the car now, and it's late enough we 'll be on the road!”
“I'm not thinking of going, mother. I never meant to go,” said Joe, resolutely.
“Never meant to go, after your father's note to you, Joe?” cried she, in half horror. “Surely it's all as one as ordering you up there.”
“I know all that,” said he, calmly; “but I see no reason why I should forego the pleasure of a party at the Martins' for the sake of meeting the convivial celebrities of Oughterard.”
“But what will you say?”
“Say I'm engaged; have accepted another invitation; or, better still, leave you to make my excuses, mother. Come, come, don't look so terribly shocked and terrified. You know well enough that my father's four-year-old mutton and his crusted port will compensate the company for heavier inflictions than my absence.”
“They were always fond of you, Joe,” said Mrs. Nelligan, half reproachfully.
“Nothing of the kind, mother; they never cared for me, nor was there any reason why they should. I 'm sure I never cared for them. We endured one another; that was all.”
“Oh, dear; but I 'm glad your father is not listening to you,” said she, with a stealthy glance around, as though not perfectly assured of secrecy. “So, then, I suppose, there 's nothing for it but to go up myself and make the best of it; and sure it's all a lottery what temper he 's in, and how he 'll take it. I remember when they put the new duty on—what was it, Joe? I think it was hides—”
“Not the least matter, mother; you 've only to say that Mr. Martin has been kind enough to show me some attentions, and that I am silly enough—if you like to say so—to prefer them to the festive pleasures of Oughterard. In another week or so I shall have to go back to college. Let me, at least, enjoy the few days of my vacation in my own fashion.”
Mrs. Nelligan shook her head mournfully over these signs of rebellion, and muttering many a gloomy foreboding, she went off to her room to make her preparations for the journey.
The morning was bright and sunny, the air sharp, crisp, and bracing, as the heavy travelling-carriage which conveyed Mr. Martin and Lady Dorothea rolled smoothly along the trimly kept approach to Cro' Martin. Many a beautiful glade, many a lovely vista opened on them as they passed along deep-bosomed woods and gently swelling slopes, dotted over with cattle, stretched away on either side; while far in the distance could be seen the battlemented towers of the princely residence.
The lover of nature might have felt intense pleasure at a scene so abounding in objects of beauty. A painter would have lingered with delight over effects of light and shade, glorious displays of color, and graceful groupings of rocks and trees and gnarled stumps. A proud man might have exulted in the selfish enjoyment of feeling that these were all his own; while a benevolent one would have revelled in the thought of all the channels through which such wealth might carry the blessings of aid and charity.
Which of these feelings predominated now in the minds of those who, snugly encased in furs, occupied the respective corners of the ample coach? Shall we own it? Not any of them. A dreamy, unremarking indifference was the sentiment of each; and they sat silently gazing on a prospect which suggested nothing, nor awoke one passing emotion in their hearts. Had any one been there to express his admiration of the landscape,—praised the trees, the cattle, or the grassy slopes,—Martin might have heard him with pleasure, and listened even with interest to his description. My Lady, too, might not unwillingly have lent an ear to some flattery of the splendid demesne of which she was mistress, and accepted as half homage the eulogy of what was hers. None such was, however, there; and so they journeyed along, as seemingly unconscious as though the scene were wrapped in midnight darkness.
Martin had known the spot, and every detail of it, from his boyhood. The timber, indeed, had greatly grown,—graceful saplings had become stately trees, and feathery foliage deepened into leafy shade; but he himself had grown older, too, and his sense of enjoyment, dulled and deadened with years, saw nothing in the scene to awaken pleasure. As for Lady Dorothea, she had reasoned herself into the notion that the walls of her own grounds were the boundaries of a prison, and had long convinced herself that she was a suffering martyr to some mysterious sense of duty. From the drowsy languor in which they reclined they were both aroused, as the pace of the carriage gradually diminished from a smooth brisk trot to an uneven jolting motion, the very reverse of agreeable.
“What have they done? Where are they going?” said Lady Dorothea, peevishly.
And Martin called out from the window, in tones even less gentle. “Oh, it's the new approach; the road is not quite completed,” said he, half sulkily, as he resumed his place.
“Another of Miss Martin's clever devices, which, I must say, I never concurred in.”
“Why, you always professed to hate the old road by the stables.”
“So I did; but I never agreed to passing round the back of the house, and thus destroying the privacy of the flower-garden,—the only spot I may dare to call my own. Oh, dear! I shall be shaken to death. Have they broken the carriage? I 'm certain they 've smashed the spring at my side!”
Martin gave a cold, supercilious smile, the only reply to these words.
“They 've only broken a trace, I perceive,” said he, casting a hurried glance through the window, as the carriage came to a dead stop.
“You are equanimity itself, sir, this morning,” said her Ladyship, in a voice almost tremulous with anger. “I wonder if this admirable temper will befriend you when you shall see the cost of this precious piece of road-making?”
“It employs the people,” said he, coolly.
“Employs the people! How I hate that cant phrase! Can't they employ themselves on their own farms? Have n't they digging and draining, and whatever it is, to do of their own? Must they of necessity depend on us for support, and require that we should institute useless works to employ them?”
As if to offer a living commentary on her speech, a number of half-fed and less than half-clad men now drew near, and in accents of a most servile entreaty begged to offer their services. Some, indeed, had already busied themselves to repair the broken harness, and others were levelling the road, carrying stones to fill up holes, and in every possible manner endeavoring to render assistance; but all were vociferous in asserting that the delay would not be above a minute or two; that the road was an elegant one, or would be soon, and that it was a “raal blessing” to see her Ladyship and the master looking so well. In fact, they were thankful and hopeful together; and, notwithstanding the evidences of the deepest destitution in their appearance, they wore an air of easy, jaunty politeness, such as many a professional diner-out might have envied. Lady Dorothea was in no mood to appreciate such traits; indeed, if the truth must be told, they rather ruffled than soothed her. Martin saw nothing in them; he was too much accustomed to the people to be struck with any of their peculiarities, and so he lay back in silent apathy, and took no notice of them.
With all their alacrity and all their good-will—and there was no lack of either—there was yet such a total absence of all system and order, that their efforts were utterly useless. Some tugged away manfully to raise stones too heavy to lift; others came rudely in contact with fellows heavily laden, and upset them. The sturdy arms that spoked the hind wheels were resolutely antagonized by as vigorous struggles to move the fore ones. Every one shouted, cried, cursed, and laughed, by turns; and a more hopeless scene of confusion and uproar need not be conceived. Nor was Lady Dorothea herself an inactive spectator; for, with her head from the carriage-window, she directed a hundred impossible measures, and sat down at last, overcome with rage and mortification at their blunders.
The tumult was now at the highest, and the horses, terrified by the noise around them, had commenced plunging and rearing fearfully, when Mary Martin came galloping up to the spot at full speed.
“Let go that bridle, Hogan,” cried she, aloud; “you are driving that horse mad. Loose the leaders' traces; unbuckle the reins, Patsey; the wheelers will stand quietly. There, lead them away. Speak to that mare; she 's trembling with fear. I told you not to come by this road, Barney; and it was only by accident that I saw the wheel-tracks. A thousand pardons, Aunt Dora, for this mishap. Barney misunderstood my orders. It will be all right in a moment. Once over this bad spot, the road is hard and level.”
“Having no taste, nor any genius for adventures, Miss Martin,” began her Ladyship—But Mary did not await the remainder of the speech; for, turning her horse sharply round, and beckoning to some of the people to follow her, she was away across the lawn at a smart canter. Having arrived at a small wooden bridge over a river, she ordered the men to lift some of the planking, by the aid of which they soon constructed a firm and safe passage for the carriage; and as her presence was the signal for quiet obedience and prompt action, in less than ten minutes the difficulty was surmounted, the horses reharnessed, and all in readiness to proceed on their way.
Martin looked on in silent satisfaction, not offering a single suggestion, or even seeming to feel interested in the events, but enjoying, with all a lazy man's pleasure, the activity displayed around him. Not so Lady Dorothea. If she did not like “an adventure,” she loved “a grievance.” Whatever ministered to her selfishness, even in the remotest degree, was grateful to her. Mary's opportune arrival had now converted what might have passed for a calamity into a mere momentary inconvenience; and she could not conceal her discontent. “Your heroines are a perfect torment; at least, to us souls of commoner clay. They live only for disasters.”
“I must say that Mary extricated us from what might have become one,” said Martin, dryly.
“We are indebted to her, however, for the possibility. This detestable road, which I promise you I 'll never come again, is entirely her own invention. I hope, Miss Martin,” added she, from the window, “that the other approach is to be kept in repair,—at least, for me.” But Mary did not hear the appeal, for she was bandaging the arm of a poor country fellow, who had been sorely cut.
“There, drive on, Barney,” cried Lady Dorothea. “I shall be taken ill if I stay here. Really, Mr. Martin, your niece's accomplishments are the least feminine one can conceive.” And improving this theme, she continued the entire way till the carriage drew up at the door of the castle.
“Yes, sir,” said she, as she descended, “that heavy sigh shows you are indeed greatly to be pitied. No martyrdom ever exceeded yours. I am quite aware of all my imperfections, and can at least fancy everything you could say of me and my temper. What did you say, Collins?” said she, addressing the obsequious-looking servant, who, with an air of gloomy joy, very respectful,—but meant to mean more,—had whispered something in her ear.
“A young lady, did you say, Collins?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“Then you were very wrong, Collins. You meant to say a young person.”
“Yes, my Lady,—a young person, like a lady.”
“Not in the least, except to such appreciation as yours. Where is she?”
“In your Ladyship's library.”
“Did she come alone?”
“No, my Lady. Mr. Henderson drove her over in his car, and said he 'd pass this way again in the evening.”
And now her Ladyship swept proudly by, scarcely noticing the bowing servants who had formed into a line along the hall, and who endeavored to throw into their sorrowful faces as much of joy as might consist with the very deepest humility. Nor was she more condescending to old Catty, who stood courtesying at the top of the stairs, with a basket of keys on her arm that might have served to lock up all Newgate.
“How cold every place feels! Collins, are you sure the rooms are properly aired?” cried she, shuddering. “But I suppose it's the climate. Have another stove put there,” said she, pointing to an impossible locality.
“Yes, my Lady,” replied Collins.
“And warmer carpets on these passages.”
“Yes, my Lady; it shall be done to-morrow.”
“No, sir; to-day.”
“Yes, my Lady; this afternoon.”
“I don't remember if the windows are double along here.”
“Yes, my Lady, they are all double towards the north.”
“Then they fit badly, for I feel the draught acutely here. It's like the keen air of a mountain;” and Collins gave a slight sympathetic shudder, and really looked cold. A somewhat haughty glance from her Ladyship, however, as quickly reproved him, for Collins ought to have known that it was not by such as himself changes of temperature could be appreciable. And now she passed on and entered that part of the mansion peculiarly her own, and where, it must be owned, her spirit of fault-finding would have been at a loss what to condemn.
Lady Dorothea's library occupied an angle of the building; and from this circumstance, included within its precincts an octagonal tower, the view from which comprised every varied character of landscape. This favored spot was fitted up in the most luxurious taste,—with rarest gems of art, and cabinet pictures of almost fabulous value,—to supply which foreign dealers and connoisseurs had been for years back in correspondence with her Ladyship. Now it was some rare treasure of carved ivory, or some sculptured cup of Benvenuto, that had been discovered accidentally, and which, despite the emulous zeal of princes and cardinals to obtain, was destined for herself. Now it was some choice mosaic of which but one other specimen existed, and that in the Pope's private collection at the Quirinal. Such was her ardor in this pursuit of excellence, that more than once had every object of this precious chamber been changed, to give place to something more costly, more precious, and rarer. For about two years back, however, the resources of the old world seemed to offer nothing worthy of attention, and the vases, the “statuettes,” the bronzes, the pictures, and medallions had held their ground undisturbed.
Such was the sanctity of this spot, that in showing the house to strangers it was never opened, nor, without a special order from Lady Dorothea,—a favor somewhat more difficult to obtain than a firman from the Sultan,—could any one be admitted within its walls. The trusty servant in whose charge it was, was actually invested with a species of sacred character in the household, as one whose feet had passed the threshold of the tabernacle. Our reader may then picture to himself something of Lady Dorothea's varied sensations—for, indeed, they were most mingled—as she heard a slight cough from within the chamber, and, drawing nearer, perceived a female figure seated in front of one of the windows, calmly regarding the landscape.
With a degree of noise and bustle sufficient to announce her approach, Lady Dorothea entered the tower; while the stranger, rising, retired one step, and courtesied very deeply. There was in all the humility of the obeisance a certain degree of graceful dignity that certainly struck her Ladyship; and her haughty look and haughtier tone were some little modified as she asked by what accident she found her there.
“My intrusion was a pure accident, my Lady,” replied the other, in a low, soft voice; “mistaking the door by which I had entered a room, I wandered on through one after another until I found myself here. I beg your Ladyship to believe that nothing was further from my thoughts than to obtrude upon your privacy.”
“Your name?” began her Ladyship; and then, as suddenly correcting herself, she said, “You are Miss Henderson, I suppose?”
“Yes, my Lady,” she replied, with a slight bend of the head.
“I sent for you,” said Lady Dorothea, in a half-careless tone, while she turned over some books on the table, as if in search of something,—“I sent for you, partly at the request of your mother—”
“My stepmother, my Lady,” interposed the girl, calmly.
Lady Dorothea stared at her for a second or two, as though to say, how had she dared to correct her; but either that the reproof had not met its full success, or that she did not care to pursue it, she added, “At the request of your friends, and partly out of curiosity.” And here Lady Dorothea raised her glass to her eye, and quietly surveyed her,—an examination which, it must be owned, none could have borne with more unshaken fortitude; not the slightest tremor of a limb, not the faintest change of color betokening that the ordeal was a painful one.
“I do see that you have been educated in France,” said her Ladyship, with a smile of most supercilious import, while a courtesy from the young girl admitted the fact.
“Were you brought up in Paris?” asked she, after a pause.
“For four years, my Lady.”
“And the remainder of the time, where was it passed?”
“We travelled a great deal, my Lady, in Germany and Italy.”
“'We,'—who were the 'we' you speak of? Please to bear in mind that I know nothing of your history.”
“I forgot that, my Lady. I thought my stepmother had, perhaps, informed your Ladyship.”
“Of nothing whatever, child,” said she, haughtily, “save of your having a foreign education, and wishing, or hoping, to find some engagement as a governess or a teacher;” and the last words were drawled out languidly, as though they were suggestive of all that was wearisome and a bore. “So you must be good enough to explain who 'we' were.”
“The Duchesse de Luygnes and her family, my Lady.”
“You travelled with them; and in what capacity, pray?”
“I was called companion to the Princesse de Courcelles, the eldest daughter of the Duchess, my Lady.”
“Companion!—why, you must have been a mere child at the time?”
“A mere child, my Lady; but they took me from the Pensionnat, to speak English with the young Princess.”
“And then they took the charge of your education, I conclude?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“And to what extent—or rather, in what direction; I mean, what object had they in view in choosing your studies?”
“They gave me the same masters as to the young Princess, my Lady; and I was instructed in all respects as she was.”
“And treated like her also, I conclude?” said Lady Dorothea, with a sneering smile.
“Madame la Duchesse was ever most kind to me,” said the girl, half proudly.
“Kind—yes, of course—kind, if you conducted yourself properly and to her satisfaction. A person of her condition would be kind; but I trust this did not proceed so far as to spoil you? I hope it never made you forget your station?”
“I trust it did not, my Lady.”
“With what part of the establishment did you live? Where did you dine?”
“With the Princess, my Lady; except on fête days, when we were invited to the table of the Duchess.”
“I never heard of anything more absurd,—outrageously absurd. Why, are you aware, young woman, that these same friends of yours have done you irreparable mischief? They have, so to say, ruined your entire future; for how can I, and others in my station, avail myself of your services, with such habits and expectations as these?”
“Certainly not expectations, my Lady. I never did or can expect such condescension from another.”
“No matter; your head is filled with ideas unbefitting your condition, usages, habits, associations, all foreign to a menial station. You have been admitted to privileges the want of which would be felt as hardships. In fact, as I said before, they have done you irreparable injury. You must feel it yourself.”
A very faint smile, half in deprecation of the appeal, was the only reply of the young girl.
“You are certain to feel it later on in life, if you are not sensible of it at present, that I can vouch for, young woman,” said Lady Dorothea, with all the firmness with which she could utter an unpleasant speech. “Nothing but unhappiness ever resulted from such ill-judged indulgence. Indeed, if your mother had mentioned the circumstances, I scarcely think I should have sent for you”—she paused to see if any strong signs of contrite sorrow displayed themselves in the young girl's features; none such were there, and Lady Dorothea more sternly added,—“I may safely say, I never should have asked to see you.”
When a speech meant to be severe has failed to inflict the pain it was intended to produce, it invariably recoils with redoubled power upon him who uttered it; and so Lady Dorothea now felt all the pang of her own ungenerous sentiment. With an effort to shake off this unpleasant sensation, she resumed,—
“I might go further, and observe that unless you yourself became thoroughly penetrated with the fact, you must always prove very unsuitable to the station you are destined to occupy in life. Do you understand me?”
“I believe I do, my Lady,” was the calm reply.
“And also,” resumed she, still more dictatorially—“and also, that acquiring this knowledge by yourself will be less painful to your feelings than if impressed upon you by others. Do you fully apprehend me?”
“I think so, my Lady.”
Now, although the tone and manner of the young girl were unexceptionable in all that regards deference and respect, Lady Dorothea was not a little provoked at her unbroken composure. There was no confusion, not even a semblance of constraint about her. She replied to even sarcastic questions without the faintest shadow of irritation, and exhibited throughout the most perfect quietude and good breeding. Had the “young person” been overwhelmed with shame, or betrayed into any access of temper, her Ladyship's manner would have presented a pattern of haughty dignity and gracefulness, and her rebukes would have been delivered in a tone of queen-like superiority; but Miss Henderson afforded no opportunity for these great qualities. She was deference itself; but deference so self-possessed, so assured of its own safeguard, as to be positively provoking.
“Under all these circumstances, therefore,” resumed Lady Dorothea, as if having revolved mighty thoughts within her mind, “it appears to me you would not suit me.”
But even this speech failed to call up one trait of disappointment, and the young girl received it with only a deep courtesy.
“I'm sorry for it,” continued my Lady, “on your mother's account; your education has of course cost her and your father many sacrifices, which your duty requires you to repay.” She paused, as if asking for some assent to this speech.
Another deep courtesy was the reply.
“There, that will do,” said Lady Dorothea, angrily; for any attempt to provoke seemed an utter failure. “I think I have nothing more to say. When I shall see your mother I can explain more fully to her. Good-morning.”
“I wish your Ladyship good-morning,” said the girl, with a deep obeisance, and in a voice of perfect deference, while she retired towards the door. Before she had reached it, however, Lady Dorothea again addressed her.
“You forgot, I think, to tell me why you left the Duchesse de Luygnes?”
“I left on the marriage of the Princess, my Lady.”
“Oh, I remember; she married a Russian, I think.”
“No, my Lady; she married the Duc de Mirecourt, French Ambassador at St. Petersburg.”
“Ah, to be sure. I knew there was something Russian about it. And so they sent you away then?”
“The Duchess most kindly invited me to accompany her, my Lady, but my father desired I should return to Ireland.”
“And very properly,” said Lady Dorothea; “he took a most just view of the case; your position would only have exposed you to great perils. I'm sure you are not of my opinion, for distrust of yourself does not appear one of your failings.”—It is possible that this ungenerous remark was evoked by a very slight curl of the young girl's lip, and which, faint as it was, did not escape her Ladyship's keen glances.—“Good-morning.”
Again had Miss Henderson gained the door; her hand was already on the lock, when her Ladyship called out: “In the event of anything occurring to me likely to suit you, I ought to know what you can teach; and mind, don't bore me with a mere catalogue of hard names, but say what you really know.”
“Some modern languages, my Lady, with music.”
“No Greek or Latin?” said Lady Dorothea, half sneer-ingly.
“Latin, perhaps; but though I can read some Greek, I could not venture to teach it.”
“Nor Hebrew?”
“No, my Lady.”
“And the modern tongues,—which of them do you profess to know?”
“French, Italian, Spanish, and German.”
“And don't you draw?—they showed me what they called yours.”
“Yes, my Lady, but I cannot teach drawing.”
“And of course you are thoroughly versed in history. Have you studied any scientific subjects?—mathematics, for instance.”
“Only a few of the French initial books, my Lady.”
“Why, you are quite an Admirable Crichton for acquirement. I feel really abashed to find myself in such company.” But even this coarse speech failed to irritate, and Lady Dorothea walked angrily towards the window and looked out.
It so chanced that, through an opening of the wood, she caught sight of a large assemblage of workpeople, who, headed by Miss Martin on horseback, were on their way to the quarries; and as she looked, a sudden thought flashed across her: “Why not retain the 'young person' as a companion for her niece? How admirably would all this girl's knowledge contrast with Mary's ignorance! What an unceasing source of disparagement would their contact afford, at the very moment that the arrangement might seem dictated by the very best and highest of motives.”
It may doubtless appear to many, that the individual who could reason thus must be animated by a most corrupt and depraved nature, but unhappily the spiteful element in the human heart is one which never measures its modes of attack, but suffers itself to be led on, from acts of mere petty malice to actions of downright baseness and badness. Lady Dorothea was not devoid of good traits, but once involved in a pursuit, she totally forgot the object which originally suggested it, but engaged all her zeal and all her ardor for success. She would have been shocked at the bare possibility of actually injuring her niece; she would have resented with indignation the mere mention of such; but yet she would have eagerly grasped at whatever afforded a chance of dominating over her. Mary's influence in the household—her rule over the peasantry of the estate—was a perpetual source of annoyance to her Ladyship, and yet she never knew how to thwart it, till now that chance seemed to offer this means.
“You need not go back just yet: I 'll speak to Mr. Martin about you,” said she, turning towards Miss Henderson; and, with a respectful courtesy, the girl withdrew, leaving her Ladyship to her own somewhat complicated reflections.
In less than half an hour after Lady Dorothea proceeded to Mr. Martin's study, where a cabinet council was held, the substance of which our reader can readily conceive; nor need he have any doubts as to the decision, when we say that Lady Dorothea retired to her own room with a look of satisfaction so palpably displayed that Mademoiselle Hortense, her maid, remarked to herself, “Somebody or other was sure to pass a mauvais quart d'heure when miladi goes to her room with an air of such triumphant meaning as that.”