“More than half the Court, madam, are against the Crown; I will not say, however, that they are, on that account, for the people.”
“There! she is making a sign to us to follow her,” said Martin, pointing towards Kate, who, still conversing with her companion, motioned to the others to come up.
“It is from that quarter we receive our orders,” said Lady Dorothea, sneeringly, as she prepared to follow.
“What has she to do with it?” exclaimed the Captain. “To look at her, one would say she was deep in the whole business.”
A second gesture, more urgent than before, now summoned the party to make haste.
Through the Place, crowded as it was by an armed and excited multitude, way was rapidly made for the little party who now issued from the door of the hotel. Kate Henderson walked in front, with Massingbred at her side talking eagerly, and by his gestures seeming as though endeavoring to extenuate or explain away something in his conduct; next came Lady Dorothea, supported between her husband and her son, and while walking slowly and with faltering steps, still carrying her head proudly erect, and gazing on the stern faces around her with looks of haughty contempt. After them were a numerous retinue of servants, with such effects as they had got hurriedly together,—a terror-struck set, scarcely able to crawl along from fear.
As they drew nigh the barricade, some men proceeded to remove a heavy wagon which adjoined a house, and by the speed and activity of their movements, urged on as they were by the orders of one in command, it might be seen that the operation demanded promptitude.
“We are scarcely safe in this,” cried the officer. “See! they are making signs to us from the windows,—the troops are coming. If you pass out now, you will be between two fires.”
“There is yet time,” said Kate, eagerly. “Our presence in the street, too, will delay them, and give you some minutes to prepare. And as for ourselves, we shall gain one of the side-streets easily enough.”
“Tie your handkerchief to your cane, sir,” said the officer to Massingbred.
“My flag is ready,” said Jack, gayly; “I only hope they may respect it.”
“Now—now!” cried Kate, with eagerness, and beckoning to Lady Dorothea to hasten, “the passage is free, and not a second to be lost!”
“Are you not coming with us?” whispered Martin to her, as they passed out.
“Yes; I'll follow. But,” added she, in a lower tone, “were the choice given me, it is here I 'd take my stand.”
She looked full at Massingbred as she spoke, and, bending down his head, he said, “Had it been your place, it were mine also!”
“Quick,—quick, my Lady,” said Kate. “They must close up the passage at once. They are expecting an attack.” And so saying, she motioned rapidly to Martin to move on.
“The woman is a fiend,” said Lady Dorothea; “see how her eyes sparkle, and mark the wild exultation of her features.”
“Adieu, sir,—adieu!” said Kate, waving her hand to one who seemed the chief of the party. “All my wishes are with you. Were I a man, my hand should guarantee my heart.”
“Come—come back!” cried the officer. “You are too late. There comes the head of the column.”
“No, never—never!” exclamed Lady Dorothea, haughtily; “protection from such as these is worse than any death.”
“Give me the flag, then,” cried Kate, snatching it from Massingbred's hand, and hastening on before the others. And now the heavy wagon had fallen back to its place, and a serried file of muskets peeped over it.
“Where's Massingbred?” asked the Captain, eagerly.
“Yonder,—where he ought to be!” exclaimed Kate, proudly, pointing to the barricade, upon which, now, Jack was standing conspicuously, a musket on his arm.
The troops in front were not the head of a column, but the advanced guard of a force evidently at some distance off, and instead of advancing on the barricade, they drew up and halted in triple file across the street. Their attitude of silent, stern defiance—for it was such—evoked a wild burst of popular fury, and epithets of abuse and insult were heaped upon them from windows and parapets.
“They are the famous Twenty-Second of the Line,” said the Captain, “who forced the Pont-Neuf yesterday and drove the mob before them.”
“It is fortunate for us that we fall into such hands,” said Lady Dorothea, waving her handkerchief as she advanced. But Kate had already approached the line, and now halted at a command from the officer. While she endeavored to explain how and why they were there, the cries and menaces of the populace grew louder and wilder. The officer, a very young subaltern, seemed confused and flurried; his eyes turned constantly towards the street from which they had advanced, and he seemed anxiously expecting the arrival of the regiment.
“I cannot give you a convoy, Mademoiselle,” he said; “I. scarcely know if I have the right to let you pass. We may be attacked at any moment; for aught I can tell, you may be in the interests of the insurgents—”
“We are cut off, Lieutenant,” cried a sergeant, running up at the moment. “They have thrown up a barrier behind us, and it is armed already.”
“Lay down your arms, then,” said Kate, “and do not sacrifice your brave fellows in a hopeless straggle.”
“Listen not to her, young man, but give heed to your honor and your loyalty,” cried Lady Dorothea. “Is it against such an enemy as this French soldiers fear to advance?”
“Forward!” cried the officer, waving his sword above his head. “Let us carry the barricade!” And a wild yell of defiance from the windows repeated the speech in derision.
“You are going to certain death!” cried Kate, throwing herself before him. “Let me make terms for you, and they shall not bring dishonor on you.”
“Here comes the regiment!” called out the sergeant. “They have forced the barricade.” And the quick tramp of a column, as they came at a run, now shook the street.
“Remember your cause and your King, sir,” cried Lady Dorothea to the officer.
“Bethink you of your country,—of France,—and of Liberty!” said Kate, as she grasped his arm.
“Stand back!—back to the houses!” said he, waving his sword. “Voltigeurs, to the front!”
The command was scarcely issued, when a hail of balls rattled through the air. The defenders of the barricade had opened their fire, and with a deadly precision, too, for several fell at the very first discharge.
“Back to the houses!” exclaimed Martin, dragging Lady Dorothea along, who, in her eagerness, now forgot all personal danger, and only thought of the contest before her.
“Get under cover of the troops,—to the rear!” cried the Captain, as he endeavored to bear her away.
“Back—back—beneath the archway!” cried Kate, as, throwing her arms around Lady Dorothea, she lifted her fairly from the ground, and carried her within the deep recess of a porte cochère. Scarcely, however, had she deposited her in safety, than she fell tottering backwards and sank to the ground.
“Good Heavens! she is struck,” exclaimed Martin, bending over her.
“It is nothing,—a spent shot, and no more,” said Kate, as she showed the bullet which had perforated her dress beneath the arm.
“A good soldier, by Jove!” said the Captain, gazing with real admiration on the beautiful features before him; the faint smile she wore heightening their loveliness, and contrasting happily with their pallor.
“There they go! They are up the barricade already; they are over it,—through it!” cried the Captain. “Gallantly done!—gloriously done! No, by Jove! they are falling back; the fire is murderous. See how they bayonet them. The troops must win. They move together; they are like a wall! In vain, in vain; they cannot do it! They are beaten,—they are lost!”
“Who are lost?” said Kate, in a half-fainting voice.
“The soldiers. And there 's Massingbred on the top of the barricade, in the midst of it all. I see his hat They are driven back—beaten—beaten!”
“Come in quickly,” cried a voice from behind; and a small portion of the door was opened to admit them. “The soldiers are retiring, and will kill all before them.”
“Let me aid you; it is my turn now,” said Lady Dorothea, assisting Kate to rise. “Good Heavens! her arm is broken,—it is smashed in two.” And she caught the fainting girl in her arms.
Gathering around, they bore her within the gate, and had but time to bar and bolt it when the hurried tramp without, and the wild yell of popular triumph, told that the soldiers were retreating, beaten and defeated.
“And this to save me!” said Lady Dorothea, as she stooped over her. And the scalding tears dropped one by one on Kate's cheek.
“Tear this handkerchief, and bind it around my arm,” said Kate, calmly; “the pain is not very great, and there will be no bleeding, the doctors say, from a gun-shot wound.”
“I'll be the surgeon,” said the Captain, addressing himself to the task with more of skill than might be expected. “I 've seen many a fellow struck down who did n't bear it as calmly,” muttered he, as he bent over her. “Am I giving you any pain?”
“Not in the least; and if I were in torture, that glorious cheer outside would rally me. Hear!—listen!—the soldiers are in full retreat; the people, the noble-hearted people, are the conquerors!”
“Be calm, and think of yourself,” said Lady Dorothea, mildly, to her; “such excitement may peril your very life.”
“And it is worth a thousand lives to taste of it,” said she, while her cheek flushed, and her dark eyes gleamed with added lustre.
“The street is clear now,” said one of the servants to Martin, “and we might reach the Boulevard with ease.”
“Let us go, then,” said Lady Dorothea. “Let us look to her and think of nothing till she be cared for.”
Upon two several occasions have we committed to Jack Massingbred the task of conducting this truthful history; for the third time do we now purpose to make his correspondence the link between the past and what is to follow. We are not quite sure that the course we thus adopt is free from its share of inconvenience, but we take it to avoid the evils of reiteration inseparable from following out the same events from merely different points of view. There is also another advantage to be gained. Jack is before our readers; we are not. Jack is an acquaintance; we cannot aspire to that honor. Jack's opinions, right or wrong as they may be, are part and parcel of a character already awaiting their verdict. What he thought and felt, hoped, feared, or wished, are the materials by which he is to be judged; and so we leave his cause in his own hands.
His letter is addressed to the same correspondent to whom he wrote before. It is written, too, at different intervals, and in different moods of mind. Like the letters of many men who practise concealment with the world at large, it is remarkable for great frankness and sincerity. He throws away his mask with such evident signs of enjoyment that we only wonder if he can ever resume it; but crafty men like to relax into candor, as royalty is said to indulge with pleasure in the chance moments of pretended equality. It is, at all events, a novel sensation; and even that much, in this routine life of ours, is something!
He writes from Spa, and after some replies to matters with which we have no concern, proceeds thus:—
“Of the Revolution, then, and the Three Glorious Days as they are called, I can tell you next to nothing, and for this simple reason, that I was there fighting, shouting, throwing up barricades, singing the 'Marseillaise,' smashing furniture, and shooting my 'Swiss,' like the rest. As to who beat the troops, forced the Tuileries, and drove Marmont back, you must consult the newspapers. Personal adventures I could give you to satiety, hairbreadth 'scapes and acts of heroism by the dozen; but these narratives are never new, and always tiresome. The serious reflectiveness sounds like humbug, and, if one treats them lightly, the flippancy is an offence. Jocular heroism is ever an insult to the reader.
“You say, 'Que diable allait-il faire dans cette galère?' and I answer, it was all her doing. Yes, Harry, she was there. I was thinking of nothing less in the world than a great 'blow for freedom,' as the 'Globe' has it. I had troubled my head wonderfully little about the whole affair. Any little interest I took was in the notion that if our 'natural enemies,' the French, were to fall to and kill each other, there would be so much the fewer left to fight against us; but as to who was to get the upper hand, or what they were to do when they had it, I gave myself no imaginable concern. I had a vague, shadowy kind of impression that the government was a bad one, but I had a much stronger conviction that the people deserved no better. My leanings—my instincts, if you prefer it—were with the Crown. The mob and its sentiments are always repulsive. Popular enthusiasm is a great ocean, but it is an ocean of dirty water, and you cannot come out clean from the contact; and so I should have wished well to royalty, but for an accident,—a mere trifle in its way, but one quite sufficient, even on historic grounds, to account for a man's change of opinions. The troops shot my cab-horse, sent a bullet through poor 'Beverley,' and seriously damaged a new hat which I wore at the time, accompanying these acts with expressions the reverse of compliment or civility. I was pitched out into the gutter, and, most appropriately you will say, I got up a Radical, a Democrat, a Fourierist,—anything, in short, that shouts 'Down with Kings, and up with the Sovereign People!'
“My principles—don't smile at the word—led me into a stupid altercation with a very pleasant acquaintance, and we parted to meet the next morning in hostility,—at least, such was our understanding; but by the time that our difference should have been settled, I was carried away on a stretcher to the Hôtel Dieu, wounded, and he was flung, a corpse, into the Seine. I intended to have been a most accurate narrator of events, journalizing for you, hour by hour, with all the stirring excitement of the present tense, but I cannot; the crash and the hubbub are still in my brain, and the infernal chaos of the streets is yet over me. Not to speak of my wound,—a very ugly sabre-cut in the neck,—severing I don't know what amount of nerves, arteries, and such-like 'small deer,' every one of which, however, has its own peculiar perils in the shape of aneurisms, tetanus, and so forth, in case I am not a miracle of patience, calmness, and composure.
“The Martins are nursing and comforting and chicken-brothing me to my heart's content, and La Henderson, herself an invalid, with a terrible broken arm, comes and reads to me from time to time. What a girl it is! Wounded in a street encounter, she actually carried Lady Dorothea into a porte-cochère, and when they had lost their heads in terror, could neither issue an order to the servants nor know what way to turn, she took the guidance of the whole party, obtained horses and carriages and an escort, escaped from Paris, and reached Versailles in the midst of flying courtiers and dismayed ministers, and actually was the very first to bring the tidings that the game of monarchy was up,—that the king had nothing left for it but an inglorious flight. To the Duchesse de Mire-court she made this communication, which it seems none of the court-followers had the courage or honesty to do before. The Duchess, in her terror, actually dragged her into the presence of the king, and made her repeat what she had said. The scene, as told me, was quite dramatic; the king took her hand to lead her to a seat, but it was unfortunately of the wounded arm, and she fainted. The sight of the wounded limb so affected the nerves of monarchy that he gave immediate orders to depart, and was off within an hour.
“How they found me out a patient in a ward of the Hôtel Dieu, rescued and carried me away with them, I have heard full half a dozen times, but I 'm far from being clear enough to repeat the story; and, indeed, when I try to recall the period, the only images which rise up before me are long ranges of white coverlids, pale faces, and groans and cries of suffering, with the dark curly head of a great master of torture peeping at me, and whom, I am told, is the Baron Dupuytren, the Surgeon-in-Chief. After these comes a vision of litters and charrettes,—sore joltings and stoppages to drink water—But I shall rave if I go on. Better I should tell you of my pleasant little bedroom here, opening on a small garden, with a tiny fountain trying to sprinkle the wild myrtle and blush-roses around it, and sportively sending its little plash over me, as the wind wafts it into my chamber. My luxurious chair and easy-cushioned sofa, and my table littered with everything, from flowers to French romances; not to speak of the small rustic seat beside the window, where she has been sitting the last hour, and has only quitted to give me time to write this to you. I know it—I see it—all you can say, all that you are saying at this moment, is fifty times more forcibly echoing within my own heart, and repeating in fitful sentences: 'A ruined man—a broken fortune—a mad attachment—a life of struggle, difficulty, and failure!' But why should it be failure? Such a girl for a wife ought in itself to be an earnest of success. Are not her qualities exactly those that do battle with the difficulties of fortune? Self-denial—ambition—courage—an intense, an intuitive knowledge of the world—and then, a purpose-like devotion to whatever she undertakes, that throws an air of heroism over all her actions.
“Birth—blood—family connections—what have they done for me, except it be to entail upon me the necessity of selecting a career amidst the two or three that are supposed to suit the well-born? I may be a Life Guardsman, or an unpaid attaché, but I must not be a physician or a merchant. Nor is it alone that certain careers are closed against us, but certain opinions too. I must not think ill of the governing class,—I must never think well of the governed.
“Well, Harry, the colonies are the remedy for all this. There, at least, a man can fashion existence as arbitrarily as he can the shape and size of his house. None shall dictate his etiquette, no more than his architecture; and I am well weary of the slavery of this old-world life, with our worship of old notions and old china, both because they are cracked, damaged, and useless. I 'll marry her. I have made up my mind on 't. Spare me all your remonstrances, all your mock compassion. Nor is it like a fellow who has not seen the world in its best gala suit, affecting to despise rank, splendor, and high station. I have seen the thing. I have cantered my thoroughbred along Rotten Row, eaten my truffled dinners in Belgravia, whispered my nonsense over the white shoulders of the fairest and best-born of England's daughters. I know to a decimal fraction the value of all these; and, what 's more, I know what one pays for them,—the miserable vassalage, the poor slavery of mind, soul, and body they cost!
“It is the terror of exclusion here, the dread of coldness there—the possibility of offence to 'his Grace' on this side, or misconception by 'her Ladyship' on that—sway and rule a man so that he may neither eat, drink, nor sleep without a 'Court Guide' in his pocket. I 've done with it! now and forever,—I tell you frankly,—I return no more to this bondage.
“I have written a farewell address to my worthy constituents of Oughterard. I have told them that, 'feeling an instinct of independence within me, I can no longer remain their representative; that, as a man of honor, I shrink from the jobbery of the little borough politicians, and, as a gentleman, I beg to decline their intimacy.' They took me for want of a better—I leave them for the same reason.
“To my father I have said: 'Let us make a compromise. As your son I have a claim on the House. Now, what will you give for my share? I 'll neither importune you for place, nor embarrass you with solicitations for employment. Help me to stock my knapsack, and I 'll find my road myself.' She knows nothing of these steps on my part; nor shall she, till they have become irrevocable. She is too proud ever to consent to what would cost me thus heavily; but the expense once incurred,—the outlay made,—she cannot object to what has become the law of my future life.
“I send off these two documents to-night; this done, I shall write to her an offer of marriage. What a fever I 'm in! and all because I feel the necessity of defending myself to you,—to you of all men the most headstrong, reckless, and self-indulgent,—a fellow who never curbed a caprice nor restrained a passing fancy; and yet you are just the man to light your cigar, and while you puff away your blue cloud, mutter on about rashness, folly, insanity, and the rest of it, as if the state of your bank account should make that wisdom in you, which with me is but mere madness! But I tell you, Harry, it is your very thousands per annum that preclude you from doing what I can. It is your house in town, your stud at Tattersall's, your yacht at Cowes, your grouse-lodge in the Highlands, that tie and fetter you to live like some scores of others, with whom you have n't one solitary sympathy, save in income! You are bound up in all the recognizances of your wealth to dine stupidly, sup languidly, and sink down at last into a marriage of convenience,—to make a wife of her whom 'her Grace' has chosen for you without a single speculation in the contract save the thought of the earl you will be allied to, and the four noble families you 'll have the right to go in mourning for.
“And what worse than cant it is to talk of what they call an indiscreet match! What does—what can the world know as to the reasons that impel you, or me, or anybody else, to form a certain attachment? Are they acquainted with our secret and most hidden emotions? Do they understand the project of life we have planned to ourselves? Have they read our utter weariness and contempt for forms that they venerate, and social distinctions that they worship? I am aware that in some cases it requires courage to do this; and in doing it a man virtually throws down the glove to the whole world, and says, 'This woman's love is to me more than all of you'—and so say I at this moment. I must cry halt, I see, Harry. I have set these nerves at work in my wound, and the pain is agony. Tomorrow—to-night, if I 'm able—I shall continue.
“Midnight.” They have just wished me good-night, after having spent the evening here reading out the newspapers for me, commenting upon them, and exerting themselves to amuse me in a hundred good-natured ways. You would like this same stately old Lady Dorothea. She is really 'Grande Dame' in every respect,—dress, air, carriage, gesture, even her slow and measured speech is imposing, and her prejudices, uttered as they are in such perfect sincerity of heart, have something touching about them, and her sorrowful pity for the mob sounded more gracefully than Kate's enthusiastic estimate of their high deservings. It does go terribly against the grain to fancy an alliance between coarse natures and noble sentiments, and to believe in the native nobility of those who never touch soap! I have had a kind of skirmish with La Henderson upon this theme to-night. She was cross and out of temper, and bore my bantering badly. The fact is, she is utterly disgusted at the turn things have taken in France; and not altogether without reason, since, after all their bluster and bloodshed and barricades, they have gone back to a monarchy again. They barred out the master to make 'the head usher' top of the school. Let us see if he won't be as fond of the birch as his predecessor. Like all mutineers, they found they could n't steer the ship when they had murdered the captain! How hopeless it makes one of humanity to see such a spectacle as this, Harry, and how low is one's estimate of the species after such experience! You meet some half-dozen semi-bald, spectacled old gentlemen in society, somewhat more reserved than the rest of the company, fond of talking to each other, and rather distrustful of strangers; you find them slow conversers at dinner, sorry whist-players in the drawing-room; you are told, however, that one is a President of the Council, another the Secretary for Foreign Affairs, and a third something equally important. You venerate them accordingly, while you mutter the old Swede's apothegm about the 'small intelligences' that rule mankind. Wait awhile! There is a row in the streets: a pickpocket has appealed to the public to rescue him from the ignoble hands of the police; an escaped felon has fired at the judge who sentenced him, in the name of Liberty and Fraternity. No matter what the cause, there is a row. The troops are called out; some are beaten, some join the insurgents. The government grows frightened—temporizes—offers terms—and sends for more soldiers. The people—I never clearly knew what the word meant—the people make extravagant demands, and will not even give time to have them granted,—in a word, the whole state is subverted, the king, if there be one, in flight, the royal family missing, the ministers nowhere! No great loss you 'll say, if the four or five smooth-faced imbecilities we have spoken of are not to the fore! But there is your error, Harry,—your great error. These men, used to conduct and carry on the government, cannot be replaced. The new capacities do nothing but blunder, and maybe issue contradictory orders and impede each other's actions. To improvise a Secretary of State is about as wise a proceeding as to take at hazard a third-class passenger and set him to guide the engine of a train. The only difference is that the machinery of state is ten thousand times more complex than that of a steam-engine, and the powers for mischief and misfortune in due proportion.
“But why talk of these things? I have had enough and too much of them already this evening; women, too, are unpleasant disputants in politics. They attach their faith to persons, not parties. Miss Henderson is, besides, a little spoiled by the notice of those maxim-mongers who write leaders in the 'Débats, and articles for the 'Deux Mondes.' They have, or affect to have, a kind of pitying estimate for our English constitutional forms, which is rather offensive. At least, she provoked me, and I am relapsing into bad temper, just by thinking of it.
“You tell me that you once served with Captain Martin, and I see you understand him; not that it requires much study to do so. You say he was reckoned a good officer; what a sneer is that on the art military!
“There are, however, many suitable qualities about him, and he certainly possesses the true and distinctive element of a gentleman,—he knows how to be idle. Ay, Harry, that is a privilege that your retired banker or enriched cotton-spinner never attains to. They must be up and doing,—where there is nothing to do. They carry the spirit of the counting-house and the loom into society with them, and having found a pleasure in business, they want to make a business of pleasure. Now, Martin understands idling to perfection. His tea and toast, his mutton cutlet, and his mustachios are abundant occupation for him. With luncheon about two o'clock, he saunters through the stables, sucking a lighted cigar, filing his nails, and admiring his boots, till it 's time to ride out. He comes to me about nine of an evening, and we play piquet till I get sleepy; after which he goes to 'the rooms,' and, I believe, plays high; at least, I suspect so; for he has, at times, the forced calm—that semi-jocular resignation—one sees in a heavy loser. He has been occasionally, too, probing me about Merl,—you remember the fellow who had the rooms near Knightsbridge,—so that I opine he has been dabbling in loans. What a sorry spectacle such a creature as this in the toils of the Israelite, for he is the 'softest of the soft.' I see it from the effect La Henderson has produced upon him. He is in love with her,—actually in love. He even wanted to make me his confidant—and I narrowly escaped the confession—only yesterday evening. Of course, he has no suspicion of my attachment in the same quarter, so that it would be downright treachery in me to listen to his avowal. Another feeling, too, sways me, Harry,—I don't think I could hear a man profess admiration for the woman that I mean to marry, without the self-same sense of resentment I should experience were I already her husband. I 'm certain I 'd shoot him for it.
“La belle Kate and I parted coldly—dryly, I should call it—this evening. I had fancied she was above coquetry, but she is not. Is any woman? She certainly gave the Captain what the world would call encouragement all the night; listened attentively to tiresome tiger-huntings and stories of the new country; questioned him about his Mahratta campaigns, and even hinted at how much she would like an Indian life. Perhaps the torment she was inflicting on Lady Dorothea amused her; perhaps it was the irritation she witnessed in me gave the zest to this pastime. It is seldom that she condescends to be either amused or amusing; and I own it is a part does not suit her. She is a thousand times more attractive sitting over her embroidery-frame, raising her head at times to say a few words,—ever apposite and well chosen,—always simple, too, and to the purpose; or even by a slight gesture bearing agreement with what is said around her; till, with a sudden impulse, she pours forth fast, rapidly, and fluently some glowing sentiment of praise or censure, some glorious eulogy of the good, or some withering depreciation of the wrong. Then it is that you see how dark those eyes can be, how deep-toned that voice, and with what delicacy of expression she can mould and fashion every mood of mind, and give utterance to sentiments that till then none have ever known how to embody.
“It is such a descent to her to play coquette! Cleopatra cannot—should not be an Abigail. I am low and depressed to-night; I scarcely know why: indeed, I have less reason than usual for heavy-heartedness. These people are singularly kind and attentive to me, and seem to have totally forgotten how ungratefully once before I repaid their civilities. What a stupid mistake do we commit in not separating our public life from our social one, so as to show that our opinions upon measures of state are disconnected with all the sentiments we maintain for our private friendships. I detect a hundred sympathies, inconceivable points of contact, between these people and myself. We pass hours praising the same things, and abusing the same people; and how could it possibly sever our relations that I would endow Maynooth when they would pull it down, or that I liked forty-shilling freeholders better than ten-pound householders? You 'll say that a certain earnestness accompanies strong convictions, and that when a man is deeply impressed with some supposed truths, he 'll not measure his reprobation of those who assail them. But a lawyer does all this, and forfeits nothing of the esteem of 'his learned brother on the opposite side.' Nay, they exchange very-ugly knocks at times, and inflict very unseemly marks even with the gloves on; still they go homeward, arm-in-arm, after, and laugh heartily at both plaintiff and defendant. By Jove! Harry, it may sound ill, but somehow it seems as though to secure even a moderate share of enjoyment in this life one must throne Expediency in the seat of Principle. I 'll add the conclusion to-morrow, and now say good-night.
“Three days have passed over since I wrote the last time to you, and it would require as many weeks were I to chronicle all that has passed through my mind in the interval. Events there have been few; but sensations—emotions, enough for a lifetime. Nor dare I recall them! Faintly endeavoring to trace a few broken memories, my pains of mind and body come back again, so that you must bear with me if I be incoherent, almost unintelligible.
“The day after I wrote to you, I never saw her. My Lady, who came as usual to visit me in the day, said something about Miss Henderson having a headache. Unpleasant letters from her family—obliged to give up the day to answering them; but all so confused and with such evident constraint as to show me that something disagreeable loomed in view.
“The Captain dropped in about four o'clock, and as the weather was unfavorable, we sat down to our party of piquet. By a little address, I continued to lose nearly every game, and so gradually led him into a conversation while we played; but I soon saw that he only knew something had occurred 'upstairs,' but knew not what.
“' I suspect, however,' added he, 'it is only the old question as to Kate's going away.' “'Going away! Going where?' cried I.
“'Home to her father; she is resolutely bent upon it,—has been so ever since we left Paris. My mother, who evidently—but on what score I know not—had some serious difference with her, is now most eager to make concessions, and would stoop to—what for her is no trifle—even solicitation to induce her to stay, has utterly failed; so, too, has my father. Persuasion and entreaty not succeeding, I suspect—but it is only suspicion—that they have had recourse to parental authority, and asked old Henderson to interfere. At least, a letter has come this morning from the West of Ireland, for Kate, which I surmise to be in his hand. She gave it, immediately on reading it, to my mother, and I could detect in her Ladyship's face, while she perused it, unmistakable signs of satisfaction. When she handed it back, too, she gave a certain condescending smile, which, in my mother, implies victory, and seems to say, “Let us be friends now,—I 'm going to signal—cease firing.”'
“'And Kate, did she make any remark—say anything?' “'Not a syllable. She folded up the document, carefully and steadily, and placed it in her work-box, and then resumed her embroidery in silence. I watched her narrowly, while I affected to read the paper, and saw that she had to rip out half she had done. After a while my mother said,—“'”You 'll not answer that letter to-day, probably?”
“'"I mean to do so, my Lady,” said she; “and, with your permission, will beg you to read my reply.”
“'"Very well,” said my mother, and left the room. I was standing outside on the balcony at the time, so that Kate believed, after my mother's departure, she was quite alone. It was then she opened the letter, and re-read it carefully. I never took my eyes off her; and yet what was passing in her mind, whether joy, grief, disappointment, or pleasure, I defy any man to declare; nor when, having laid it down once more, she took up her work, not a line or a lineament betrayed her. It was plain enough the letter was no pleasant one, and I expected to have heard her sigh perhaps, or at least show some sign of depression; but no, she went on calmly, and at last began to sing, in a low, faint voice, barely audible where I stood, one of her little barcarole songs she is so fond of; and if there was no sorrow in her own heart, by Jove! she made mine throb heavily as I listened! I stood it as long as I was able, and then coughed to show that I was there, and entered the room. She never lifted her head, or noticed me, not even when I drew a chair close to her, and sat down at her side.
“'I suppose, Massingbred,' said he, after a pause, 'you 'll laugh at me, if I tell you I was in love with the Governess! Well, I should have laughed too, some six months ago, if any man had prophesied it; but the way I put the matter to myself is this: If I do succeed to a good estate, I have a right to indulge my own fancy in a wife; if I don't,—that is, if I be a ruined man,—where 's the harm in marrying beneath me?'
“'Quite right, admirably argued,' said I, impatiently; 'go on.'
“'I 'm glad you agree with me,' said he, with the stupid satisfaction of imbecility. 'I thought I had reduced the question to its very narrowest bounds.'
“'So you have; go on,' cried I.
“'"Miss Henderson,” said I,—for I determined to show that I was speaking seriously, and so I did n't call her Kate,— “Miss Henderson, I want to speak to you. I have been long seeking this opportunity; and if you will vouchsafe me a few minutes now, and hear me, on a subject upon which all my happiness in life depends—”
“'When I got that far, she put her work down on her knee, and stared at me with those large, full eyes of hers so steadily—ay, so haughtily, too—that I half wished myself fifty miles away.
“'"Captain Martin,” said she, in a low, distinct voice, “has it ever occurred to you in life to have, by a mere moment of reflection, a sudden flash of intelligence, saved yourself from some step, some act, which, if accomplished, had brought nothing but outrage to your feeling, and insult to your self-esteem? Let such now rescue you from resuming this theme.”
“'"But you# don't understand me,” said I. “What I wish to say—” Just at that instant my father came into the room in search of her, and I made my escape to hide the confusion that I felt ready to overwhelm me.'
“'And have you not seen her since?'
“'No. Indeed, I think it quite as well, too. She 'll have time to think over what I said, and see what a deuced good offer it is; for though I know she was going to make objections about inequality of station and all that at the time, reflection will bring better thoughts.'
“'And she 'll consent, you think?'
“'I wish I had a bet on it,' said he.
“'So you shall, then,' said I, endeavoring to seem thoroughly at my ease. 'It's a very unworthy occasion for a wager, Martin; but I'll lay five hundred to one she refuses you.'
“'Taken, and booked,' cried he, writing it down in his note-book. “I only regret it is not in thousands.'
“'So it should be, if I could honestly stake what I have n't got.'
“'You are so sanguine of winning? '
“' So certain, you ought to say.'
“' Of course you use no influence against me,—you take no step of any kind to affect her decision.'
“'Certainly not.'
“'Nor are you—But,' added he, laughing, 'I need n't make that proviso. I was going to say, you are not to ask her yourself.'
“'I 'll even promise you that, if you like,' said I.
“'Then what can you mean?' said he, with a puzzled look. 'But whatever it be, I can stand the loss. I 've won very close to double as much from you this evening.'
“'And as to the disappointment?'
“'Oh, you 'll not mention it, I 'm certain, neither will she, so none will be the wiser; and, after all, the real bore in all these cases is the gossip.' And with this consolatory reflection he left me to dress for dinner. How well bred a fellow seems who has no feeling, but just tact enough to detect the tone of the world and follow it! That's Martin's case, and his manners are perfect! After he was gone, I was miserable for not having quarrelled with him,—said something outrageous, insolent, and unbearable. That he should have dared to insult the young girl by such presumption as the offer of his hand is really too much. What difference of station—wide as the poles asunder—could compare with their real inequality? The fop, the idler, the incompetent, to aspire to her! Even his very narrative proclaimed his mean nature, wandering on, as it did, from a lounge on the balcony to an offer of marriage!
“Now, to conclude this wearisome story—and I fancy, Harry, that already you half deem me a fitting rival for the tiresome Captain,—but to finish, Martin came early into my room, and laying a bank-note for £100 on the bed, merely added, 'You were right; there's your money.' I'd have given double the sum to hear the details of this affair,—in what terms the refusal was conveyed,—on what grounds she based it; but he would not afford me the slightest satisfaction on any of these points. Indeed, he displayed more vigor of character than I suspected in him, in the way he arrested my inquiries. He left this for Paris immediately after, so that the mystery of that interview will doubtless remain impenetrable to me.
“We are all at sixes and sevens to-day. Old Martin, shocked by some tidings of Ireland that he chanced upon in the public papers, I believe, has had a stroke of paralysis, or a seizure resembling that malady. Lady Dorothea is quite helpless from terror, and but for Kate, the whole household would be in utter chaos and disorganization; but she goes about, with her arm in a sling, calm and tranquil, but with the energy and activity of one who feels that all depends upon her guidance and direction. The servants obey her with a promptitude that proclaims instinct; and even the doctor lays aside the mysterious jargon of his craft, and condescends to talk sense to her. I have not seen her; passing rumors only reach me in my solitude, and I sit here writing and brooding alternately.
“P. S. Martin is a little better; no immediate danger to life, but slight hopes of ultimate recovery. I was wrong as to the cause. It was a proclamation of outlawry against his son, the Captain, which he read in the 'Times.' Some implacable creditor or other had pushed his claim so far, as I believe is easy enough to do nowadays; and poor Martin, who connected this stigma with all the disgrace that once accompanied such a sentence, fell senseless to the ground, and was taken up palsied. He is perfectly collected and even tranquil now, and they wheeled me in to sit with him for an hour or so. Lady Dorothea behaves admirably; the first shock overwhelmed her, but that passed off, and she is now all that could be imagined of tenderness and zeal.
“Kate I saw but for a second. She asked me to write to Captain Martin, and request him to hasten home. It was no time to trifle with her; so I simply promised to do so, adding,—“'You, I trust, will not leave this at such a moment?'
“'Assuredly not,' said she, slightly coloring at what implied my knowledge of her plans.
“'Then all will go on well in that case,' said I.
“'I never knew that I was reckoned what people call lucky,' said she, smiling. 'Indeed, most of those with whom I have been associated in life might say the opposite.' And then, without waiting to hear me, she left the room.
“My brain is throbbing and my cheeks burning; some feverish access is upon me. So I send off this ere I grow worse.
“Your faithful friend,
“Jack Massingbred.”
Leaving the Martins in their quiet retreat at Spa, nor dwelling any longer on a life whose daily monotony was unbroken by an incident, we once more turn our glance westward. Were we assured that our kind readers' sympathies were with us, the change would be a pleasure to us, since it is there, in that wild mountain tract, that pathless region of fern and wild furze, that we love to linger, rambling half listlessly through silent glens and shady gorges, or sitting pensively on the storm-lashed shore, till sea and sky melt into one, and naught lowers through the gloom save the tall crags above us.
We are once more back again at the little watering-place of Kilkieran, to which we introduced our readers in an early chapter of this narrative; but another change has come over that humble locality. The Osprey's Nest, the ornamented villa, on which her Ladyship had squandered so lavishly good money and bad taste, was now an inn! A vulgar sign-board, representing a small boat in a heavy sea, hung over the door, with the words “The Corragh” written underneath. The spacious saloon, whose bay-windows opened on the Atlantic, was now a coffee-room, and the small boudoir that adjoined it—desecration of desecrations—the bar!
It needs not to have been the friend or favored guest beneath a roof where elegance and refinement have prevailed to feel the shock at seeing them replaced by all that ministers to coarse pleasure and vulgar association. The merest stranger cannot but experience a sense of disgust at the contrast. Whichever way you turned, some object met the eye recalling past splendor and present degradation; indeed, Toby Shea, the landlord, seemed to feel as one of his brightest prerogatives the right of insulting the memory of his predecessors, and throwing into stronger antithesis the “former” and the “now.”
“Here ye are now, sir, in my Lady's own parlor; and that's her bedroom, where I left your trunk,” said he, as he ushered in a newly arrived traveller, whose wet and road-stained drapery bore traces of an Irish winter's day. “Mr. Scanlan told me that your honor would be here at four o'clock, and he ordered dinner for two, at five, and a good dinner you 'll have.”
“There; let them open my traps, and fetch me a pair of slippers and a dressing-gown,” broke in the traveller; “and be sure to have a good fire in my bedroom. What an infernal climate! It has rained since the day I landed at Dublin; and now that I have come down here, it has blown a hurricane besides. And how cold this room is!” added he, shuddering.
“That's all by reason of them windows,” said Toby,—“French windows they call them; but I'll get real Irish sashes put up next season, if I live. It was a fancy of that ould woman that built the place to have nothing that was n't foreign.”
“They are not popular, then,—the Martins?” asked the stranger.
“Popular!” echoed Toby. “Begorra, they are not. Why would they be? Is it rack-renting, process sarving, extirminating, would make them popular? Sure we're all ruined on the estate. There isn't a mother's son of us might n't be in jail; and it's not Maurice's fault, either,—Mr. Scanlan's, I mean. Your honor's a friend of his, I believe,” added he, stealthily. The stranger gave a short nod. “Sure he only does what he's ordered; and it's breaking his heart it is to do them cruel things they force him to.”
“Was the management of the estate better when they lived at home?” asked the stranger.
“Some say yes, more says no. I never was their tenant myself, for I lived in Oughterard, and kept the 'Goose and Griddle' in John Street; but I believe, if the truth was told, it was always pretty much the same. They were azy and moderate when they did n't want money, but ready to take your skin off your back when they were hard up.”
“And is that their present condition?”
“I think it is,” said he, with a confident grin. “They 're spending thousands for hundreds since they went abroad; and that chap in the dragoons—the Captain they call him—sells a farm, or a plot of ground, just the way ye 'd tear a leaf out of a book. There 's Mr. Maurice now,—and I 'll go and hurry the dinner, for he 'll give us no peace if we 're a minute late.”
The stranger—or, to give him his proper name, Mr. Merl—now approached the window, and watched, not without admiration, the skilful management by which Scanlan skimmed along the strand, zigzagging his smart nag through all the awkward impediments of the way, and wending his tandem through what appeared a labyrinth of confusion.
Men bred and born in great cities are somewhat prone to fancy that certain accomplishments, such as tandem-driving, steeple-chasing, and such like, are the exclusive acquirements of rank and station. They have only witnessed them as the gifts of guardsmen and “young squires of high degree,” never suspecting that in the country a very inferior class is often endowed with these skilful arts. Mr. Merl felt, therefore, no ordinary reverence for Maurice Scanlan, a sentiment fully reciprocated by the attorney, as he beheld the gorgeous dressing-gown, rich tasselled cap, and Turkish trousers of the other.
“I thought I'd arrive before you, sir,” said Scanlan, with a profound bow, as he entered the room; “but I'm glad you got in first. What a shower that was!”
“Shower!” said Merl; “a West India hurricane is a zephyr to it. I 'd not live in this climate if you 'd give me the whole Martin estate!”
“I 'm sure of it, sir; one must be bred in the place, and know no better, to stand it.” And although the speech was uttered in all humility, Merl gave the speaker a searching glance, as though to say, “Don't lose your time trying to humbug me; I'm 'York,' too.” Indeed, there was species of freemasonry in the looks that now passed between the two; each seemed instinctively to feel that he was in the presence of an equal, and that artifice and deceit might be laid aside for the nonce.
“I hope you agree with me,” said Scanlan, in a lower and more confidential voice, “that this was the best place to come to. Here you can stay as long as you like, and nobody the wiser; but in the town of Oughterard they'd be at you morning, noon, and night, tracking your steps, questioning the waiter, ay, and maybe taking a peep at your letters. I 've known that same before now.”
“Well, I suppose you 're right; only this place does look a little dull, I confess.”
“It's not the season, to be sure,” said Scanlan, apologetically.
“Oh! and there is a season here?”
“Isn't there, by George!” said Maurice, smacking his lips. “I 've seen two heifers killed here of a morning, and not so much as a beefsteak to be got before twelve o'clock. 'T is the height of fashion comes down here in July,—the Rams of Kiltimmon, and the Bodkins of Crossmaglin; and there was talk last year of a lord,—I forget his name; but he ran away from Newmarket, and the story went that he was making for this.”
“Any play?” asked Merl.
“Play is it? That there is; whist every night, and backgammon.”
Merl threw up his eyebrows with pretty much the same feeling with which the Great Napoleon repeated the words “Bows and Arrows!” as the weapons of a force that offered him alliance.
“If you'd allow me to dine in this trim, Mr. Scanlan,” said he, “I'd ask you to order dinner.”
“I was only waiting for you to give the word, sir,” said Maurice, reverting to the habit of respect at any fresh display of the other's pretensions; and opening the door, he gave a shrill whistle.
The landlord himself answered the summons, and whispered a few words in Scanlan's ear.
“That's it, always,” cried Maurice, angrily. “I never came into the house for the last ten days without hearing the same story. I 'd like to know who and what he is, that must always have the best that 's going?” Then turning to Merl, he added: “It's a lodger he has upstairs; an old fellow that came about a fortnight back; and if there's a fine fish or a fat turkey or a good saddle of mutton to be got, he 'll have it.”
“Faix, he pays well,” said Toby, “whoever he is.”
“And he has secured our salmon, I find, and left us to dine on whiting,” said Maurice.
“An eighteen-pound fish!” echoed Toby; “and it would be as much as my life is worth to cut it in two.”
“And he's alone, too?”
“No, sir. Mr. Crow, the painter, is to dine with him. He's making drawings for him of all the wonderful places down the coast.”
“Well, give us what we 're to have at once,” said Maurice, angrily. “The basket of wine was taken out of the gig?”
“Yes, sir; all right and ready for you; and barrin' the fish you 'll have an elegant dinner.”
This little annoyance over, the guests relished their fare like hungry men; nor, time and place considered, was it to be despised.
“Digestion is a great leveller.” Mr. Merl and Mr. Scan-Ian felt far more on an equality when, the dinner over and the door closed, they drew the table close to the fire, and drank to each other in a glass of racy port.
“Well, I believe a man might live here, after all,” said Merl, as he gazed admiringly on the bright hues of his variegated lower garments.
“I 'm proud to hear you say so,” said Scanlan; “for, of course, you've seen a deal of life; and when I say life, I mean fashion and high style,—nobs and swells.”
“Yes; I believe I have,” said Merl, lighting his cigar; “that was always my 'line.' I fancy there's few fellows going have more experience of the really great world than Herman Merl.”
“And you like it?” asked Maurice, confidentially.
“I do, and I do not,” said the Jew, hesitatingly. “To one like myself, who knows them all, always on terms of close intimacy,—friendship, I may say,—it 's all very well; but take a new hand just launched into life, a fellow not of their own set,—why, sir, there 's no name for the insults and outrage he'll meet with.”
“But what could they do?” asked Scanlan, inquiringly.
“What?—anything, everything; laugh at him, live on him, win his last guinea,—and then, blackball him!”
“And could n't he get a crack at them?”
“A what?”
“Couldn't he have a shot at some of them, at least?” asked Maurice.
“No, no,” said Mr. Merl, half contemptuously; “they don't do that.”
“Faix! and we 'd do it down here,” said Scanlan, “devil may care who or what he was that tried the game.”
“But I 'm speaking of London and Paris; I 'm not alluding to the Sandwich Islands,” said Merl, on whose brain the port and the strong fire were already producing their effects.
Scanlan's face flushed angrily; but a glance at the other checked the reply he was about to make, and he merely pushed the decanter across the table.
“You see, sir,” said Merl, in the tone of a man laying down a great dictum, “there 's worlds and worlds. There's Claude Willoughby's world, which is young Martin's and Stanhope's and mine. There, we are all young fellows of fortune, good family, good prospects, you understand,—no, thank you, no more wine;—I feel that what I 've taken has got into my head; and this cigar, too, is none of the best. Would it be taking too great a liberty with you if I were to snatch a ten minutes' doze,—just ten minutes?”
“Treat me like an old friend; make yourself quite at home,” said Maurice. “There 's enough here”—and he pointed to the bottles on the table—“to keep me company; and I 'll wake you up when I 've finished them.”
Mr. Merl made no reply; but drawing a chair for his legs, and disposing his drapery gracefully around him, he closed his eyes, and before Maurice had replenished his glass, gave audible evidence of a sound sleep.
Now, worthy reader, we practise no deceptions with you; nor so far as we are able, do we allow others to do so. It is but fair, therefore, to tell you that Mr. Merl was not asleep, nor had he any tendency whatever to slumber about him. That astute gentleman, however, had detected that the port was, with the addition of a great fire, too much for him; he recognized in himself certain indications of confusion that implied wandering and uncertain faculties, and he resolved to arrest the progress of such symptoms by a little repose. He felt, in short, that if he had been engaged in play, that he should have at once “cut out,” and so he resolved to give himself the advantage of the prerogative which attaches to a tired traveller. There he lay, then, with closed eyes,—breathing heavily,—to all appearance sound asleep.
Maurice Scanlan, meanwhile, scanned the recumbent figure before him with the eye of a connoisseur. We have once before said that Mr. Scanlan's jockey experiences had marvellously aided his worldly craft, and that he scrutinized those with whom he came in contact through life, with all the shrewd acumen he would have bestowed upon a horse whose purchase he meditated. It was easy to see that the investigation puzzled him. Mr. Merl did not belong to any one category he had ever seen before. Maurice was acquainted with various ranks and conditions of men; but here was a new order, not referable to any known class. He opened Captain Martin's letter, which he carried in his pocket-book, and re-read it; but it was vague and uninstructive. He merely requested that “every attention might be paid to his friend Mr. Merl, who wanted to see something of the West, and know all about the condition of the people, and such like. He's up to everything, Master Maurice,” continued the writer, “and so just the man for you.” There was little to be gleaned from this source, and so he felt, as he folded and replaced the epistle in his pocket.
“What can he be,” thought Scanlan, “and what brings him down here? Is he a member of Parliament, that wants to make himself up about Ireland and Irish grievances? Is he a money-lender, that wants to see the security before he makes a loan? Are they thinking of him for the agency?”—and Maurice flushed as the suspicion crossed him,—“or is it after Miss Mary he is?” And a sudden paleness covered his face at the thought. “I 'd give a cool hundred, this minute, if I could read you,” said he to himself, “Ay, and I'd not ask any one's help how to deal with us afterwards,” added he, as he drained off his glass. While he was thus ruminating, a gentle tap was heard at the door, and, anxious not to disturb the sleeper, Scanlan crossed the room with noiseless steps, and opened it.