“Oh, it's you, Simmy,” said he, in a low voice. “Come in, and make no noise; he's asleep.”
“And that's him!” said Crow, standing still to gaze on the recumbent figure before him, which he scrutinized with all an artist's appreciation.
“Ay, and what do you think of him?” whispered Scanlan.
“That chap is a Jew,” said Sim, in the same cautious tone. “I know the features well; you see the very image of him in the old Venetian pictures. Whenever they wanted cunning and cruelty—but more cunning than cruelty—they always took that type.”
“I would n't wonder if you were right, Simmy,” said Scanlan, on whom a new light was breaking.
“I know I am; look at the spread of the nostrils, and the thick, full lips, and the coarse, projecting under-jaw. Faix!” said he to himself, “I 've seen the day I 'd like to have had a study of your face.”
“Indeed!” said Scanlan.
“Just so; he'd make a great Judas!” said Crow, enthusiastically. “It is the miser all over. You know,” added he, “if one took him in the historical way, you 'd get rid of the vulgarity, and make him grander and finer; for, looking at him now, he might be a dog-stealer.”
Scanlan gave a low, cautious laugh as he placed a chair beside his own for the artist, and filled out for him a bumper of port.
“I was just dying for a glass of this,” said Crow. “I dined with Mr. Barry upstairs; and though he's a fine-hearted old fellow in many respects, he's too abstemious; a pint of sherry for two at dinner, and a pint of port after, that's the allowance. Throw out as many hints as you like, suggest how and what you will, but devil a drop more you'll get.”
“And who is he?” asked Scanlan.
“I wish you could tell me,” said Crow.
“You haven't a notion; nor what he is?”
“Not the slightest. I think, indeed, he said he was in the army; but I'm not clear it wasn't a commissary or a surgeon; maybe he was, but he knows a little about everything. Take him on naval matters, and he understands them well; ask him about foreign countries,—egad, he was everywhere. Ireland seems the only place new to him, and it won't be so long; for he goes among the people, and talks to them, and hears all they have to say, with a patience that breaks my heart. Like all strangers, he's astonished with the acuteness he meets with, and never ceases saying, 'Ain't they a wonderful people? Who ever saw their equal for intelligence?'”
“Bother!” said Scanlan, contemptuously.
“But it is not bother! Maurice; he's right. They are just what he says.”
“Arrah! don't be humbugging me, Mr. Crow,” said the other. “They 're a set of scheming, plotting vagabonds, that are unmanageable by any one, except a fellow that has the key to them as I have.”
“You know them, that's true,” said Crow, half apologetically, for he liked the port, and did not feel he ought to push contradiction too far.
“And that's more than your friend Barry does, or ever will,” said Scanlan. “I defy an Englishman—I don't care how shrewd he is—to understand Paddy.”
A slight movement on Mr. Merl's part here admonished the speaker to speak lower.
“Ay,” continued Maurice, “that fellow there—whoever he is or whatever he is—is no fool! he 's deep enough; and yet there 's not a bare-legged gossoon on the estate I won't back to take him in.”
“But Barry's another kind of man entirely. You wouldn't call him cute or cunning; but he's a sensible, well-judging man, that has seen a deal of life.”
“And what is it, he says, brings him here?” asked Scanlan.
“He never said a word about that yet,” replied Crow, “further than his desire to visit a country he had heard much of, and, if I understand him aright, where some of his ancestors came from; for, you see, at times he's not so easy for one to follow, for he has a kind of a foreign twang in his tongue, and often mumbles to himself in a strange language.”
“I mistrust all these fellows that go about the world, pretending they want to see this and observe that,” said Scanlan, sententiously.
“It's mighty hard to mistrust a man that gives you the likes of that,” said Crow, as he drew a neatly folded banknote from his pocket, and handed it to Scanlan. “Twenty pounds! And he gave you that?” “This very evening. 'It is a little more than our bargain, Mr. Crow,' said he, 'but not more than I can afford to give; and so I hope you 'll not refuse it.' These were his words, as he took my lot of drawings—poor daubs they were—and placed them in his portfolio.”
“So that he is rich?” said Maurice, pensively, “There seems no end of his money; there's not a day goes over he does n't spend fifteen or sixteen pounds in meat, potatoes, barley, and the like. Sure, you may say he 's been feeding the two islands himself for the last fortnight; and what's more, one must n't as much as allude to it. He gets angry at the slightest word that can bring the subject forward. It was the other day he said to myself, 'If you can relieve destitution without too much parade of its sufferings, you are not only obviating the vulgar display of rich benevolence, but you are inculcating high sentiments and delicacy of feeling in those that are relieved. Take care how you pauperize the heart of a people, for you 'll have to make a workhouse of the nation.'”
“Sure, they're paupers already!” exclaimed Scanlan, contemptuously. “When I hear all these elegant sentiments uttered about Ireland, I know a man is an ass! This is a poor country,—the people is poor, the gentry is poor, the climate is n't the best, and bad as it is, you 're never sure of it. All that anybody can hope to do is to make his living out of it; but as to improving it,—raising the intellectual standard of the people, and all that balderdash we hear of,—you might just as well tell me that there was an Act of Parliament to make everybody in Connaught six feet high. Nature says one thing, and it signifies mighty little if the House of Commons says the other.”
“And you 're telling me this in the very spot that contradicts every word you say!” cried Crow, half angrily; for the port had given him courage, and the decanter waxed low.
“How so?” exclaimed Scanlan.
“Here, where we sit—on this very estate of Cro' Martin—where a young girl—a child the other day—has done more to raise the condition of the people, to educate and civilize, than the last six generations together.”
A long wailing whistle from Scanlan was the insulting reply to the assertion.
“What do you mean by that?” cried Crow, passionately.
“I mean that she has done more mischief to the property than five-and-forty years' good management will ever repair, Now don't be angry, Simmy; keep your temper, and draw your chair back again to the table. I 'm not going to say one word against her intentions; but when I see the waste of thousands of pounds on useless improvements, elegant roads that lead nowhere, bridges that nobody will ever pass, and harbors without boats, not to say the habits of dependence the people have got by finding everything done for them. I tell you again, ten years more of Miss Mary's rule will finish the estate.”
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“I don't believe a word of it!” blurted out Simmy, boldly. “I saw her yesterday coming out of a cabin, where she passed above an hour, nursing typhus fever and cholera. The cloak she took off the door—for she left it there to dry—was still soaked with rain; her wet hair hung down her shoulders, and as she stood bridling her own pony,—for there was not a living soul to help her—”
“She 'd have made an elegant picture,” broke in Scanlan, with a laugh. “But that's exactly the fault of us in Ireland,—we are all picturesque; I wish we were prosperous! But come, Simmy, finish your wine; it's not worth disputing about. If all I hear about matters be true, there will be very little left of Cro' Martin when the debts are paid.”
“What! do you mean to say that they 're in difficulty?”
“Far worse; the stories that reach me call it—ruin!”
Simmy drew his chair closer to the table, and in a whisper scarcely breathed, said, “That chap's not asleep, Maurice.”
“I know it,” whispered the other; and added, aloud, “Many a fellow that thinks he has the first charge on the property will soon discover his mistake; there are mortgages of more than eighty years' standing on the estate. You've had a great sleep, sir,” said he, addressing Merl, who now yawned and opened his eyes; “I hope our talking did n't disturb you?”
“Not in the least,” said Merl, rising and stretching his legs. “I'm all right now, and quite fresh for anything.”
“Let me introduce Mr. Crow to you, sir,—a native artist that we 're all proud of.”
“That's exactly what you are not then,” said Crow; “nor would you be if I deserved it. You 'd rather gain a cause at the Quarter Sessions, or take in a friend about a horse, than be the man that painted the Madonna at Florence.”
“He's cross this evening,—cross and ill-humored,” said Scanlan, laughing. “Maybe he 'll be better tempered when we have tea.”
“I was just going to ask for it,” said Merl, as he arranged his whiskers, and performed a small impromptu toilet before the glass, while Simmy issued forth to give the necessary orders.
“We 'll have tea, and a rubber of dummy afterwards,” said Scanlan, “if you've no objection.”
“Whatever you like,—I 'm quite at your disposal,” replied Merl, who now seated himself with an air of bland amiability, ready, according to the amount of the stake, to win pounds or lose sixpences.
All the projects which Mr. Scanlan had struck out for Merl's occupation on the following day were marred by the unfavorable weather. It blew fiercely from the westward, driving upon shore a tremendous sea, and sending white masses of drift and foam far inland. The rain, too, came down in torrents. The low-lying clouds, which scarcely reached more than half-way up the mountain sides, seemed as if rent asunder at times, and from them came a deluge, filling all the watercourses, and swelling rivulets to the size of mighty torrents. The unceasing roll of thunder, now near, now rumbling along in distant volleys, swelled the wild uproar, and helped to make up a scene of grand but desolate meaning.
What could well be drearier than that little line of cabins that formed the village of Kilkieran, as with strongly barricaded doors, and with roofs secured by ropes and spars, they stood exposed to the full violence of the wild Atlantic! Not a man, not a living thing was to be seen. The fishermen were all within doors, cowering in gloomy indolence over the scanty turf fires, and brooding darkly on the coming winter.
With a thorough conviction of all the dreariness of this scene, Mr. Merl stood at the window and looked out. He had been all his life too actively engaged in his pursuits of one kind or other to know much about what is called “being bored.” Let rain fall ever so heavily, a cab could take him down to “'Change,”—the worst weather never marred a sale of stock, and Consols could rise even while the mercury was falling. The business-life of a great city seems to care little for weather, and possibly they whose intent faculties are bent on gain, scarcely remember whether the sun shines upon their labors.
Merl felt differently now; the scene before him was wilder and gloomier than anything he had ever beheld. Beyond and behind the village steep mountains rose on every side, of barren and rugged surface,—not a vestige of any culture to be seen; while on the road, which led along a narrow gorge, nothing moved. All was dreary and deserted.
“I suppose you'll keep the roof over you to-day, Mr. Merl?” said Scanlan, as he entered the room, buttoned up to the chin in a coarse frieze coat, while his head was protected by a genuine “sou'-wester” of oilskin.
“And are you going out in such weather?” asked Merl.
“'Needs must,' sir, as the proverb says. I have to be at the assizes at Oughterard this morning, to prosecute some scoundrels for cutting brambles in the wood; and I want to serve notices on a townland about eight miles from this; and then I 'll have to go round by Cro' Martin and see Miss Mary. That's not the worst of it,” added he, with an impudent leer, “for she's a fine girl, and has the prettiest eyes in the kingdom.”
“I have a letter for her,” said Merl,—“a letter of introduction from Captain Martin. I suppose I might as well send it by you, and ask if I might pay my respects to-morrow or next day?”
“To be sure; I'll take it with pleasure. You'll like her when you see her. She's not a bit like the rest: no pride, no stand-off,—that is, when she takes a fancy; but she is full of life and courage for anything.”
“Ah, yes,—the Captain said we should get on very well together,” drawled out Merl.
“Did he, though!” cried Scanlan, eagerly. Then as suddenly checking his anxiety, he added: “But what does he know about Miss Mary? Surely they're as good as strangers to each other. And for the matter of that, even when he was here, they did n't take to each other,—she was always laughing at the way he rode.”
“Wasn't he in the dragoons?” asked Merl, in a half-rebutting tone.
“So he was; but what does that signify? Sure it's not a cavalry seat, with your head down and your elbows squared, will teach you to cross country,—at least, with Mary Martin beside you. You'll see her one of these day yourself, Mr. Merl. May I never, if you don't see her now!” cried Scanlan, suddenly, as he pointed to the road along which a horse was seen coming at speed, the rider breasting the storm fearlessly, and only crouching to the saddle as the gusts swept past. “What in the name of all that's wonderful brings her here?” cried Maurice. “She wasn't down at Kilkieran for four months.”
“She'll stop at this inn here, I suppose?” said Merl who was already performing an imaginary toilet for her visit.
“You may take your oath she'll not!” said Scanlan half roughly; “she 'd not cross the threshold of it! She 's going to some cabin or other. There she goes,—is n't that riding?” cried he, in animation. “Did you ever see a horse held neater? And see how she picks the road for him! Easy as she's sitting, she 'd take a four-foot wall this minute, without stirring in her saddle.”
“She hasn't got a nice day for pleasuring!” said the Jew, with a vulgar cackle.
“If ye call it pleasure,” rejoined Scanlan, “what she's after; but I suspect there's somebody sick down at the end of the village. There, I 'm right; she's pulling up at Mat Landy's,—I wonder if it's old Mat is bad.”
“You know him?” asked Merl.
“To be sure I do. He 's known down the coast for forty miles. He saved more men from shipwreck himself than everybody in the barony put together; but his heart is all but broke about a granddaughter that ran away. Sure enough, she's going in there.”
“Did you see Miss Mary?” cried Crow, entering suddenly. “She's just gone down the beach. They say there's a case now down there.”
“A case—of what?” said Merl.
“Cholera or typhus, as it may be,” said Crow, not a little surprised at the unmistakable terror of the other's face.
“And she's gone to see it!” exclaimed the Jew.
“To do more than see it. She 'll nurse the sick man, and bring him medicine and whatever he wants.”
“And not afraid?”
“Afraid!” broke in Crow. “I'd like to know what she's afraid of. Ask Mr. Scanlan what would frighten her.” But Mr. Scanlan had already slipped noiselessly from the room, and was already on his way down the shore.
“Well,” said Merl, lighting his cigar, and drawing an arm-chair close to the fire, “I don't see the advantage of all that. She could send the doctor, I suppose, and make her servants take down to these people whatever she wanted to send them. What especial utility there is in going herself, I can't perceive.”
“I'll tell you, then,” said Crow. “It's more likely the doctor is busy this minute, ten or fifteen miles away,—for the whole country is down in sickness; but even if he was n't, if it were not for her courage in going everywhere, braving danger and death every hour, there would be a general flight of all that could escape. They'd rush into the towns,—where already there's more sickness than they know how to deal with. She encourages some,—she shames more; and not a few are proud to be brave in such company, for she is an angel,—that's her name,—an angel.”
“Well, I should like to see her,” drawled out Merl, as he smoothed down his scrubby mustachios.
“Nothing easier, then,” rejoined Crow. “Put on your coat and hat, and we 'll stroll down the beach till she comes out; it can't be very long, for she has enough on her hands elsewhere.”
The proposition of a “stroll” in such weather was very little to Mr. Merl's taste; but his curiosity was stronger than even his fear of a drenching, and having muffled and shawled himself as if for an Arctic winter, they set out together from the inn.
“And you tell me,” said he, “that the Martins used to live here,—actually pass their lives in this atrocious climate?”
“That they did,—and the worst mistake they ever made was to leave it,” said Crow.
“I confess you puzzle me,” said Merl.
“Very possibly I do, sir,” was the calm reply; “but you'd have understood me at once had you known this country while they resided at Cro' Martin. It was n't only that the superfluities of their wealth ran over, and filled the cup of the poor man, but there was a sense of hope cherished, by seeing that however hard the times, however adverse the season, there was always 'his Honor,' as they called Mr. Martin, whom they could appeal to for aid or for lenient treatment.”
“Very strange, very odd, all this,” said Merl, musing. “But all that I hear of Ireland represents the people as if in a continual struggle for mere existence, and actually in a daily state of dependence on the will of somebody above them.”
“And if that same condition were never to be exaggerated into downright want, or pushed to an actual slavery, we could be very happy with it,” said Crow, “and not thank you, or any other Englishman that came here, to disturb it.”
“I assure you I have no ambition to indulge in any such interference,” said Merl, with a half-contemptuous laugh.
“And so you're not thinking of settling in Ireland?” asked Crow, in some surprise.
“Never dreamed of it!”
“Well, the story goes that you wanted to buy an estate, and came down to have a look at this property here.”
“I'd not live on it if Martin were to make me a present of it to-morrow.”
“I don't think he will,” said Crow, gravely. “I am afraid he could n't, if he wished it.”
“What, do you mean on account of the entail?” asked Merl.
“Not exactly.” He paused, and after some silence said, “If the truth were told, there's a great deal of debt on this property,—more than any one suspects.”
“The Captain's encumbrances?” asked Merl, eagerly.
“His grandfather's and his great-grandfather's! As for the present man, they say that he's tied up some way not to sell, except for the sake of redeeming some of the mortgages. But who knows what is true and what is false about all this?”
Merl was silent; grave fears were crossing his mind how far his claims were valid; and terrible misgivings shot across him lest the Captain might have been paying him with valueless securities.
“I gather from what you say,” said he, at last, “that it would be rather difficult to make out a title for any purchaser of this estate.”
“Don't be afraid of that, sir. They'll make you out a fair title.”
“I tell you again, I'd not take it as a present,” said Merl, half angrily.
“I see,” said Crow, nodding his head sententiously. And then fixing his eyes steadily on him, he said, “You are a mortgagee.”
Merl reddened,—partly anger, partly shame. Indeed, the feeling that such a capacity as Mr. Crow's should have pushed him hard, was anything but complimentary to his self-esteem.
“I don't want to pry into any man's affairs,” said Crow, easily. “Heaven knows it's mighty little matter to Simmy Crow who lives in the big house there. I 'd rather, if I had my choice, be able to walk the wood with my sketch-book and brushes than be the richest man that ever was heartsore with the cares of wealth.”
“And if a friend—a sincere, well-wishing friend—were to bind himself that you should enjoy this same happiness you speak of, Mr. Crow, what would you do in return?”
“Anything he asked me,—anything, at least, that a fair man could ask, and an honest one could do.”
“There's my hand on it, then,” said Merl. “It's a bargain.”
“Ay, but let us hear the conditions,” said Crow. “What could I possibly serve you in, that would be worth this price?”
“Simply this: that you'll answer all my inquiries, so far as you know about this estate; and where your knowledge fails, that you'll endeavor to obtain the information for me.”
“Maybe I could tell you nothing at all—or next to nothing,” said Crow. “Just ask me, now, what's the kind of question you 'd put; for, to tell truth, I 'm not over bright or clever,—the best of me is when I've a canvas before me.”
Merl peered stealthily at the speaker over the great folds of the shawl that enveloped his throat; he was not without his misgivings that the artist was a “deep fellow,” assuming a manner of simplicity to draw him into a confidence. “And yet,” he thought, “had he really been shrewd and cunning, he 'd never have blurted out his suspicion as to my being a mortgagee. Besides,” said he to himself, “there, and with that fact, must end all his knowledge of me.” “You can dine with me to-day, Mr. Crow, can't you?”
“I 'm engaged to the stranger in No. 4,—the man I'm making the drawings for.”
“But you could get off. You could ask him to excuse you by saying that something of importance required you elsewhere?”
“And dine in the room underneath?” asked Crow, with a comical look of distress at this suggestion.
“Well, let us go somewhere else. Is there no other inn in the neighborhood?”
“There's a small public-house near the gate of Cro' Martin, to be sure.”
“Then we'll dine there. I'll order a chaise at four o'clock, and we 'll drive over together. And now, I 'll just return to the house, for this wading here is not much to my taste.”
Mr. Merl returned gloomily to the house, his mind too deeply occupied with his own immediate interests to bestow any thought upon Mary Martin. The weather assuredly offered but little inducement to linger out of doors, for, as the morning wore on, the rain and wind increased in violence, while vast masses of mist swept over the sea and were carried on shore, leaving only, at intervals, little patches of the village to be seen,—dreary, storm-beaten, and desolate! Merl shuddered, as he cast one last look at this sad-colored picture, and entered the inn.
Has it ever been your ill-fortune, good reader, to find yourself alone in some dreary, unfrequented spot, the weather-bound denizen of a sorry inn, without books or newspapers, thrown upon the resources of your own thoughts, so sure to take their color from the dreary scene around them? It is a trying ordeal for the best of tempers. Your man of business chafes and frets against the inactivity; your man of leisure sorrows over monotony that makes idleness a penalty. He whose thoroughfare in life is the pursuit of wealth thinks of all those more fortunate than himself then hurrying on to gain, while he who is the mark of the world's flatteries and attentions laments over the dismal desolation of an uncompanionable existence.
If Mr. Merl did not exactly occupy any one of these categories, he fancied, at least, that he oscillated amidst them all. It was, indeed, his good pleasure to imagine himself a “man upon town,” who played a little, discounted a little, dealt a little in old pictures, old china, old cabinets, and old plate, but all for mere pastime,—something, as he would say, “to give him an interest in it;” and there, certainly, he was right. Nothing so surely imparted an “interest” in Mr. Merl's eyes as having an investment. Objects of art, the greatest triumphs of genius, landscape the richest eye ever ranged over, political events that would have awakened a sense of patriotism in the dullest and coldest, all came before him as simple questions of profit and loss.
If he was not actually a philosopher, some of his views of life were characterized by great shrewdness. He had remarked, for instance, that the changeful fashions of the world are ever alternating; and that not only dress and costume and social customs undergo mutations, but that objects of positive sterling value are liable to the same wayward influences. We are all modern to-day, to-morrow we may be “Louis Quatorze,” the next day “Cinque Centi” in our tastes. Now we are mad after Italian art, yesterday the Dutch school was in vogue. Our galleries, our libraries, our houses, our gardens, all feel the caprices of these passing moods. There was but one thing that Mr. Merl had perceived never changed, and that was the estimation men felt for money. Religions might decay, and states crumble, thrones totter, and kings be exiled, Cuyps might be depreciated and marquetry be held in mean esteem; but gold was always within a fraction at least of four pounds eleven shillings the ounce!
He remarked, too, that men gradually grow tired of almost everything; the pursuits of the young are not those of the middle-aged, still less of advanced life. The books which we once cried over are now thrown down with languor; the society we imagined perfection we now smile at for its very absurdities. We see vulgarity where we once beheld vigor; we detect exaggeration where we used to attribute power. There is only one theme of which our estimation never varies,—wealth! Mr. Merl had never yet met the man nor the woman who really despised it; nay, he had seen kings trafficking on 'Change. He had known great ministers deep speculators on the Bourse; valiant admirals, distinguished generals, learned judges, and even divines, had bought and sold with him, all eager in the pursuit of gain, and all employing, to the best of their ability, the high faculties of their intelligence to assist them in making crafty bargains.
If these experiences taught him the universal veneration men feel for wealth, they also conveyed another lesson, which was, the extreme gullibility of mankind. He met every day men who ruled cabinets and commanded fleets,—the reputed great of the earth,—and saw them easier victims in his hand than the commonest capacity in “Leadenhall Street.” They had the earliest information, but could not profit by it; they never understood the temper on 'Change, knew nothing of the variations of the money-barometer, and invariably fell into snares that your city man never incurred. Hence Mr. Merl came to conceive a very low general opinion of what he himself called “the swells,” and a very high one of Herman Merl.
If we have dwelt upon these traits of this interesting individual in this place, it is simply to place before our reader's mind the kind of lucubrations such a man might be disposed to indulge in. In fact, story-tellers like ourselves have very little pretension to go beyond the narrow limit; and having given to the reader the traits of a character, they must leave their secret working more or less to his ingenuity. So much, however, we are at liberty to declare, that Mr. Merl was terribly bored, and made no scruple of confessing it.
“What the deuce are you staring at? Is there anything really to be seen in that confounded dreary sea?” cried he, as Crow stood shading his eyes from the lightning flashes, and intently gazing on the scene without.
“That's one of the effects Backhuysen was so fond of!” exclaimed Crow, eagerly,—“a sullen sea, lead-colored and cold, with a white curl just crisping the top of the waves, over it a dreary expanse of dark sky, low-lying and black, till you come near the horizon, where there is a faint line of grayish white, just enough to show that you are on the wide, wide ocean, out of sight of land, and nothing living near, except that solitary sea-gull perched upon the breakers there. There's real poetry in a bit like that; it sets one a thinking over the desolation of those whose life is little better than a voyage on such a sea!”
“Better be drowned at once,” broke in Merl, impatiently.
Crow started and looked at him; and had Merl but seen that glance, so scornful and contemptuous was it, even his self-esteem might have felt outraged. But he had not remarked it; and as little did he guess what was then passing in the poor artist's mind, as Crow muttered to himself, “I know one that will not be your guest to-day, if he dines on a cold potato, or does n't dine at all.”
“Did I tell you,” cried he, suddenly, “that there's no horses to be had?”
“No horses!” exclaimed Merl; “how so?”
“There's a great trial going on at the assizes to-day, and Mr. Barry is gone on to Oughterard to hear it, and he has the only pair of posters in the place.”
“What a confounded hole!” burst out Merl, passionately. “That I ever should have set my foot in it! How are we to get through the day here? Have you thought of anything to be done?”
“I'll go down and find out how poor Landy is,” said Crow; “for Miss Mary's horse is still at the door, and he must be very bad, indeed, or she wouldn't delay so long.”
“And what if it should turn out the cholera, or typhus, or something as bad?”
“Well?” said Crow, interrogatively; for he could not guess the drift of the suggestion.
“Simply this, my worthy friend,” resumed Merl,—“that I have no fancy for the pleasure of your company at dinner after such an excursion as you speak of.”
“I was just going to say that myself,” said Crow. “Good-bye!” And before Merl could interpose a word, he was gone.
Our last chapter left Mr. Herman Merl in bad company,—he was alone. Now, very few men's thoughts are companionable in the dreary solitude of a sorry inn. None of us, it is to be feared, are totally exempt from “this world's crosses;” and though the sorrows of life do fall very unequally, the light afflictions are accepted as very heavy burdens by those to whose lot they fall!
Just as it happens, then, on some gloomy day of winter, when we have “finished our book,” and the newspapers are tiresome, we take the opportunity to look through our letters and papers,—to arrange our desk, and put a little order in our scattered and littered memoranda,—somewhat in the same spirit will Conscience grasp a similar moment to go over the past, glance at bygone events, and make, as it were, a clearance of whatever weighs upon our memory. I 'm not quite certain that the best of us come out of this Bankruptcy Court with a first-class certificate. Even the most merciful to his own errors will acknowledge that in many things he should do differently were they to be done over again; and he must, indeed, have fallen upon a happy lot in life who has not some self-reproach on the score of kindness unrequited,—slight injuries either unforgiven or unequally avenged,—friendships jeopardized, mayhap lost, by some mere indulgence of temper,—and enmities unreconciled, just for lack of the veriest sacrifice of self-love.
Were there any such court in morals as in law, what a sad spectacle would our schedule show, and how poor even the most solvent amongst us, if called on for a list of his liabilities!
Lest our moralizing should grow uncomfortable, dear reader, let us return to Mr. Merl, now occupied, as he was, in this same process of self-examination. He sat with a little note-book before him, recalling various incidents of the past. And if the lowering expression of his face might be trusted, his reveries were not rose-colored; and yet, as he turned over the pages, it might be seen that moments of gratulation alternated with the intervals of self-reproach.
“Wednesday, the 10th,” muttered he to himself, “dined at Philippe's—supped with Arkright and Bailey—whist at double Nap. points—won four hundred and ten—might have made it a thousand, but B. flung the cards out of the window in a passion, and had to cease playing.
“Thursday—toothache—stayed at home, and played piquet with myself—discovered two new combinations, in taking in cards—Irving came to see me—won from him twenty pounds his mother had just sent him.
“Friday—a good day's work—walked into Martin for two thousand seven hundred, and took his bill at three months, with promise to renew—dined with Sitwell, and sold him my Perugino for six hundred—cost myself not as many francs—am to have the refusal of all Vanderbrett's cabinets for letting him off his match with Columbine, which, by the way, he was sure to win, as Mope is dead lame.
“Martin again—Saturday—came to have his revenge, but seemed quarrelsome; so I affected an engagement, and declined play.
“Sunday—gave him his revenge, to the tune of twelve hundred in my own favor—'Lansquenet' in the evening at his rooms—several swells present—thought it prudent to drop some tin, and so, lost one hundred and forty Naps.—Sir Giles Bruce the chief winner—rich, and within two months of being of age.
“Monday—the Perugino returned as a bad copy by Fava—took it at once, and said I was taken in myself—Sitwell so pleased that he sat down to écarté, and lost two hundred to me. I dine with him to-morrow.
“Tuesday—blank—dinner at Sitwell's—met Colonel Cardie, whom I saw at Hombourg, and so refused to play. It was, I suspect, a plan of Sitwell's to pit us against each other.
“Wednesday—sold out my African at seventy-one and an eighth—realized well, and bought in Poyais, which will rise for at least ten days to come—took Canchard's château at Ghent for his old debt at écarté—don't like it, as it may be talked about.
“Gave a dinner to Wilson, Morris, Leader, Whyte, and Martin—Lescour could n't come—played little whist afterwards—changed for hazard after supper—won a few Naps., and home to bed.
“Took Rigby's curricle and horses for the two hundred he owes me—glad to have done with him—he evidently wanted a row—and so play with him no more.
“Sent ten Naps, to the fund for the poor injured by the late inundations, as the police called to ask about my passport, &c.
“Saturday—the Curé of St. Rochette, to ask for alms—gave three hundred francs, and secured his services against the police—the curé mentions some curious drawings in the sacristy—promised to go and see them.
“Bought Walrond's library for a franc a volume—the Elzevirs alone worth double the amount paid—Bailey bolted, and so lose his last bills—Martin quarrelsome—said he never yet won at any sitting with me—lost seventy to him, and sent him home satisfied.
“Gave five hundred francs for the drawings at St. R———, abominable daubs; but the police grow more troublesome every day—besides, Crowthorpe is collecting early studies of Rembrandt—these sketches are marked R.
“A great evening—cleared Martin out—suspect that this night's work makes me an Irish estated gentleman—must obtain legal opinion as to these same Irish securities and post-obits, involving, as they do, a heavy sum.”
Mr. Merl paused at this entrée in his diary, and began to reflect in no very gratulatory mood on the little progress he had as yet made in this same object of inquiry; in fact, he was just discovering what a vast number of more shrewd observers than himself have long since found out, that exploring in Ireland is rather tough work. Everything looks so easy and simple and plain upon the surface, and yet is so puzteling and complicated beneath; all seems so intelligible, where there is nothing in reality that is not a contradiction. It is true he was not harassing himself with problems of labor and wages, the condition of the people, the effects of emigration, and so forth. He wanted to ascertain some few facts as to the value of a certain estate, and what incumbrances it might be charged with; and to the questions he put on this head, every reply was an insinuated interrogatory to himself. “Why are you here, Mr. Merl?” “How does it concern you?” “What may be your interest in the same investigation?” This peculiar dialectic met him as he landed; it followed him to the West. Scanlan, the landlord, even that poor simpleton the painter—as he called Crow—had submitted him to its harsh rule, till Mr. Merl felt that, instead of pursuing an examination, he was himself everlastingly in the witness-box.
Wearied of these speculations, dissatisfied with himself and his fruitless journey, he summoned the landlord to ask if that “old gent” above stairs had not a book of some kind, or a newspaper, he could lend him. A ragged urchin speedily returned with a key in his hand, saying, “That's the key of No. 4. Joe says you may go up and search for yourself.”
One more scrupulous might not exactly have fancied the office thus suggested to him. He, however, was rather pleased with the investigation, and having satisfied himself that the mission was safe, set forth to fulfil it. No. 4, as the stranger's room was called, was a large and lofty chamber, lighted by a single bay-window, the deep recess of which was occupied by a writing-table. Books, maps, letters, and drawings littered every part of the room. Costly weapons, too, such as richly chased daggers and inlaid pistols, lay carelessly about, with curiously shaped pipes and gold-embroidered tobacco-bags; a richly lined fur pelisse covered the sofa, and a skull-cap of the very finest sable lay beside it. All these were signs of affluence and comfort, and Mr. Merl pondered over them as he went from place to place, tossing over one thing after another, and losing himself in wild conjectures about the owner.
The writing-table, we have said, was thickly strewn with letters, and to these he now addressed himself in all form, taking his seat comfortably for the investigation. Many of the letters were in foreign languages, and from remote and far-away lands. Some he was enabled to spell out, but they referred to places and events he had never heard of, and were filled with allusions he could not fathom. At length, however, he came to documents which interested him more closely. They were notes, most probably in the stranger's own hand, of his late tour along the coast. Mournful records were they all,—sad stories of destitution and want, a whole people struck down by famine and sickness, and a land perishing in utter misery. No personal narrative broke the dreary monotony of these gloomy records, and Merl searched in vain for what might give a clew to the writer's station or his object. Carefully drawn-up statistics, tables of the varying results of emigration, notes upon the tenure of land and the price of labor were all there, interspersed with replies from different quarters to researches of the writer's making. Numerous appeals to charity, entreaties for small loans of money, were mingled with grateful acknowledgments for benefits already received. There was much, had he been so minded, that Mr. Merl might have learned in this same unauthorized inquiry. There were abundant traits of the people displayed, strange insight into customs and ways peculiar to them, accurate knowledge, too, of the evils of their social condition; and, above all, there were the evidences of that curious compound of credulity and distrust, hope and fatalism, energy and inertness, which make up the Irish nature.
He threw these aside, however, as themes that had no interest for him. What had he to do with the people? His care was with the soil, and less even with it than with its burdens and incumbrances. One conviction certainly did impress itself strongly upon him,—that he 'd part with his claims on the estate for almost anything, in preference to himself assuming the cares and duties of an Irish landlord,—a position which he summed up by muttering to himself, “is simply to have so many acres of bad land, with the charge of feeding so many thousands of bad people.” Here were suggestions, it is true, how to make them better, coupled with details that showed the writer to be one well acquainted with the difficulties of his task; here, also, were dark catalogues of crime, showing how destitution and vice went hand in hand, and that the seasons of suffering were those of lawlessness and violence. Various hands were detectable in these documents. Some evinced the easy style and graceful penmanship of education; others were written in the gnarled hand of the daily, laborer. Many of these were interlined in what Merl soon detected to be the stranger's own handwriting; and brief as such remarks were, they sufficed to show how carefully their contents had been studied by him.
“What could be the object of all this research? Was he some emissary of the Government, sent expressly to obtain this knowledge? Was he employed by some section of party politicians, or was he one of those literary philanthropists who trade upon the cheap luxury of pitying the poor and detailing their sorrows? At all events,” thought Mr. Merl, “this same information seems to have cost him considerable research, and not a little money; and as I am under a pledge to give the Captain some account of his dear country, here is a capital opportunity to do so, not only with ease, but actually with honor.” And having formed this resolve, he instantly proceeded to its execution. That wonderful little note-book, with its strong silver clasps, so full of strange and curious information, was now produced; but he soon saw that the various facts to be recorded demanded a wider space, and so he set himself to write down on a loose sheet of paper notices of the land in tillage or in pasture, the numerical condition of the people as compared with former years, their state, their prospects; but when he came to tell of the ravages made and still making by pestilence amongst them, he actually stopped to reread the records, so terrible and astounding were the facts narrated. A dreadful malady walked the land, and its victims lay in every house! The villages were depopulated, the little clusters of houses at cross roads were stricken, the lone shealing on the mountain side, the miserable cottage of the dreary moor, were each the scenes of desolation and death. It was as though the land were about to be devastated, and the race of man swept from its surface! As he read on, he came upon some strictures in the stranger's own hand upon these sad events, and perceived how terribly had the deserted, neglected state of the people aided the fatal course of the epidemic. No hospitals had been provided, no stores of any remedial kind, not a doctor for miles around, save an old physician who had been retained at Miss Martin's special charge, and who was himself nigh exhausted by the fatigue of his office.
Mr. Merl laid down his pen to think,—not, indeed, in any compassionate spirit of that suffering people; his sorrows were not for those who lay on beds of want and sickness; his whole anxiety was for a certain person very dear to his own heart, who had rashly accepted securities on a property which, to all seeming, was verging upon ruin; this conviction being strongly impressed by the lawless state of the country, and the hopelessness of expecting payment from a tenantry so circumstanced.
“Sympathy, indeed!” cried he; “I should like to hear of a little sympathy for the unlucky fellow who has accepted a mortgage on this confounded estate! These wretched creatures have little to lose,—and even death itself ought to be no unwelcome relief to a life like theirs,—but to a man such as I am, with abundance of projects for his spare cash, this is a pretty investment! It is not impossible that this philanthropic stranger, whoever he be, might buy up my bonds. He should have them a bargain,—ay, by Jove! I'd take off a jolly percentage to touch the 'ready;' and who knows, what with all his benevolence, his charity, and his Christian kindliness, if he 'd not come down handsomely to rescue this unhappy people from the hands of a Jew!”
And Mr. Merl laughed pleasantly, for the conceit amused him, and it sounded gratefully to his imagination that even his faith could be put out to interest, and the tabernacle be turned to good account. The noise of a chaise approaching at a sharp trot along the shingly beach startled him from his musings, and he had barely time to snatch up the paper on which he had scrawled his notes, and hasten downstairs, when the obsequious landlord, rushing to the door, ushered in Mr. Barry, and welcomed him back again.
Merl suffered his door to stand ajar, that he might take a look at the stranger as he passed. He was a very large, powerfully built man, somewhat stooped by age, but showing even in advanced years signs of a vigorous frame and stout constitution; his head was massive, and covered with snow-white hair, which descended on the back of his neck. His countenance must in youth have been handsome, and even yet bore the expression of a frank, generous, but somewhat impetuous nature,—so at least it struck him who now observed it; a character not improbably aided by his temper as he entered, for he had returned from scenes of misery and suffering, and was in a mood of indignation at the neglect he had just witnessed.
“You said truly,” said he to the landlord. “You told me I shouldn't see a gentleman for twenty miles round; that all had fled and left the people to their fate, and I see now it is a fact.”
“Faix, and no wonder,” answered the host. “Wet potatoes and the shaking ague, not to speak of cholera morbus, is n't great inducements to stay and keep company with. I 'd be off, too, if I had the means.”
“But I spoke of gentlemen, sir,” said the stranger, with a strong emphasis on the word,—“men who should be the first to prove their birth and blood when a season of peril was near.”
“Thrue for you, sir,” chimed in Joe, who suddenly detected the blunder he had committed. “The Martins ought not to have run away in the middle of our distress.”
“They left the ship in a storm; they 'll find a sorry wreck when they return to it,” muttered the stranger, as he ascended the stairs.
“By Jacob! just what I suspected,” said Merl to himself, while he closed the door; “this property won't be worth sixpence, and I am regularly 'done.'”