“What card is this?—who left it?” said Mary, as she took up one from her breakfast-table.
“It is a gentleman that came to the inn late last night, miss, and sent a boy over to ask when he could pay his respects at the castle.”
“'Mr. Herman Merl,'—a name I never heard of,” muttered Mary to herself. “Doubtless some stranger wishing to see the house. Say, whenever he pleases, George; and order Sorrel to be ready, saddled and at the door, within an hour. This must be a busy day,” said she, still speaking to herself, as the servant left the room. “At Oughterard before one; a meeting of the Loan Fund—I shall need some aid for my hospital; the Government order for the meal to be countersigned by a justice—Mr. Nelligan will do it. Then there 's Taite's little boy to be balloted for in the Orphan House; and Cassidy's son to be sent up to Dublin. Poor fellow, he has a terrible operation to go through. And I shall need Priest Rafferty's name to this memorial from the widows; the castle authorities seem to require it. After that, a visit to Kyle-a-Noe, to see all my poor sick folk: that will be a long business. I hope I may be able to get down to the shore and learn some tidings of poor Joan. She never leaves my thoughts, and yet I feel that no ill has befallen her.”
“The gentleman that sent the card, miss, is below stairs. He is with Mr. Crow, at the hall-door,” said George.
“Show him into the drawing-room, George, and tell Mr. Crow to come here, I wish to speak to him.” And before Mary had put away the papers and letters which littered the table, the artist entered.
“Good morning, Mr. Crow,” said Mary, in return for a number of most courteous salutations, which he was performing in a small semicircle in front of her. “Who is your friend Mr.—'Mr. Herman Merl '?” read she, taking up the card.
“A friend of your cousin's, Miss Mary,—of the Captain's. He brought a letter from him; but he gave it to Scanlan, and somehow Mr. Maurice, I believe, forgot to deliver it.”
“I have no recollection of it,” said she, still assorting the papers before her. “What is this visit meant for,—curiosity, pleasure, business? Does he wish to see the house?”
“I think it's Miss Martin herself he'd like to see,” said Crow, half slyly.
“But why so? It's quite clear that I cannot show him any attentions. A young girl, living as I do here, cannot be expected to receive guests. Besides, I have other things to attend to. You must do the honors of Cro' Martin, Mr. Crow. You must entertain this gentleman for me. I 'll order luncheon before I go out, and I 'm sure you 'll not refuse me this service.”
“I wish I knew a real service to render you, Miss Mary,” said he, with unfeigned devotedness in his look as he spoke.
“I think I could promise myself as much,” said Mary, smiling kindly on him. “Do you happen to know anything of this stranger, Mr. Crow?”
“Nothing, miss, beyond seeing him this week back at Kilkieran.”
“Oh, I have heard of him, then,” broke in Mary. “It is of him the people tell me such stories of benevolence and goodness. It was he that sent the yawl out to Murran Island with oatmeal and potatoes for the poor. But I thought they called him Mr. Barry?”
“To be sure they do; and he's another guess man from him below stairs. This one here”—Mr. Crow now spoke in a whisper—“this one here is a Jew, I 'd take the Testament on it, and I 'd not be surprised if he was one of them thieving villains that they say robbed the Captain! All the questions he does be asking about the property, and the rents, if they 're well paid, and what arrears there are, shows me that he isn't here for nothing.”
“I know nothing of what you allude to, Mr. Crow,” said she, half proudly; “it would ill become me to pry into my cousin's affairs. At the same time, if the gentleman has no actual business with me, I shall decline to receive him.”
“He says he has, miss,” replied Crow. “He says that he wants to speak to you about a letter he got by yesterday's post from the Captain.”
Mary heard this announcement with evident impatience; her head was, indeed, too full of other cares to wish to occupy her attention with a ceremonial visit. She was in no mood to accept the unmeaning compliments of a new acquaintance. Shall we dare to insinuate, what after all is a mere suspicion on our part, that a casual glance at her pale cheeks, sunken eyes, and careworn features had some share in the obstinacy of her refusal? She was not, indeed, “in looks,” and she knew it. “Must I repeat it, Mr. Crow,” said she, peevishly, “that you can do all this for me, and save me a world of trouble and inconvenience besides? If there should be—a very unlikely circumstance—anything confidential to communicate, this gentleman may write it.” And with this she left the room, leaving poor Mr. Crow in a state of considerable embarrassment. Resolving to make the best of his difficulty, he returned to the drawing-room, and apologizing to Merl for Miss Martin's absence on matters of great necessity, he conveyed her request that he would stop for luncheon.
“She ain't afraid of me, I hope?” said Merl.
“I trust not. I rather suspect she is little subject to fear upon any score,” replied Crow.
“Well, I must say it's not exactly what I expected. The letter I hold here from the Captain gives me to understand that his cousin will not only receive me, but confer with and counsel me, too, in a somewhat important affair.”
“Oh, I forgot,” broke in Crow; “you are to write to her, she said,—that is, if there really were anything of consequence, which you deemed confidential, you know,—you were to write to her.”
“I never put my hand to paper, Mr. Crow, without well knowing why. When Herman Merl signs anything, he takes time to consider what's in it,” said the Jew, knowingly.
“Well, shall I show you the house,—there are some clever specimens of the Dutch masters here?” asked Crow, anxious to change the topic.
“Ay, with all my heart. I suppose I must accept this privilege as my experience of the much-boasted Irish hospitality,” said he with a sneer, which required all Crow's self-control to resist answering. To master the temptation, and give himself a few moments' repose, he went about opening windows and drawing back curtains, so as to admit a fuller and stronger light upon the pictures along the walls.
“There now,” said he, pointing to a large landscape, “there's a Both, and a fine one too; as mellow in color and as soft in distance as ever he painted.”
“That's a copy,” said the other. “That picture was painted by Woeffel, and I 'll show you his initials, too, A. W., before we leave it.”
“It came from the Dordrecht gallery, and is an undoubted Both!” exclaimed Crow, angrily.
“I saw it there myself, and in very suitable company, too, with a Snyders on one side and a Rubens on t' other, the Snyders being a Faltk, and the Rubens a Metziger; the whole three being positively dear at twenty pounds. Ay, here it is,” continued he, pointing to the hollow trunk of a decayed tree: “there's the initials. So much for your original by Both.”
“I hope you'll allow that to be a Mieris?” said Crow, passing on to another.
“If you hadn't opened the shutters, perhaps I might,” said Merl; “but with a good dash of light I see it is by Jansens,—and a clever copy, too.”
“A copy!” exclaimed the other.
“A good copy,” I said. “The King of Bavaria has the original. It is in the small collection at Hohen Schwangau.”
“There, that's good!” cried he, turning to a small unfinished sketch in oils.
“I often wondered who did it,” cried Crow.
“That! Why, can you doubt, sir? That's a bit of Vandyke's own. It was one of the hundred and fifty rough things he threw off as studies for his great picture of St. Martin parting his cloak.”
“I'm glad to hear you say so,” said Crow, in delight. “I felt, when I looked at it, that it was a great hand threw in them colors.”
“You call this a Salvator Rosa, don't you?” said Merl, as he stood before a large piece representing a bandit's bivouac in a forest, with a pale moonlight stealing through the trees.
“Yes, that we do,” said Crow, stoutly.
“Of course, it's quite sufficient to have blended lights, rugged foregrounds, and plenty of action to make a Salvator; but let me tell you, sir, that it's not even a copy of him. It is a bad—ay, and a very bad—Haemlens,—an Antwerp fellow that lived by poor facsimiles.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” cried Crow, despairingly. “Did I ever hear the like of this!”
“Are these your best things, Mr. Crow?” said Merl, surveying the room with an air of consummate depreciation.
“There are others. There are some portraits and a number of small cabinet pictures.”
“Gerard Dows, and Jansens, and such like?” resumed Merl; “I understand: a mellow brown tint makes them, just as a glossy white satin petticoat makes a Terburg. Mr. Crow, you 've caught a Tartar,” said he, with a grin. “There's not a man in Europe can detect a copy from the original sooner than him before you. Now seven out of every eight of these here are veritable 'croûtes,'—what we call 'croûtes,' sir,—things sold at Christie's, and sent off to the Continent to be hung up in old châteaux in Flanders, or dilapidated villas in Italy, where your exploring Englishman discovers them by rare good luck, and brings them home with him as Cuyps or Claudes or Vandykes. I'll undertake,” said he, looking around him,—“I'll undertake to furnish you with a gallery, in every respect the duplicate of this, for—let me see—say three hundred pounds. Now, Mr. Crow,” said Merl, taking a chair, and spreading out his legs before the fire, “will you candidly answer me one question?”
“Tell me what it is,” said Crow, cautiously.
“I suppose by this time,” said Merl, “you are tolerably well satisfied that Herman Merl is not very easily duped? I mean to say that at least there are softer fellows to be found than the humble individual who addresses you.”
“I trust there are, indeed,” said the other, sighing, “or it would be a mighty poor world for Simmy Crow and the likes of him.”
“Well, I think so too,” said Merl, chuckling to himself. “The wide-awake ones have rather the best of it. But, to come back to my question, I was simply going to ask you if the whole of the Martin estate—house, demesne, woods, gardens, quarries, farms, and fisheries—was not pretty much of the same sort of thing as this here gallery?”
“How? What do you mean?” asked Crow, whose temper was barely, and with some difficulty, restrainable.
“I mean, in plain words, a regular humbug,—that's all! and no more the representative of real value than these daubs here are the works of the great masters whose names they counterfeit.”
“Look here, sir,” said Crow, rising, and approaching the other with a face of angry indignation, “for aught I know, you may be right about these pictures. The chances are you are a dealer in such wares,—at least you talk like one,—but of the family that lived under this roof, and whose bread I have eaten for many a day, if you utter one word that even borders on disrespect,—if you as much as hint at—”
What was to be the conclusion of Mr. Crow's menace we have no means of recording, for a servant, rushing in at the instant, summoned the artist with all speed to Miss Martin's presence. He found her, as he entered, with flushed cheeks and eyes flashing angrily, in one of the deep recesses of a window that looked out upon the lawn.
“Come here, sir,” cried she, hurriedly,—“come here, and behold a sight such as you scarcely ever thought to look upon from these windows. Look here!” And she pointed to an assemblage of about a hundred people, many of whom were rudely armed with stakes, gathered around the chief entrance of the castle. In the midst was a tall man, mounted upon a wretched horse, who seemed from his gestures to be haranguing the mob, and whom Crow speedily recognized to be Magennis of Barnagheela.
“What does all this mean?” asked he, in astonishment.
“It means this, sir,” said she, grasping his arm and speaking in a voice thick from passionate eagerness. “That these people whom you see there have demanded the right to enter the house and search it from basement to roof. They are in quest of one that is missing; and although I have given my word of honor that none such is concealed here, they have dared to disbelieve me, and declare they will see for themselves. They might know me better,” added she, with a bitter smile,—“they might know me better, and that I no more utter a falsehood than I yield to a menace. See!” exclaimed she, “they are passing through the flower-garden,—they are approaching the lower windows. Take a horse, Mr. Crow, and ride for Kiltimmon; there is a police-station there,—bring up the force with you,—lose no time, I entreat you.”
“But how—leave you here all alone?”
“Have no fears on that score, sir,” said she, proudly; “they may insult the roof that shelters me, to myself they will offer no outrage. But be quick; away at once, and with speed!”
Had Mr. Crow been, what it must be owned had been difficult, a worse horseman than he was, he would never have hesitated to obey this behest. Ere many minutes, therefore, he was in the saddle and flying across country at a pace such as he never imagined any energy could have exacted from him.
“They have got a ladder up to the windows of the large drawing-room, Miss Mary,” said a servant; “they'll be in before many minutes.”
Taking down two splendidly ornamented pistols from above the chimney-piece, Mary examined the priming, and ordering the servant away, she descended by a small private stair to the drawing-room beneath. Scarcely, however, had she crossed the threshold than she was met by a man eagerly hurrying away. Stepping back in astonishment, and with a face pale as death, he exclaimed, “Is it Miss Martin?”
“Yes, sir,” replied she, firmly; “and your name?”
“Mr. Merl—Herman Merl,” said he, with a stealthy glance towards the windows, on the outside of which two fellows were now seated, communicating with those below.
“This is not a moment for much ceremony, sir,” said she, promptly; “but you are here opportunely. These people will have it that I am harboring here one that they are in pursuit of. I have assured them of their error, I have pledged my word of honor upon it, but they are not satisfied. They declare that they will search the house, and I as firmly declare they-shall not.”
“But the person is really not here?” broke in Merl.
“I have said so, sir,” rejoined she, haughtily.
“Then why not let them search? Egad, I'd say, look away to your heart's content, pry into every hole and corner you please, only don't do any mischief to the furniture—don't let any—”
“I was about to ask your assistance, sir, but your counsel saves me from the false step. To one who proffers such wise advice, arguments like these”—and she pointed to the pistols—“arguments like these would be most distasteful; and yet let us see if others may not be of your mind too.” And steadily aiming her weapon for a second or two, she sent a ball through the window, about a foot above the head of one of the fellows without. Scarcely had the report rung out and the splintering glass fallen, than the two men leaped to the ground, while a wild cheer, half derision, half anger, burst from the mob beneath. “Now, sir,” continued she, with a smile of a very peculiar meaning, as she turned towards Merl,—“now, sir, you will perceive that you have got into very indiscreet company, such as I 'm sure Captain Martin's letter never prepared you for; and although it is not exactly in accordance with the usual notions of Irish hospitality to point to the door, perhaps you will be grateful to me when I say that you can escape by that corridor. It leads to a stair which will conduct you to the stable-yard. I'll order a saddle-horse for you. I suppose you ride?” And really the glance which accompanied these words was not a flattery.
However the proposition might have met Mr.' Merl's wishes there is no means of knowing, for a tremendous crash now interrupted the colloquy, and the same instant the door of the drawing-room was burst open, and Magennis, followed by a number of country people, entered.
“I told you,” cried he, rudely, “that I'd not be denied. It's your own fault if you would drive me to enter here by force.”
“Well, sir, force has done it,” said she, taking a seat as she spoke. “I am here alone, and you may be proud of the achievement!” The glance she directed towards Merl made that gentleman shrink back, and eventually slide noiselessly from the room, and escape from the scene altogether.
“If you'll send any one with me through the house, Miss Martin,” began Magennis, in a tone of much subdued meaning—“No, sir,” broke she in—“no, sir, I'll give no such order. You have already had my solemn word of honor, assuring you that there was not any one concealed here. The same incredulous disrespect you have shown to my word would accompany whatever direction I gave to my servants. Go wherever you please; for the time you are the master here. Mark me, sir,” said she, as, half crestfallen and in evident shame, he was about to move from the room—“mark me, sir, if I feel sorry that one who calls himself a gentleman should dishonor his station by discrediting the word, the plighted word, of a lady, yet I can forgive much to him whose feelings are under the impulse of passion. But how shall I speak my contempt for you,”—and she turned a withering look of scorn on the men who followed him,—“for you, who have dared to come here to insult me,—I, that if you had the least spark of honest manhood in your natures, you had died rather than have offended? Is this your requital for the part I have borne amongst you? Is it thus that you repay the devotion by which I have squandered all that I possessed, and would have given my life, too, for you and yours? Is it thus, think you, that your mothers and wives and sisters would requite me? Or will they welcome you back from your day's work, and say, Bravely done? You have insulted a lone girl in her home, outraged the roof whence she never issued save to serve you, and taught her to believe that the taunts your enemies cast upon you, and which she once took as personal affronts to herself, that they are just and true, and as less than you merited. Go back, men,” added she, in a voice trembling with emotion,—“go back, while it is time. Go back in shame, and let me never know who has dared to offer me this insult!” And she hid her face between her hands, and bent down her head upon her lap. For several minutes she remained thus, overwhelmed and absorbed by intensely painful emotion, and when she lifted up her head, and looked around, they were gone! A solemn silence reigned on every side; not a word, nor a footfall, could be heard. She rushed to the window just in time to see a number of men slowly entering the wood, amidst whom she recognized Magennis, leading his horse by the bridle, and following the others, with bent-down head and sorrowful mien.
“Oh, thank Heaven for this!” cried she, passionately, as the tears gushed out and coursed down her face. “Thank Heaven that they are not as others call them—cold-hearted and treacherous, craven in their hour of trial, and cruel in the day of their vengeance! I knew them better!” It was long before she could sufficiently subdue her emotion to think calmly of what had occurred. At last she bethought her of Mr. Merl, and despatched a servant in his pursuit, with a polite request that he would return. The man came up with Merl as he had reached the small gate of the park, but no persuasions, no entreaties, could prevail on that gentleman to retrace his steps; nay, he was frank enough to say, “He had seen quite enough of the West,” and to invoke something very unlike benediction on his head if he ever passed another day in Galway.
Never once turning his head towards Cro' Martin, Mr. Merl set out for Oughterard, where, weary and footsore, he arrived that same evening. His first care was to take some refreshment; his next to order horses for Dublin early for the following morning. This done, he sat down to write to Captain Martin, to convey to him what Merl designated as a “piece of his mind,” a phrase which, in popular currency, is always understood to imply the very reverse of any flattery. The truth was, Mr. Merl began to suspect that his Irish liens were a very bad investment, that property in that country was held under something like a double title, the one conferred by law, the other maintained by a resolute spirit and a stout heart; that parchments required to be seconded by pistols, and that he who owned an estate must always hold himself in readiness to fight for it.
Now, these were all very unpalatable considerations. They rendered possession perilous, they made sale almost impossible. In the cant phrase of Ceylon, the Captain had sold him a wild elephant; or, to speak less figuratively, disposed of what he well knew the purchaser could never avail himself of. If Mr. Merl was an emblem of blandness and good temper at the play-table, courteous and conceding at every incident of the game, it was upon the very wise calculation that the politeness was profitable. The little irregularities that he pardoned all gave him an insight into the character of his antagonists; and where he appeared to have lost a battle, he had gained more than a victory in knowledge of the enemy.
These blandishments were, however, no real part of the man's natural temperament, which was eminently distrustful and suspicious, wary to detect a blot, prompt and sharp to hit it. A vague, undefined impression had now come over him that the Captain had overreached him; that even if unincumbered,—which was far from the case,—this same estate was like a forfeited territory, which to own a man must assert his mastery with the strong hand of force. “I should like to see myself settling down amongst those savages,” thought he, “collecting my rents with dragoons, or levying a fine with artillery. Property, indeed! You might as well convey to me by bill of sale the right over a drove of wild buffaloes in South America, or give me a title to a given number of tigers in Bengal. He'd be a bold man that would even venture to come and have a look at 'his own.'”
It was in this spirit, therefore, that he composed his epistle, which assuredly lacked nothing on the score of frankness and candor. All his “Irish impressions” had been unfavorable. He had eaten badly, he had slept worse; the travelling was rude, the climate detestable; and lastly, where he had expected to have been charmed with the ready wit, and amused with the racy humor of the people, he had only been terrified—terrified almost to death—by their wild demeanor, and a ferocity that made his heart quake. “Your cousin,” said he,—“your cousin, whom, by the way, I only saw for a few minutes, seemed admirably adapted to the exigencies of the social state around her; and although ball practice has not been included amongst the ordinary items of young ladies' acquirements, I am satisfied that it might advantageously form part of an Irish education.
“As to your offer of a seat in Parliament, I can only say,” continued he, “that as the Member of Oughterard I should always feel as though I were seated over a barrel of gunpowder; while the very idea of meeting my constituency makes me shudder. I am, however, quite sensible of the honor intended me, both upon that score and in your proposal of my taking up my residence at Cro' Martin. The social elevation, and so forth, to ensue from such a course of proceeding would have this disadvantage,—it would not pay! No, Captain Martin, the settlement between us must stand upon another basis,—the very simple and matter-of-fact one called £ s. d. I shall leave this to-morrow, and be in town, I hope, by Wednesday; you can, therefore, give your man of business, Mr. Saunders, his instructions to meet me at Wimpole's, and state what terms of liquidation he is prepared to offer. Suffice it for the present to say that I decline any arrangement which should transfer to me any portion of the estate. I declare to you, frankly, I'd not accept the whole of it on the condition of retaining the proprietorship.”
When Mr. Merl had just penned the last sentence, the door slowly and cautiously was opened behind him, and a very much carbuncled face protruded into the room. “Yes, that's himself,” muttered a voice; and ere Merl had been able to detect the speaker, the door was closed. These casual interruptions to his privacy had so frequently occurred since the commencement of his tour, that he only included them amongst his other Irish “disagreeables;” and so he was preparing to enter on another paragraph, when a very decisive knock at the door startled him, and before he could say “Come in,” a tall, red-faced, vulgar-looking man, somewhat stooped in the shoulders, and with that blear-eyed watery expression so distinctive in hard drinkers, slowly entered, and shutting the door behind him, advanced to the fire.
“My name, sir, is Brierley,” said he, with a full, rich brogue.
“Brierley—Brierley—never heard of Brierley before,” said Mr. Merl, affecting a flippant ease that was very remote from his heart.
“Better late than never, sir,” rejoined the other, coolly seating himself, and crossing his arms on his breast. “I have come here on the part of my friend Tom,—Mr. Magennis, I mean,—of Barnagheela, who told me to track you out.”
“Much obliged, I'm sure, for the attention,” said Merl, with an assumed smartness.
“That 's all right; so you should,” continued Brierley. “Tom told me that you were present at Cro' Martin when he was outraged and insulted,—by a female of course, or he wouldn't be making a complaint of it now,—and as he is not the man that ever lay under a thing of the kind, or ever will, he sent me here to you, to arrange where you 'd like to have it, and when.”
“To have what?” asked Merl, with a look of unfeigned terror.
“Baythershin! how dull we are!” said Mr. Brierley, with a finger to his very red nose. “Sure it's not thinking of the King's Bench you are, that you want me to speak clearer.”
“I want to know your meaning, sir,—if you have a meaning.”
“Be cool, honey; keep yourself cool. Without you happen to find that warmth raises your heart, I 'd say again, be cool. I've one simple question to ask you,”—here he dropped his voice to a low, cautious whisper,—“Will ye blaze?”
“Will I what?” cried Merl.
Mr. Brierley arose, and drawing himself up to his full height, extended his arm in the attitude of one taking aim with a pistol. “Eh!” cried he, “you comprehend me now, don't you?”
“Fight—fight a duel!” exclaimed Merl, aloud.
“Whisht! whisht! speak lower,” said Brierley; “there's maybe a chap listening at the door this minute!”
Accepting the intimation in a very different spirit from that in which it was offered, Merl rushed to the door, and threw it wide open. “Waiter!—landlord!—house!—waiter!” screamed he, at the top of his voice. And in an instant three or four slovenly-looking fellows, with dirty napkins in dirtier hands, surrounded him.
“What is it, your honer?—what is it?” asked they, in a breath.
“Don't you hear what the gentleman's asking for?” said Brierley, with a half-serious face. “He wants a chaise-to the door as quick as lightning. He 's off this minute.”
“Yes, by Jupiter! that I am,” said Merl, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
“Take your last look at the West, dear, as you pass the Shannon, for I don't think you 'll ever come so far again,” said Brierley, with a grin, as he moved by him to descend the stairs.
“If I do, may—” But the slam of his room-door, and the rattle of the key as he locked it, cut short Mr. Merl's denunciation.
In less than half an hour afterwards a yellow post-chaise left the “Martin Arms” at full speed, a wild yell of insult and derision greeting it as it swept by, showing how the Oughterard public appreciated its inmate!
Most travelled reader, have you ever stood upon the plateau at the foot of the Alten-Schloss in Baden, just before sunset, and seen the golden glory spread out like a sheen over the vast plain beneath you, with waving forests, the meandering Rhine, and the blue Vosges mountains beyond all? It is a noble landscape, where every feature is bold, and throughout which light and shade alternate in broad, effective masses, showing that you are gazing on a scene of great extent, and taking in miles of country with your eye. It is essentially German, too, in its characteristics. The swelling undulations of the soil, the deep, dark forests, the picturesque homesteads, with shadowy eaves and carved quaint balconies, the great gigantic wagons slowly toiling through the narrow lanes, over which the “Lindens” spread a leafy canopy,—all are of the Vaterland.
Some fancied resemblance—it was in reality no more—to a view from a window at Cro' Martin had especially endeared this spot to Martin, who regularly was carried up each evening to pass an hour or so, dreaming away in that half-unconsciousness to which his malady had reduced him. There he sat, scarcely a remnant of his former self, a leaden dulness in his eye, and a massive immobility in the features which once were plastic with every passing mood that stirred him. The clasped hands and slightly bent-down head gave a character of patient, unresisting meaning to his figure, which the few words he dropped from time to time seemed to confirm.
At a little distance off, and on the very verge of the cliff, Kate Henderson was seated sketching; and behind her, occasionally turning to walk up and down the terraced space, was Massingbred, once more in full health, and bearing in appearance the signs of his old, impatient humor. Throwing away his half-smoked cigar, and with a face whose expression betokened the very opposite of all calm and ease of mind, he drew nigh to where she sat, and watched her over her shoulder. For a while she worked away without noticing his presence. At last she turned slightly about, and looking up at him, said, “You see, it's very nearly finished.”
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“Well, and what then?” asked he, bluntly.
“Do you forget that I gave you until that time to change your opinion? that when I was shadowing in this foreground I said, 'Wait 'till I have done this sketch, and see if you be of the same mind,' and you agreed?”
“This might be very pleasant trifling if nothing were at stake, Miss Henderson,” said he; “but remember that I cannot hold all my worldly chances as cheaply as you seem to do them.”
“Light another cigar, and sit down here beside me,—I don't dislike smoke, and it may, perchance, be a peace calumet between us; and let us talk, if possible, reasonably and calmly.”
He obeyed like one who seemed to feel that her word was a command, and sat down on the cliff at her side.
“There, now,” said she, “be useful; hold that color-case for me, and give me your most critical counsel. Do you like my sketch?”
“Very much indeed.”
“Where do you find fault with it? There must be a fault, or your criticism is worth nothing.”
“Its greatest blemish in my eyes is the time it has occupied you. Since you began it you have very rarely condescended to speak of anything else.”
“A most unjust speech, and an ungrateful one. It was when throwing in those trees yonder, I persuaded you to recall your farewell address to your borough friends; it was the same day that I sketched that figure there, that I showed you the great mistake of your present life. There is no greater error, believe me, than supposing that a Parliamentary success, like a social one, can be achieved by mere brilliancy. Party is an army, and you must serve in the ranks before you can wear your epaulets.”
“I have told you already,—I tell you again,—I 'm tired of the theme that has myself alone for its object.”
“Of whom would you speak, then?” said she, still intently busied with her drawing.
“You ask me when you know well of whom,” said he, hurriedly. “Nay, no menaces; I could not if I would be silent. It is impossible for me any longer to continue this struggle with myself. Here now, before I leave this spot, you shall answer me—” He stopped suddenly, as though he had said more than he intended, or more than he well knew how to continue.
“Go on,” said she, calmly. And her fingers never trembled as they held the brush.
“I confess I do envy that tranquil spirit of yours,” said he, bitterly. “It is such a triumph to be calm, cold, and impassive at a moment when others feel their reason tottering and their brain a chaos.”
“There is nothing so easy, sir,” said she, proudly. “All that I can boast of is not to have indulged in illusions which seem to have a charm for you. You say you want explicit-ness. You shall have it. There was one condition on which I offered you my friendship and my advice. You accepted the bargain, and we were friends. After a while you came and said that you rued your compact; that you discovered your feelings for me went further; that mere friendship, as you phrased it, would not suffice—”
“I told you, rather,” broke he in, “that I wished to put that feeling to the last test, by linking your fortune with my own forever.”
“Very well, I accept that version. You offered to make me your wife, and in return, I asked you to retract your words,—to suffer our relations to continue on their old footing, nor subject me to the necessity of an explanation painful to both of us. For a while you consented; now you seem impatient at your concession, and ask me to resume the subject. Be it so, but for the last time.”
Massingbred's cheeks grew deadly pale, but he never uttered a word.
After a second's pause, she resumed: “Your affections are less engaged in this case than you think. You would make me your wife just as you would do anything else that gave a bold defiance to the world, to show a consciousness of your own power, to break down any obstacle, and make the prejudices or opinions of society give way before you. You have energy and self-esteem enough to make this succeed. Your wife—albeit the steward's daughter—the governess! would be received, invited, visited, and the rest of it; and so far as you were concerned the triumph would be complete. Now, however, turn a little attention to the other side of the medal. What is to requite me for all this courtesy on sufferance, all this mockery of consideration? Where am I to find my friendships, where even discover my duties? You only know of one kind of pride, that of station and social eminence. I can tell you there is another, loftier far,—the consciousness that no inequality of position can obliterate, what I feel and know in myself of superiority to those fine ladies whose favorable notice you would entreat for me. Smile at the vanity of this declaration if you like, sir, but, at least, own that I am consistent; for I am prouder in the independence of my present dependence than I should be in all the state of Mr. Massingbred's wife. You can see, therefore, that I could not accept this change as the great elevation you would deem it. You would be stooping to raise one who could never persuade herself that she was exalted. I am well aware that inequality of one sort or another is the condition of most marriages. The rank of one compensates for the wealth of the other. Here it is affluence and age, there it is beauty and poverty. People treat the question in a good commercial spirit, and balance the profit and loss like tradesfolk; but even in this sense our compact would be impossible, since you would endow me with what has no value in my eyes, and I, worse off still, have absolutely nothing to give in return.”
“Give me your love, dearest Kate,” cried he, “and, supported by that, you shall see that I deserve it. Believe me, it is your own proud spirit that exaggerates the difficulties that would await us in society.”
“I should scorn myself if I thought of them,” broke she in, haughtily; “and remember, sir, these are not the words of one who speaks in ignorance. I, too, have seen that great world, on which your affections are so fixed. I have mixed with it, and know it. Notwithstanding all the cant of moralists, I do not believe it to be more hollow or more heartless than other classes. Its great besetting sin is not of self-growth, for it comes of the slavish adulation offered by those beneath it,—the grovelling worship of the would-be fine folk, who would leave friends and home and hearth to be admitted even to the antechambers of the great. They who offer up this incense are in my eyes far more despicable than they who accept the sacrifice; but I would not cast my lot with either. Do not smile, sir, as if these were high-flown sentiments; they are the veriest commonplaces of one who loves commonplace, who neither seeks affections with coronets nor friendships in gold coaches, but who would still less be of that herd—mute, astonished, and awe-struck—who worship them!”
“You deem me, then, deficient in this same independence of spirit?” cried Massingbred, half indignantly.
“I certainly do not accept your intention of marrying beneath you as a proof of it. Must I again tell you, sir, that in such cases it is the poor, weak, patient, forgotten woman pays all the penalty, and that, in the very conflict with the world the man has his reward?”
“If you loved me, Kate,” said he, in a tone of deep sorrow, “it is not thus you would discuss this question.”
She made no reply, but bending down lower over her drawing, worked away with increased rapidity.
“Still,” cried he, passionately, “I am not to be deterred by a defeat. Tell me, at least, how I can win that love, which is to me the great prize of life. You read my faults, you see my shortcomings clearly enough; be equally just, then, to anything there is of good or hopeful about me. Do this, Kate, and I will put my fate upon the issue.”
“In plain words,” said she, calmly, “you ask me what manner of man I would consent to marry. I 'll tell you. One who with ability enough to attain any station, and talents to gain any eminence, has lived satisfied with that in which he was born; one who has made the independence of his character so felt by the world that his actions have been regarded as standards, a man of honor and of his word; employing his knowledge of life, not for the purposes of overreaching, but for self-correction and improvement; well bred enough to be a peer, simple as a peasant; such a man, in fact, as could afford to marry a governess, and, while elevating her to his station, never compromise his own with his equals. I don't flatter myself,” said she, smiling, “that I 'm likely to draw this prize; but I console myself by thinking that I could not accept aught beneath it as great fortune. I see, sir, the humility of my pretensions amuses you, and it is all the better for both of us if we can treat these things jestingly.”
“Nay, Kate, you are unfair—unjust,” broke in Mas-singbred.
“Mr. Martin begins to feel it chilly, Miss Henderson,” said a servant at this moment. “Shall we return to the hotel?”
“Yes, by all means,” said she, rising hastily. The next instant she was busily engaged shawling and muffling the sick man, who accepted her attentions with the submissive-ness of a child.
“That will do, Molly, thank you, darling,” said he, in a feeble voice; “you are so kind, so good to me.”
“The evening is fresh, sir, almost cold,” said she.
“Yes, dear, the climate is not what it used to be. We have cut down too many of those trees, Molly, yonder.” And he pointed with his thin fingers towards the Rhine. “We have thinned the wood overmuch, but they'll grow again, dear, though I shall not be here to see them.”
“He thinks I am his niece,” whispered Kate, “and fancies himself at Cro' Martin.”
“I suppose they'll advise my trying a warm country, Molly, a milder air,” muttered he, as they slowly carried him along. “But home, after all, is home; one likes to see the old faces and the old objects around them,—all the more when about to leave them forever!” And as the last words came, two heavy tears stole slowly along his cheeks, and his pale lips quivered with emotion. Now speaking in a low, weak voice to himself, now sighing heavily, as though in deep depression, he was borne along towards the hotel. Nor did the gay and noisy groups which thronged the thoroughfares arouse him. He saw them, but seemed not to heed them. His dreary gaze wandered over the brilliant panorama without interest or speculation. Some painful and difficult thoughts, perhaps, did all these unaccustomed sights and sounds bring across his mind, embarrassing him to reconcile their presence with the scene he fancied himself beholding; but even these impressions were faint and fleeting.
As they turned to cross the little rustic bridge in front of the hotel, a knot of persons moved off the path to make way for them, one of whom fixed his eyes steadily on the sick man, gazing with the keen scrutiny of intense interest; then suddenly recalling himself to recollection, he hastily retreated within the group.
“You are right,” muttered he to one near him, “he is 'booked;' my bond will come due before the month ends.”
“And you'll be an estated gent, Herman, eh?” said a very dark-eyed, hook-nosed man at his side.
“Well, I hope I shall act the part as well as my neighbors,” said Mr. Merl, with that mingled assurance and humility that made up his manner.
“Was n't that Massingbred that followed them,—he that made the famous speech the other day in Parliament?”
“Yes,” said Merl. “I 've got a bit of 'stiff' with his endorsement in my pocket this minute for one hundred and fifty.”
“What's it worth, Merl?”
“Perhaps ten shillings; but I 'd not part with it quite so cheaply. He'll not always be an M.P., and we shall see if he can afford to swagger by an old acquaintance without so much as a 'How d' ye do?'”
“There, he is coming back again,” said the other. And at the same moment Massingbred walked slowly up to the spot, his easy smile upon his face, and his whole expression that of a careless, unburdened nature.
“I just caught a glimpse of you as I passed, Merl,” said he, with a familiar nod; “and you were exactly the man I wanted to see.”
“Too much honor, sir,” said Merl, affecting a degree of haughty distance at the familiarity of this address.
Massingbred smiled at the mock dignity, and went on; “I have something to say to you. Will you give me a call this evening at the Cour de Bade, say about nine or half-past?”
“I have an engagement this evening.”
“Put it off, then, that's all, Master Merl, for mine is an important matter, and very nearly concerns yourself.”
Merl was silent. He would have liked much to display before his friends a little of the easy dash and swagger that he had just been exhibiting, to have shown them how cavalierly he could treat a rising statesman and a young Parliamentary star of the first order; but the question crossed him, Was it safe? what might the luxury cost him? “Am I to bring that little acceptance of yours along with me?” said he, in a half whisper, while a malicious sparkle twinkled in his eye.
“Why not, man? Certainly, if it gives you the least pleasure in life; only don't be later than half-past nine.” And with one of his sauciest laughs Massingbred moved away, leaving the Jew very far from content with “the situation.”
Merl, however, soon rallied. He had been amusing his friends, just before this interruption, with a narrative of his Irish journey: he now resumed the theme. All that he found faulty, all even that he deemed new or strange or unintelligible in that unhappy country, he had dressed up in the charming colors of his cockney vocabulary, and his hearers were worthy of him! There is but little temptation, however, to linger in their company, and so we leave them.