Produced by David Widger






THE MARTINS OF CRO' MARTIN

By Charles Lever

With Illustrations By Phiz.

In Two Volumes

Vol. II.

Boston: Little, Brown, And Company.

1906




THE MARTINS OF CRO' MARTIN.



CHAPTER I. MR. HERMAN MERL

This much-abused world of ours, railed at by divines, sneered down by
cynics, slighted by philosophers, has still some marvellously pleasant
things about it, amongst which, first and foremost, _facile princeps_,
is Paris! In every other city of Europe there is a life to be learned
and acquired just like a new language. You have to gain the acquaintance
of certain people, obtain admission to certain houses, submit yourself
to ways, habits, hours, all peculiar to the locality, and conform to
usages in which--at first, at least--you rarely find anything beyond
penalties on your time and your patience. But Paris demands no such
sacrifices. To enjoy it, no apprenticeship is required. You become
free of the guild at the Porte St. Denis. By the time you reach the
Boulevards you have ceased to be a stranger. You enter the “Frères” at
dinner hour like an old habitué. The atmosphere of light, elastic gayety
around you, the tone of charming politeness that meets your commonest
inquiry, the courtesy bestowed upon your character as a foreigner, are
all as exhilarating in their own way as your sparkling glass of Moët,
sipped in the window, from which you look down on plashing fountains,
laughing children, and dark-eyed grisettes! The whole thing, in its
bustle and movement, its splendor, sunlight, gilded furniture,
mirrors, and smart toilettes, is a piece of natural magic, with this
difference,--that its effect is ever new, ever surprising!

Sad and sorrowful faces are, of course, to be met with, since grief has
its portion everywhere; but that air of languid indifference, that
look of wearied endurance, which we characterize by the classic term of
“boredom,” is, indeed, a rare spectacle in this capital; and yet now
at the window of a splendid apartment in the Place Vendôme, listlessly
looking down into the square beneath, stood a young man, every line
of whose features conveyed this same expression. He had, although not
really above twenty-four or twenty-five, the appearance of one ten
years older. On a face of singular regularity, and decidedly handsome,
dissipation had left its indelible traces. The eyes were deep sunk,
the cheeks colorless, and around the angles of the mouth were those
tell-tale circles which betray the action of an oft-tried temper, and
the spirit that has gone through many a hard conflict. In figure he was
very tall, and seemed more so in the folds of a long dressing-gown
of antique brocade, which reached to his feet; a small, dark green
skull-cap, with a heavy silver tassel, covered one side of his head, and
in his hand he held a handsome meerschaum, which, half mechanically, he
placed from time to time to his lips, although its bowl was empty.

At a breakfast-table covered with all that could provoke appetite, sat a
figure as much unlike him as could be. He was under the middle size,
and slightly inclined to flesh, with a face which, but for some strange
resemblance to what one has seen in pictures by the older artists, would
have been unequivocally vulgar. The eyes were small, keen, and furtive;
the nose, slightly concave in its outline, expanded beneath into
nostrils wide and full; but the mouth, thick-lipped, sensual, and
coarse, was more distinctive than all, and showed that Mr. Herman Merl
was a gentleman of the Jewish persuasion,--a fact well corroborated by
the splendor of a very flashy silk waistcoat, and various studs, gold
chain, rings, and trinkets profusely scattered over his costume. And
yet there was little of what we commonly recognize as the Jew in the
character of his face. The eyes were not dark, the nose not aquiline;
the hair, indeed, had the wavy massiveness of the Hebrew race; but Mr.
Merl was a “Red Jew,” and the Red Jew, like the red partridge, is a
species _per se_.

[Illustration: 018]

There was an ostentatious pretension in the “get up” of this gentleman.
His moustache, his beard, his wrist-buttons, his shirt-studs, the
camellia in his coat,--all, even to the heels of his boots, had been
made studies, either to correct a natural defect, or show off what he
fancied a natural advantage. He seemed to have studied color like a
painter, for his dark brown frock was in true keeping with the tint
of his skin; and yet, despite these painstaking efforts, the man was
indelibly, hopelessly vulgar. Everything about him was imitation, but it
was imitation that only displayed its own shortcomings.

“I wonder how you can resist these oysters, Captain,” said he, as he
daintily adjusted one of these delicacies on his fork; “and the Chablis,
I assure you, is excellent.”

“I never eat breakfast,” said the other, turning away from the window,
and pacing the room with slow and measured tread.

“Why, you are forgetting all the speculations that used to amuse us
on the voyage,--the delicious little dinners we were to enjoy at the
'Rocher,' the tempting dejeuners at 'Véfour's.' By Jove! how hungry you
used to make me, with your descriptions of the appetizing fare before
us; and here we have it now: Ardennes ham, fried in champagne; Ostend
oysters, salmi of quails with truffles--and such truffles! Won't that
tempt you?”

But his friend paid no attention to the appeal, and walking again to the
window, looked out.

“Those little drummers yonder have a busy day of it,” said he, lazily;
“that's the fourth time they have had to beat the salute to Generals
this morning.”

“Is there anything going on, then?”

But he never deigned an answer, and resumed his walk.

“I wish you'd send away that hissing teakettle, it reminds me of a
steamboat,” said the Captain, peevishly; “that is, if you have done with
it.”

“So it does,” said the other, rising to ring the bell; “there's the same
discordant noise, and the--the--the--” But the rest of the similitude
would n't come, and Mr. Merl covered his retreat with the process of
lighting a cigar,--an invaluable expedient that had served to aid many a
more ready debater in like difficulty.

It would be a somewhat tedious, perhaps not a very profitable task, to
inquire how two men, so palpably dissimilar, had thus become what the
world calls friends. Enough if we say that Captain Martin,--the heir of
Cro' Martin,--when returning from India on leave, passed some time at
the Cape, where, in the not very select society of the place, he met Mr.
Merl. Now Mr. Merl had been at Ceylon, where he had something to do with
a coffee plantation; and he had been at Benares, where opium interested
him; and now again, at the Cape, a question of wine had probably some
relation to his sojourn. In fact, he was a man travelling about the
world with abundance of leisure, a well-stocked purse, and what our
friends over the Strait would term an “industrial spirit.” Messes had
occasionally invited him to their tables. Men in society got the habit
of seeing him “about,” and he was in the enjoyment of that kind of
tolerance which made every man feel, “He's not _my_ friend,--_I_ didn't
introduce him; but he seems a good sort of fellow enough!” And so he
was,--very good-tempered, very obliging, most liberal of his cigars,
his lodgings always open to loungers, with pale ale, and even iced
champagne, to be had |for asking. There was play, too; and although Merl
was a considerable winner, he managed never to incur the jealous enmity
that winning so often imposes. He was the most courteous of gamblers; he
never did a sharp thing; never enforced a strict rule upon a novice of
the game; tolerated every imaginable blunder of his partner with bland
equanimity; and, in a word, if this great globe of ours had been a
green-baize cloth, and all the men and women whist-players, Mr. Herman
Merl had been the first gentleman in it, and carried off “all the
honors” in his own hand.

If he was highly skilled in every game, it was remarked of him that he
never proposed play himself, nor was he ever known to make a wager: he
always waited to be asked to make up a party, or to take or give the
odds, as the case might be. To a very shrewd observer, this might have
savored a little too much of a system; but shrewd observers are, after
all, not the current coin in the society of young men, and Merl's
conduct was eminently successful.

Merl suited Martin admirably. Martin was that species of man which,
of all others, is most assailable by flattery. A man of small
accomplishments, he sang a little, rode a little, played, drew, fenced,
fished, shot--all, a little--that is, somewhat better than others in
general, and giving him that dangerous kind of pre-eminence from which,
though the tumble never kills, it occurs often enough to bruise and
humiliate. But, worse than this, it shrouds its possessor in a triple
mail of vanity, that makes him the easy prey of all who minister to it.

We seldom consider how much locality influences our intimacies, and how
impossible it had been for us even to know in some places the people we
have made friends of in another. Harry Martin would as soon have thought
of proposing his valet at “Brookes's,” as walk down Bond Street with Mr.
Merl. Had he met him in London, every characteristic of the man would
there have stood out in all the strong glare of contrast, but at the
Cape it was different. Criticism would have been misplaced where all was
irregular, and the hundred little traits--any one of which would have
shocked him in England--were only smiled at as the eccentricities of a
“good-natured poor fellow, who had no harm in him.”

Martin and Merl came to England in the same ship. It was a sudden
thought of Merl's, only conceived the evening before she sailed; but
Martin had lost a considerable sum at piquet to him on that night, and
when signing the acceptances for payment, since he had not the ready
money, somewhat peevishly remarked that it was hard he should not have
his revenge. Whereupon Merl, tossing off a bumper of champagne, and
appearing to speak under the influence of its stimulation, cried out,
“Hang me, Captain, if you shall say that! I 'll go and take my passage
in the 'Elphinstone.'” And he did so, and he gave the Captain his
revenge! But of all the passions, there is not one less profitable to
indulge in. They played morning, noon, and night, through long days of
sickening calm, through dreary nights of storm and hurricane, and they
scarcely lifted their heads at the tidings that the Needles were in
sight, nor even questioned the pilot for news of England, when he
boarded them in the Downs. Martin had grown much older during that same
voyage; his temper, too, usually imbued with the easy indolence of his
father's nature, had grown impatient and fretful. A galling sense of
inferiority to Merl poisoned every minute of his life. He would not
admit it; he rejected it, but back it came; and if it did not enter into
his heart, it stood there knocking,--knocking for admission. Each time
they sat down to play was a perfect duel to Martin.

As for Merl, his well-schooled faculties never were ruffled nor excited.
The game had no power to fascinate _him_, its vicissitudes had nothing
new or surprising to him; intervals of ill-luck, days even of dubious
fortune might occur, but he knew he would win in the end, just as
he knew that though there might intervene periods of bad weather and
adverse winds, the good ship “Elphinstone” would arrive at last, and, a
day sooner or a day later, discharge passengers and freight on the banks
of the Thames.

You may forgive the man who has rivalled you in love, the banker whose
“smash” has engulfed all your fortune, the violent political antagonist
who has assailed you personally, and in the House, perhaps, answered the
best speech you ever made by a withering reply. You may extend feelings
of Christian charity to the reviewer who has “slashed” your new novel,
the lawyer whose vindictive eloquence has exposed, the artist in “Punch”
 who has immortalized, you; but there is one man you never forgive, of
whom you will never believe one good thing, and to whom you would wish a
thousand evil ones,--he is your natural enemy, brought into the world
to be your bane, born that he may be your tormentor; and this is the man
who _always_ beats you at play! Happily, good reader, you may have no
feelings of the gambler,--you may be of those to whom this fatal vice
has never appealed, or appealed in vain; but if you _have_ “played,” or
even mixed with those who have, you could n't have failed to be struck
with the fact that there is that one certain man from whom you never
win! Wherever he is, there, too, is present your evil destiny! Now,
there is no pardoning this,--the double injury of insult to your skill
and damage to your pocket. Such a man as this becomes at last your
master. You may sneer at his manners, scoff at his abilities, ridicule
his dress, laugh at his vulgarity,--poor reprisals these! In his
presence, the sense of that one superiority he possesses over you makes
you quail! In the stern conflict, where your destiny and your capacity
seem alike at issue, he conquers you,--not to-day or to-morrow, but ever
and always! There he sits, arbiter of your fate,--only doubtful how long
he may defer the day of your sentence!

It is something in the vague indistinctness of this power--something
that seems to typify the agency of the Evil One himself--that at once
tortures and subdues you; and you ever hurry into fresh conflict with
the ever-present consciousness of fresh defeat! We might have spared our
reader this discursive essay, but that it pertains to our story. Such
was the precise feeling entertained by Martin towards Merl. He hated
him with all the concentration of his great hatred, and yet he could not
disembarrass himself of his presence. He was ashamed of the man amongst
his friends; he avoided him in all public places; he shrunk from
his very contact as though infected; but he could not throw off his
acquaintance, and he nourished in his heart a small ember of hope that
one day or other the scale of fortune would turn, and he might win back
again all he had ever lost, and stand free and unembarrassed as in the
first hour he had met him! Fifty times had he consulted Fortune, as
it were, to ask if this moment had yet arrived; but hitherto ever
unsuccessfully,--Merl won on as before. Martin, however, invariably
ceased playing when he discovered that his ill-luck continued. It was
an experiment,--a mere pilot balloon to Destiny; and when he saw the
direction adverse, he did not adventure on the grand ascent. It was
impossible that a man of Merl's temperament and training should not have
detected this game. There was not a phase of the gambler's mind with
which he was not thoroughly familiar.

Close intimacies, popularly called friendships, have always their
secret motive, if we be but skilful enough to detect it. We see people
associate together of widely different habits, and dispositions the most
opposite, with nothing in common of station, rank, object, or pursuit.
In such cases the riddle has always its key, could we only find it.

Mr. Martin had been some weeks in Paris with his family, when a brief
note informed him that Merl had arrived there. He despatched an answer
still briefer, asking him to breakfast on the following morning; and it
was in the acceptance of this same invitation we have now seen him.

“Who's here just now?” said Merl, throwing down his napkin, and pushing
his chair a little back from the table, while he disposed his short, fat
legs into what he fancied was a most graceful attitude.

“Here? Do you mean in Paris?” rejoined Martin, pettishly,--for he never
suffered so painfully under this man's intimacy as when his manners
assumed the pretension of fashion.

“Yes,--of course,--I mean, who's in Paris?”

“There are, I believe, about forty-odd thousand of our countrymen and
countrywomen,” said the other, half contemptuously.

“Oh, I've no doubt; but my question took narrower bounds. I meant, who
of _our_ set,--who of us?”

Martin turned round, and fixing his eyes on him, scanned him from head
to foot with a gaze of such intense insolence as no words could have
equalled. For a while the Jew bore it admirably; but these efforts,
after all, are only like the brief intervals a man can live under water,
and where the initiated beats the inexperienced only by a matter of
seconds. As Martin continued his stare, Merl's cheek tingled, grew red,
and finally his whole face and forehead became scarlet.

With an instinct like that of a surgeon who feels he has gone deep
enough with his knife, Martin resumed his walk along the room without
uttering a word.

Merl opened the newspaper, and affected to read; his hand, however,
trembled, and his eyes wandered listlessly over the columns, and then
furtively were turned towards Martin as he paced the chamber in silence.

“Do you think you can manage that little matter for me, Captain?” said
he at last, and in a voice attuned to its very humblest key.

“What little matter? Those two bills do you mean?” said Martin,
suddenly.

“Not at all. I 'm not the least pressed for cash. I alluded to the Club;
you promised you 'd put me up, and get one of your popular friends to
second me.”

“I remember,” said Martin, evidently relieved from a momentary terror.
“Lord Claude Willoughby or Sir Spencer Cavendish would be the men if we
could find them.”

“Lord Claude, I perceive, is here; the paper mentions his name in the
dinner company at the Embassy yesterday.”

“Do you know him?” asked Martin, with an air of innocence that Merl well
comprehended as insult.

“No. We 've met,--I think we 've played together; I remember once at
Baden--”

“Lord Claude Willoughby, sir,” said a servant, entering with a card,
“desires to know if you 're at home?”

“And won't be denied if you are not,” said his Lordship, entering at the
same instant, and saluting Martin with great cordiality.



CHAPTER II. MR. MERL

The French have invented a slang word for a quality that deserves a
more recognized epithet, and by the expression _chic_ have designated
a certain property by which objects assert their undoubted superiority
over all their counterfeits. Thus, your coat from Nugee's, your carriage
from Leader's, your bracelet from Storr's, and your bonnet from Madame
Palmyre, have all their own peculiar _chic_, or, in other words, possess
a certain invisible, indescribable essence that stamps them as the best
of their kind, with an excellence unattainable by imitation, and a charm
all their own!

Of all the products in which this magical property insinuates itself,
there is not one to which it contributes so much as the man of fashion.
He is the very type of _chic_. To describe him you are driven to
a catalogue of negatives, and you only arrive at anything like a
resemblance by an enumeration of the different things he is not.

The gentleman who presented himself to Martin at the close of our
last chapter was in many respects a good specimen of his order. He had
entered the room, believing Martin to be there alone; but no sooner had
he perceived another, and that other one not known to him, than all
the buoyant gayety of his manner was suddenly toned down into a
quiet seriousness; while, taking his friend's arm, he said in a low
voice,--“If you 're busy, my dear Martin, don't hesitate for a moment
about sending me off; I had not the slightest suspicion there was any
one with you.”

“Nor is there,” said Martin, with a supercilious glance at Merl, who
was endeavoring in a dozen unsuccessful ways to seem unaware of the new
arrival's presence.

“I want to introduce him to you,” said Martin.

“No, no, my dear friend, on no account.”

“I must; there's no help for it,” said Martin, impatiently, while he
whispered something eagerly in the other's ear.

“Well, then, some other day; another time--”

“Here and now, Claude,” said Martin, peremptorily; while, without
waiting for reply, he said aloud, “Merl, I wish to present you to Lord
Claude Willoughby,--Lord Claude, Mr. Herman Merl.”

Merl bowed and smirked and writhed as his Lordship, with a bland smile
and a very slight bow, acknowledged the presentation.

“Had the pleasure of meeting your Lordship at Baden two summers ago,”
 said the Jew, with an air meant to be the ideal of fashionable ease.

“I was at Baden at the time you mention,” said he, coldly.

“I used to watch your Lordship's game with great attention; you won
heavily, I think?”

“I don't remember, just now,” said he, carelessly; not, indeed, that
such was the fact, or that he desired it should be thought so; he only
wished to mark his sense of what he deemed an impertinence.

“The man who can win at rouge-et-noir can do anything, in my opinion,”
 said Merl.

“What odds are you taking on Rufus?” said Martin to Willoughby, and
without paying the slightest attention to Merl's remark.

“Eleven to one; but I'll not take it again. Hecuba is rising hourly, and
some say she 'll be the favorite yet.”

“Is Rufus your Lordship's horse?” said the Jew, insinuatingly.

Willoughby bowed, and continued to write in his note-book.

“And you said the betting was eleven to one on the field, my Lord?”

“It ought to be fourteen to one, at least.”

“I 'll give you fourteen to one, my Lord, just for the sake of a little
interest in the race.”

Willoughby ceased writing, and looked at him steadfastly for a second or
two. “I have not said that the odds were fourteen to one.”

“I understand you perfectly, my Lord; you merely thought that they would
be, or, at least, ought to be.”

“Merl wants a bet with you, in fact,” said Martin, as he applied alight
to his meerschaum; “and if you won't have him, I will.”

“What shall it be, sir,” said Lord Claude, pencil in hand; “in
ponies--fifties?”

“Oh, ponies, my Lord. I only meant it, just as I said, to give me
something to care for in the race.”

“Will you put him up at the 'Cercle' after that?” whispered Martin, with
a look of sly malice.

“I'll tell you when the match is over,” said Willoughby, laughing;
“but if I won't, here 's one that will. That's a neat phaeton of
Cavendish's.” And at the same instant Martin opened the window, and made
a signal with his handkerchief.

“That's the thing for _you_, Merl,” said Martin, pointing down to a
splendid pair of dark chestnuts harnessed to a handsome phaeton. “It's
worth five hundred pounds to any fellow starting an equipage to chance
upon one of Cavendish's. He has not only such consummate taste in
carriage and harness, but he makes his nags perfection.”

“He drives very neatly,” said Willoughby.

“What was it he gave for that near-side horse?--a thousand pounds, I
think.”

“Twelve hundred and fifty, and refused a hundred for my bargain,” said
a very diminutive, shrewd-looking man of about five-and-thirty, who
entered the room with great affectation of juvenility. “I bought him for
a cab, never expecting to 'see his like again,' as Shakspeare says.”

“And you offered the whole concern yesterday to Damre-mont for fifty
thousand francs?”

“No, Harry, that's a mistake. I said I 'd play him a match at piquet,
whether he gave seventy thousand for the equipage or nothing. It was he
that proposed fifty thousand. Mine was a handsome offer, I think.”

“I call it a most munificent one,” said Martin. “By the way, you don't
know my friend here, Mr. Merl, Sir Spencer Cavendish.” And the baronet
stuck his glass in his eye, and scanned the stranger as unscrupulously
as though he were a hack at Tattersairs.

“Where did he dig him up, Claude?” whispered he, after a second.

“In India, I fancy; or at the Cape.”

“That fellow has something to do with the hell in St. James's Street; I
'll swear I know his face.”

[Illustration: 029]

“I 've been telling Merl that he 's in rare luck to find such a turn-out
as that in the market; that is, if you still are disposed to sell.”

“Oh, yes, I'll sell it; give him the tiger, boots, cockade, and
all,--everything except that Skye terrier. You shall have the whole,
sir, for two thousand pounds; or, if you prefer it--”

A certain warning look from Lord Claude suddenly arrested his words, and
he added, after a moment,--“But I 'd rather sell it off, and think no
more of it.”

“Try the nags; Sir Spencer, I'm sure, will have no objection,” said
Martin. But the baronet's face looked anything but concurrence with the
proposal.

“Take them a turn round the Bois de Boulogne, Merl,” said Martin,
laughing at his friend's distress.

“And he may have the turn-out at his own price after the trial,”
 muttered Lord Claude, with a quiet smile.

“Egad! I should think so,” whispered Cavendish; “for, assuredly, I
should never think of being seen in it again.”

“If Sir Spencer Cavendish has no objection,--if he would permit his
groom to drive me just down the Boulevards and the Rue Rivoli--”

The cool stare of the baronet did not permit him to finish. It was
really a look far more intelligible than common observers might have
imagined, for it conveyed something like recognition,--a faint approach
to an intimation that said, “I 'm persuaded that we have met before.”

“Yes, that is the best plan. Let the groom have the ribbons,” said
Martin, laughing with an almost schoolboy enjoyment of a trick. “And
don't lose time, Merl, for Sir Spencer would n't miss his drive in the
Champs Elysees for any consideration.”

“Gentlemen, I am your very humble and much obliged servant!” said
Cavendish, as soon as Merl had quitted the room. “If that distinguished
friend of yours should not buy my carriage--”

“But he will,” broke in Martin; “he must buy it.”

“He ought, I think,” said Lord Claude. “If I were in his place, there's
only one condition I 'd stipulate for.”

“And that is--”

“That you should drive with him one day--one would be enough--from the
Barrière de l'Étoile to the Louvre.”

“This is all very amusing, gentlemen, most entertaining,” said
Cavendish, tartly; “but who is he?--I don't mean that,--but what is he?”

“Martin's banker, I fancy,” said Lord Claude.

“Does he lend any sum from five hundred to twenty thousand on equitable
terms on approved personal security?” said Cavendish, imitating the
terms of the advertisements.

“He 'll allow all he wins from you to remain in your hands at sixty per
cent interest, if he doesn't want cash!” said Martin, angrily.

“Oh, then, I 'm right. It is my little Moses of St. James's Street. He
was n't always as flourishing as we see him now. Oh dear, if any man,
three years back, had told me that this fellow would have proposed
seating himself in my phaeton for a drive round Paris, I don't
believe--nay, I 'm sure--my head couldn't have stood it.”

“You know him, then?” said Willoughby.

“I should think every man about town a dozen years ago must know him.
There was a kind of brood of these fellows; we used to call them Joseph
and his brethren. One sold cigars, another vended maraschino; this
discounted your bills, that took your plate or your horses--ay, or your
wardrobe--on a bill of sale, and handed you over two hundred pounds to
lose at his brother's hell in the evening. Most useful scoundrels they
were,--equally expert on 'Change and in the Coulisses of the Opera!”

“I will say this for him,” said Martin, “he 's not a hard fellow to deal
with; he does not drive a bargain ungenerously.”

“Your hangman is the tenderest fellow in the world,” said Cavendish,
“till the final moment. It's only in adjusting the last turn under the
ear that he shows himself 'ungenerous.'”

“Are you deep with him, Harry?” said Willoughby, who saw a sudden
paleness come over Martin's face.

“Too deep!” said he, with a bitter effort at a laugh,--“a great deal too
deep.”

“We 're all too deep with those fellows,” said Cavendish, as, stretching
out his legs, he contemplated the shape and lustre of his admirably
fitting boots. “One begins by some trumpery loan or so; thence you go
on to a play transaction or a betting-book with them, and you end--egad,
you end by having the fellow at dinner!”

“Martin wants his friend to be put up for the Club,” said Willoughby.

“Eh, what? At the 'Cercle,' do you mean?”

“Why not? Is it so very select?”

“No, not exactly that; there are the due proportions of odd reputations,
half reputations, and no reputations; but remember, Martin, that however
black they be now, they all began white. When they started, at least,
they were gentlemen.”

“I suspect that does not make the case much better.”

“No; but it makes _ours_ better, in associating with them. Come, come,
you know as well as any one that this is impossible, and that if you
should do it to-day, I should follow the lead to-morrow, and our
Club become only an asylum for unpayable tailors and unappeasable
bootmakers!”

“You go too fast, sir,” exclaimed Martin, in a tone of anger. “I never
intended to pay my debts by a white ball in the ballot-box, nor do I
think that Mr. Merl would relinquish his claim on some thousand
pounds, even for the honor of being the club colleague of Sir Spencer
Cavendish.”

“Then I know him better,” said the other, tapping his-boot with his
cane; “he would, and he 'd think it a right good bargain besides. From
seeing these fellows at racecourses and betting-rooms, always cold,
calm, and impassive, never depressed by ill-luck, as little elated
by good, we fall into the mistake of esteeming them as a kind of
philosophers in life, without any of those detracting influences that
make you and Willoughby, and even myself, sometimes rash and headstrong.
It is a mistake, though; they have a weakness,--and a terrible
weakness,--which is, their passion to be thought in fashionable society.
Yes, they can't resist that! All their shrewd calculations, all their
artful schemes, dissolve into thin air, at the bare prospect of being
recognized 'in society.' I have studied this flaw in them for many a
year back. I 'll not say I haven't derived advantage from it.”

“And yet you 'd refuse him admission into a club,” cried Martin.

“Certainly. A club is a Democracy, where each man, once elected, is
the equal of his neighbor. Society is, on the other hand, an absolute
monarchy, where your rank flows from the fountain of honor,--the host.
Take him along with you to her Grace's 'tea,' or my Lady's reception
this evening, and see if the manner of the mistress of the house does
not assign him his place, as certainly as if he were marshalled to it by
a lackey. All his mock tranquillity and assumed ease of manner will not
be proof against the icy dignity of a grande dame; but in the Club he's
as good as the best, or he'll think so, which comes to the same thing.”

“Cavendish is right,--that is, as much so as he can be in anything,”
 said Willoughby, laughing. “Don't put him up, Martin.”

“Then what am I to do? I have given a sort of a pledge. He is not easily
put off; he does not lightly relinquish an object.”

“Take him off the scent. Introduce him at the Embassy. Take him to the
Courcelles.”

“This is intolerable,” broke in Martin, angrily. “I ask for advice, and
you reply by a sneer and a mockery.”

“Not at all. I never was more serious. But here he comes! Look only how
the fellow lolls back in the phaeton. Just see how contemptuously he
looks down on the foot-travellers. I'd lay on another hundred for that
stare; for, assuredly, he has already made the purchase in his own
mind.”

“Well, Merl, what do you say to Sir Spencer's taste in horseflesh?” said
Martin, as he entered.

“They 're nice hacks; very smart.”

“Nice hacks!” broke in Cavendish, “why, sir, they're both thoroughbred;
the near horse is by Tiger out of a Crescent mare, and the off one won
the Acton steeple-chase. When you said hacks, therefore, you made a
cruel blunder.”

“Well, it's what a friend of mine called them just now,” said Merl;
“and remarked, moreover, that the large horse had been slightly fired on
the--the--I forget the name he gave it.”

“You probably remember your friend's name better,” said Cavendish,
sneeringly. “Who was he, pray?”

“Massingbred,--we call him Jack Massingbred; he's the Member for
somewhere in Ireland.”

“Poor Jack!” muttered Cavendish, “how hard up he must be!”

“But you like the equipage, Merl?” said Martin, who had a secret
suspicion that it was now Cavendish's turn for a little humiliation.

“Well, it's neat. The buggy--”

“The buggy! By Jove, sir, you have a precious choice of epithets! Please
to let me inform you that full-blooded horses are not called hacks, nor
one of Leader's park-phaetons is not styled a buggy.”

Martin threw himself into a chair, and after a moment's struggle, burst
out into a fit of laughter.

“I think we may make a deal after all, Sir Spencer,” said Merl, who
accepted the baronet's correction with admirable self-control.

“No, sir; perfectly impossible; take my word for it, any transaction
would be difficult between us. Good-bye, Martin; adieu, Claude.” And
with this brief leave-taking the peppery Sir Spencer left the room, more
flushed and fussy than he had entered it.

“If you knew Sir Spencer Cavendish as long as we have known him, Mr.
Merl,” said Lord Claude, in his blandest of voices, “you'd not be
surprised at this little display of warmth. It is the only weakness in a
very excellent fellow.”

“I 'm hot, too, my Lord,” said Merl, with the very slightest
accentuation of the “initial H,” “and he was right in saying that
dealings would be difficult between us.”

“You mentioned Massingbred awhile ago, Merl. Why not ask him to second
you at the Club?” said Martin, rousing himself suddenly from a train of
thought.

“Well, somehow, I thought that he and you did n't exactly pull together;
that there was an election contest,--a kind of a squabble.”

“I 'm sure that _he_ never gave you any reason to suspect a coldness
between us; I know that _I_ never did,” said Martin, calmly. “We are but
slightly acquainted, it is true, but I should be surprised to learn that
there was any ill-feeling between us.”

“One's opponent at the hustings is pretty much the same thing as one's
adversary at a game,--he is against you to-day, and may be your partner
to-morrow; so that, putting even better motives aside, it were bad
policy to treat him as an implacable enemy,” said Lord Claude, with his
accustomed suavity. “Besides, Mr. Merl, you know the crafty maxim of the
French moralist, 'Always treat your enemies as though one day they were
to become your friends.'” And with this commonplace, uttered in a tone
and with a manner that gave it all the semblance of a piece of special
advice, his Lordship took his hat, and, squeezing Martin's hand, moved
towards the door.

“Come in here for a moment,” said Martin, pushing open the door into an
adjoining dressing-room, and closing it carefully after them. “So much
for wanting to do a good-natured thing,” cried he, peevishly. “I thought
to help Cavendish to get rid of those 'screws,' and the return he makes
me is to outrage this man.”

“What are your dealings with him?” asked Willoughby» anxiously.

“Play matters, play debts, loans, securities, post-obits, and every
other blessed contrivance you can think of to swamp a man's present
fortune and future prospects. I don't think he is a bad fellow; I mean,
I don't suspect he 'd press heavily upon me, with any fair treatment on
my part. My impression, in short, is that he'd forgive my not meeting
his bill, but he 'd never get over my not inviting him to a dinner!”

“Well,” said Willoughby, encouragingly, “we live in admirable times for
such practices. There used to be a vulgar prejudice in favor of men
that one knew, and names that the world was familiar with. It is gone
by entirely; and if you only present your friend--don't wince at the
title--your friend, I say--as the rich Mr. Merl, the man who owns shares
in mines, canals, and collieries, whose speculations count by tens of
thousands, and whose credit rises to millions, you'll never be called on
to apologize for his parts of speech, or make excuse for his solecisms
in good breeding.”

“Will you put up his name, then, at the Club?” asked Martin, eagerly.
“It would not do for _me_ to do so.”

“To be sure I will, and Massingbred shall be his seconder.” And with
this cheering pledge Lord Claude bade him good-bye, and left him free
to return to Mr. Merl in the drawing-room. That gentleman had, however,
already departed, to the no small astonishment of Martin, who now threw
himself lazily down on a sofa, to ponder over his difficulties and weave
all manner of impracticable schemes to meet them.

They were, indeed, very considerable embarrassments. He had raised
heavy sums at most exorbitant rates, and obtained money--for the
play-table--by pledging valuable reversions of various kinds, for Merl
somehow was the easiest of all people to deal with; one might have
fancied that he lent his money only to afford himself an occasion of
sympathy with the borrower, just as he professed that he merely
betted “to have a little interest in the race.” Whatever Martin, then,
suggested in the way of security never came amiss; whether it were a
farm, a mill, a quarry, or a lead mine, he accepted it at once, and, as
Martin deemed, without the slightest knowledge or investigation, little
suspecting that there was not a detail of his estate, nor a resource
of his property, with which the wily Jew was not more familiar than
himself. In fact, Mr. Merl was an astonishing instance of knowledge on
every subject by which money was to be made, and he no more advanced
loans upon an encumbered estate than he backed the wrong horse or
bid for a copied picture. There is a species of practical information
excessively difficult to describe, which is not connoisseurship, but
which supplies the place of that quality, enabling him who possesses
it to estimate the value of an object, without any admixture of those
weakening prejudices which beset your mere man of taste. Now, Mr. Merl
had no caprices about the color of the horse he backed, no more than
for the winning seat at cards; he could not be warped from his true
interests by any passing whim, and whether he cheapened a Correggio or
discounted a bill, he was the same calm, dispassionate calculator of the
profit to come of the transaction.

Latterly, however, he had thrown out a hint to Martin that he was
curious to see some of that property on which he had made such large
advances; and this wish--which, according to the frame of mind he
happened to be in at the moment, struck Martin as a mere caprice or a
direct menace--was now the object of his gloomy reveries. We have
not tracked his steps through the tortuous windings of his moneyed
difficulties; it is a chapter in life wherein there is wonderfully
little new to record; the Jew-lender and his associates, the renewed
bill and the sixty per cent, the non-restored acceptances flitting about
the world, sold and resold as damaged articles, but always in the end
falling into the hands of a “most respectable party,” and proceeded
on as a true debt; then, the compromises for time, for silence, for
secrecy,--since these transactions are rarely, if ever, devoid of some
unhappy incident that would not bear publicity; and there are invariably
little notes beginning “Dear Moses,” which would argue most ill-chosen
intimacies. These are all old stories, and the “Times” and the
“Chronicle” are full of them. There is a terrible sameness about them,
too. The dupe and the villain are stock characters that never change,
and the incidents are precisely alike in every case. Humble folk, who
are too low for fashionable follies, wonder how the self-same artifices
have always the same success, and cannot conceal their astonishment at
the innocence of our young men about town; and yet the mystery is
easily solved. The dupe is, in these cases, just as unprincipled as
his betrayer, and their negotiation is simply a game of skill, in which
Israel is not always the winner.

If we have not followed Martin's steps through these dreary labyrinths,
it is because the path is a worn one; for the same reason, too, we
decline to keep him company in his ponderings over them. All that his
troubles had taught him was an humble imitation of the tricky natures of
those he dealt with; so that he plotted and schemed and contrived, till
his very head grew weary with the labor. And so we leave him.



CHAPTER III. A YOUNG DUCHESS AND AN OLD FRIEND

Like a vast number of people who have passed years in retirement, Lady
Dorothea was marvellously disappointed with “the world” when she went
back to it. It was not at all the kind of thing she remembered, or
at least fancied it to be. There were not the old gradations of class
strictly defined; there was not the old veneration for rank and station;
“society” was invaded by hosts of unknown people, “names one had never
heard of.” The great stars of fashion of her own day had long since set,
and the new celebrities had never as much as heard of her. The great
houses of the Faubourg were there, it is true; but with reduced
households and dimly lighted salons, they were but sorry representatives
of the splendor her memory had invested them with.

Now the Martins were installed in one of the finest apartments of the
finest quarter in Paris. They were people of unquestionable station,
they had ample means, lacked for none of the advantages which the world
demands from those who seek its favors; and yet there they were, just as
unknown, unvisited, and unsought after, as if they were the Joneses or
the Smiths, “out” for a month's pleasuring on the Continent.

A solitary invitation to the Embassy to dinner was not followed by any
other attention; and so they drove along the Boulevards and through the
Bois de Boulogne, and saw some thousands of gay, bright-costumed people,
all eager for pleasure, all hurrying on to some scheme of amusement or
enjoyment, while they returned moodily to their handsome quarter, as
much excluded from all participation in what went on around them as
though they were natives of Hayti.

Martin sauntered down to the reading-room, hoping vainly to fall in with
some one he knew. He lounged listlessly along the bright streets, till
their very glare addled him; he stared at the thousand new inventions of
luxury and ease the world had discovered since he had last seen it, and
then he plodded gloomily homeward, to dine and listen to her Ladyship's
discontented criticism upon the tiresome place and the odious people who
filled it. Paris was, indeed, a deception and a snare to them! So
far from finding it cheap, the expense of living--as they lived--was
considerably greater than at London. It was a city abounding in
luxuries, but all costly. The details which are in England reserved for
days of parade and display, were here daily habits, and these were now
to be indulged in with all the gloom of solitude and isolation.

What wonder, then, if her Ladyship's temper was ruffled, and her
equanimity unbalanced by such disappointments? In vain she perused the
list of arrivals to find out some distinguished acquaintance; in vain
she interrogated her son as to what was going on, and who were there.
The Captain only frequented the club, and could best chronicle the names
that were great at whist or illustrious at billiards.

“It surely cannot be the season here,” cried she, one morning,
peevishly, “for really there isn't a single person one has ever heard of
at Paris.”

“And yet this is a strong catalogue,” cried the Captain, with a
malicious twinkle in his eye. “Here are two columns of somebodies,
who were present at Madame de Luygnes' last night.”

“You can always fill salons, if that be all,” said she, angrily.

“Yes, but not with Tour du Pins, Tavannes, Rochefoucaulds, Howards
of Maiden, and Greys of Allington, besides such folk as Pahlen,
Lichtenstein, Colonna, and so forth.”

“How is it then, that one never sees them?” cried she, more eagerly.

“Say, rather, how is it one doesn't know them,” cried Martin, “for here
we are seven weeks, and, except to that gorgeous fellow in the cocked
hat at the porter's lodge, I have never exchanged a salute with a human
being.”

“There are just three houses, they say, in all Paris, to one or other of
which one must be presented,” said the Captain--“Madame de Luygnes, the
Duchesse de Cour-celles, and Madame de Mirecourt.”

“That Madame de Luygnes was your old mistress, was she not, Miss
Henderson?” asked Lady Dorothea, haughtily.

“Yes, my Lady,” was the calm reply.

“And who are these other people?”

“The Duc de Mirecourt was married to 'Mademoiselle,' the daughter of the
Duchesse de Luygnes.”

“Have you heard or seen anything of them since you came here?” asked her
Ladyship.

“No, my Lady, except a hurried salute yesterday from a carriage as we
drove in. I just caught sight of the Duchesse as she waved her hand to
me.”

“Oh, I saw it. I returned the salutation, never suspecting it was meant
for _you_. And she was your companion--your dear friend--long ago?”

“Yes, my Lady,” said Kate, bending down over her work, but showing in
the crimson flush that spread over her neck how the speech had touched
her.

“And you used to correspond, I think?” continued her Ladyship.

“We did so, my Lady.”

“And she dropped it, of course, when she married,--she had other things
to think of?”

“I 'm afraid, my Lady, the lapse was on _my_ side,” said Kate, scarcely
repressing a smile at her own hardihood.

“_Your_ side! Do you mean to say that you so far forgot what was due
to the station of the Duchesse de Mirecourt, that you left her letter
unreplied to?”

“Not exactly, my Lady.”

“Then, pray, what do you mean?”

Kate paused for a second or two, and then, in a very calm and collected
voice, replied,--“I told the Duchesse, in my last letter, that I should
write no more,--that my life was thrown in a wild, unfrequented region,
where no incident broke the monotony, and that were I to continue our
correspondence, my letters must degenerate into a mere selfish record of
my own sentiments, as unprofitable to read as ungraceful to write; and
so I said good-bye--or _au revoir_, at least--till other scenes might
suggest other thoughts.”

“A most complimentary character of our Land of the West, certainly!
I really was not aware before that Cro' Martin was regarded as an
'oubliette.'”

Kate made no answer,--a silence which seemed rather to irritate than
appease her Ladyship.

“I hope you included the family in your dreary picture. I trust it was
not a mere piece of what artists call still life, Miss Henderson?”

“No, my Lady,” said she, with a deep sigh; but the tone and manner of
the rejoinder were anything but apologetic.

“Now I call that as well done as anything one sees in Hyde Park,” cried
the Captain, directing attention as he spoke to a very handsome chariot
which had just driven up to the door. “They're inquiring for somebody
here,” continued he, as he watched the Chasseur as he came and went from
the carriage to the house.

“There's a Grandee of Spain, or something of that kind, lives on the
fourth floor, I think,” said Martin, dryly.

“The Duchesse de Mirecourt, my Lady,” said a servant, entering, “begs to
know if your Ladyship will receive her?”

Kate started at the words, and her color rose till her cheeks were
crimsoned.

“A visit, I suspect, rather for you than me, Miss Henderson,” said Lady
Dorothea, in a half-whisper; and then turning to her servant, nodded her
acquiescence.

“I 'm off,” said Martin, rising suddenly to make his escape.

“And I too,” said the Captain, as he made his exit by an opposite door.

The folding-doors of the apartment were at the same moment thrown wide,
and the Duchess entered. Very young,--almost girlish, indeed,--she
combined in her appearance the charming freshness of youth with that
perfection of gracefulness which attaches to the higher classes
of French society, and although handsome, more striking from the
fascination of manner than for any traits of beauty. Courtesying
slightly, but deferentially, to Lady Dorothea, she apologized for her
intrusion by the circumstance of having, the day before, caught sight of
her “dear governess and dear friend--” And as she reached thus far, the
deep-drawn breathing of another attracted her. She turned and saw Kate,
who, pale as a statue, stood leaning on a chair. In an instant she
was in her arms, exclaiming, in a rapture of delight, “My dear, dear
Kate,--my more than sister! You would forgive me, madam,” said she,
addressing Lady Dorothea, “if you but knew what we were to each other.
Is it not so, Kate?”

A faint tremulous motion of the lips--all colorless as they were--was
the only reply to the speech; but the young Frenchwoman needed none, but
turning to her Ladyship, poured forth with native volubility a story of
their friendship, the graceful language in which she uttered it lending
those choice phrases which never seem exaggerations of sentiment till
they be translated into other tongues. Mingling her praises with half
reproaches, she drew a picture of Kate so flattering that Lady Dorothea
could not help a sense of shrinking terror that one should speak in such
terms of the governess.

“And now, dearest,” added she, turning to Kate, “are we to see a great
deal of each other? When can you come to me? Pardon me, madam, this
question should be addressed to you.”

“Miss Henderson is my secretary, Madame la Duchesse; she is also my
companion,” said Lady Dorothea, haughtily; “but I can acknowledge claims
which take date before my own. She shall be always at liberty when you
wish for her.”

“How kind, how good of you!” cried the Duchess. “I could have been
certain of that. I knew that my dear Kate must be loved by all around
her. We have a little _fête_ on Wednesday at St. Germain. May I bespeak
her for that day?”

“Her Ladyship suffers her generosity to trench upon her too far,” said
Kate, in a low voice. “I am in a manner necessary to her,--that is, my
absence would be inconvenient.”

“But her Ladyship will doubtless be in the world herself that evening.
There is a ball at the Duchesse de Sargance, and the Austrian Minister
has something,” rattled on the lively Duchess. “Paris is so gay just
now, so full of pleasant people, and all so eager for enjoyment. Don't
you find it so, my Lady?”

“I go but little into society!” said Lady Dorothea, stiffly.

“How strange! and I--I cannot live without it. Even when we go to our
Château at Roche-Mire I carry away with me all my friends who will
consent to come. We try to imitate that delightful life of your country
houses, and make up that great family party which is the _beau idéal_ of
social enjoyment.”

“And you like a country life, then?” asked her Ladyship.

“To be sure. I love the excursions on horseback, the forest drives, the
evening walks in the trellised vines, the parties one makes to see a
thousand things one never looks at afterwards; the little dinners on the
grass, with all their disasters, and the moonlight drive homewards, half
joyous, half romantic,--not to speak of that charming frankness by which
every one makes confession of his besetting weakness, and each has some
little secret episode of his own life to tell the others. All but Kate
here,” cried she, laughingly, “who never revealed anything.”

“Madame la Duchesse will, I 'm sure, excuse my absence; she has
doubtless many things she would like to say to her friend alone,” said
Lady Dorothea, rising and courtesying formally; and the young Duchess
returned the salutation with equal courtesy and respect.

“My dear, dear Kate,” cried she, throwing her arms around her as the
door closed after her Ladyship, “how I have longed for this moment,
to tell you ten thousand things about myself and hear from you as many
more! And first, dearest, are you happy? for you look more serious, more
thoughtful than you used,--and paler, too.”

“Am I so?” asked Kate, faintly.

“Yes. When you're not speaking, your brows grow stern and your lips
compressed. Your features have not that dear repose, as Giorgevo used to
call it. Poor fellow! how much in love he was, and you 've never asked
for him!”

“I never thought of him!” said she, with a smile.

“Nor of Florian, Kate!”

“Nor even of him.”

[Illustration: 044]

“And yet that poor fellow was really in love,--nay, don't laugh, Kate,
I know it. He gave up his career, everything he had in life,--he was
a Secretary of Legation, with good prospects,--all to win your favor,
becoming a 'Carbonaro,' or a 'Montagnard,' or something or other that
swears to annihilate all kings and extirpate monarchy.”

“And after that?” asked Kate, with more of interest.

“After that, ma chère, they sent him to the galleys; I forget exactly
where, but I think it was in Sicily. And then there was that Hungarian
Count Nemescz, that wanted to kill somebody who picked up your bouquet
out of the Grand Canal at Venice.”

“And whom, strangely enough, I met and made acquaintance with in
Ireland. His name is Massingbred.”

“Not the celebrity, surely,--the young politician who made such a
sensation by a first speech in Parliament t'other day? He's all the rage
here. Could it be him?”

“Possibly enough,” said she, carelessly. “He had very good abilities,
and knew it.”

“He comes to us occasionally, but I scarcely have any acquaintance with
him. But this is not telling me of yourself, child. Who and what are
these people you are living with? Do they value my dear Kate as they
ought? Are they worthy of having her amongst them?”

“I 'm afraid not,” said Kate, with a smile. “They do not seem at all
impressed with the blessing they enjoy, and only treat me as one of
themselves.”

“But, seriously, child, are they as kind as they should be? That old
lady is, to my thinking, as austere as an Archduchess.”

“I like her,” said Kate; “that is, I like her cold, reserved manner,
unbending as it is, which only demands the quiet duties of servitude,
and neither asks nor wishes for affection. She admits me to no
friendship, but she exacts no attachment.”

“And you like this?”

“I did not say I should like it from _you!_ said Kate, pressing the hand
she held fervently to her lips, while her pale cheek grew faintly red.

“And you go into the world with her,--at least _her_ world?”

“She has none here. Too haughty for second-rate society, and unknown to
those who form the first class at Paris, she never goes out.”

“But she would--she would like to do so?”

“I 'm sure she would.”

“Then mamma shall visit her. You know she is everything here; her house
is the rendezvous of all the distinguished people, and, once seen in her
salons, my Lady--how do you call her?”

“Lady Dorothea Martin.”

“I can't repeat it--but no matter--her Ladyship shall not want for
attentions. Perhaps she would condescend to come to me on Wednesday?
Dare I venture to ask her?”

Kate hesitated, and the Duchess quickly rejoined,--“No, dearest, you are
quite right; it would be hazardous, too abrupt, too unceremonious. You
will, however, be with us; and I long to present you to all my friends,
and show them one to whom I owe so much, and ought to be indebted to
for far more. I 'll send for you early, that we may have a long morning
together.” And so saying, she arose to take leave.

“I feel as though I 'll scarcely believe I had seen you when you have
gone,” said Kate, earnestly. “I'll fancy it all a dream--or rather, that
my life since we met has been one, and that we had never parted.”

“Were we not very happy then, Kate?” said the Duchess, with a half-sigh;
“happier, perhaps, than we may ever be again.”

“_You_ must not say so, at all events,” said Kate, once more embracing
her. And they parted.

Kate arose and watched the splendid equipage as it drove away, and then
slowly returned to her place at the work-table. She did not, however,
resume her embroidery, but sat deep in reflection, with her hands
clasped before her.

“Poor fellow!” said she, at length, “a galley-slave, and Massingbred a
celebrity! So much for honesty and truth in this good world of ours! Can
it always go on thus? That is the question I'm curious to hear solved.
A little time may, perhaps, reveal it!” So saying to herself, she leaned
her head upon her hand, deep lost in thought.



CHAPTER IV. A VERY GREAT FAVOR

Amongst the embarrassments of story-telling there is one which, to be
appreciated, must have been experienced; it is, however, sufficiently
intelligible to claim sympathy even by indicating,--we mean the
difficulty a narrator has in the choice of those incidents by which
his tale is to be marked out, and the characters who fill it adequately
depicted.

It is quite clear that a great number of events must occur in the story
of every life of which no record can be made; some seem too trivial,
some too irrelevant for mention, and yet, when we come to reflect upon
real life itself, how many times do we discover that what appeared to be
but the veriest trifles were the mainsprings of an entire existence,
and the incidents which we deemed irrelevant were the hidden links
that connected a whole chain of events? How easy, then, to err in the
selection! This difficulty presents itself strongly to us at present; a
vast number of circumstances rise before us from which we must refrain,
lest they should appear to indicate a road we are not about to travel;
and, at the same time, we feel the want of those very events to
reconcile what may well seem contradictions in our history.

It not unfrequently happens that an apology is just as tiresome as
the offence it should excuse; and so, without further explanation, we
proceed. Lady Dorothea soon found herself as much sought after as she
had previously been neglected. The Duchesse de Luygnes was the great
leader of fashion at Paris; and the marked attentions by which she
distinguished her Ladyship at once established her position. Of course
her unquestionable claim to station, and her own high connections
rendered the task less difficult; while it imparted to Lady Dorothea's
own manner and bearing that degree of dignity and calm which never
accompany an insecure elevation.

With such refinement of delicacy, such exquisite tact, was every step
managed that her Ladyship was left to suppose every attention she
received sprung out of her own undeniable right to them, and to the
grace and charm of a manner which really had had its share of success
some five-and-thirty years before. The gloomy isolation she had passed
through gave a stronger contrast to the enjoyment of her present life;
and for the first time for years she regained some of that courtly
elegance of address which in her youth had pre-eminently distinguished
her. The change had worked favorably in her temper also; and Martin
perceived, with astonishment, that she neither made injurious
comparisons between the present and the past, nor deemed the age they
lived in one of insufferable vulgarity. It would scarcely have been
possible for Lady Dorothea not to connect her altered position with the
friendship between Kate Henderson and her former pupil; she knew it, and
she felt it. All her self-esteem could not get over this consciousness;
but it was a humiliation reserved for her own heart, since nothing in
Kate's manner indicated even a suspicion of the fact. On the contrary,
never had she shown herself more submissive and dependent. The duties
of her office, multiplied as they were tenfold by her Ladyship's
engagements, were all punctually acquitted, and with a degree of tact
and cleverness that obtained from Lady Dorothea the credit of a charming
note-writer. Nor was she indifferent to the effect Kate produced in
society, where her beauty and fascination had already made a deep
impression.

Reserving a peculiar deference and respect for all her intercourse with
Lady Dorothea, Kate Henderson assumed to the world at large the ease and
dignity of one whose station was the equal of any. There was nothing in
her air or bearing that denoted the dependant; there was rather a dash
of haughty superiority, which did not scruple to avow itself and bid
defiance to any bold enough to question its claims. Even this was a
secret flattery to Lady Dorothea's heart; and she saw with satisfaction
the success of that imperious tone which to herself was subdued to
actual humility.

Lady Dorothea Martin and her beautiful companion were now celebrities
at Paris; and, assuredly, no city of the world knows how to shower
more fascinations on those it favors. Life became to them a round of
brilliant festivities. They received invitations from every quarter, and
everywhere were met with that graceful welcome so sure to greet those
whose airs and whose dress are the ornaments of a salon. They “received”
 at home, too; and her Ladyship's Saturdays were about the most exclusive
of all Parisian receptions. Tacitly, at least, the whole management and
direction of these “Evenings” was committed to Kate. Martin strictly
abstained from a society in every way distasteful to him. The Captain
had come to care for nothing but play, so that the Club was his only
haunt; and it was the rarest of all events to see him pass even a few
minutes in the drawing-room. He had, besides, that degree of shrinking
dislike to Kate Henderson which a weak man very often experiences
towards a clever and accomplished girl. When he first joined his family
at Paris, he was struck by her great beauty and the elegance of a manner
that might have dignified any station, and he fell partly in love,--that
is to say, as much in love as a captain of hussars could permit himself
to feel for a governess. He condescended to make small advances, show
her petty attentions, and even distinguish her by that flattering stare,
with his glass to his eye, which he had known to be what the poet calls
“blush-compelling” in many a fair cheek in provincial circles.

To his marvellous discomfiture, however, these measures were not
followed by any success. She never as much as seemed aware of them, and
treated him with the same polite indifference, as though he had been
neither a hussar nor a lady-killer. Of course he interpreted this as a
piece of consummate cunning; he had no other measure for her capacity
than would have been suited to his own. She was a deep one, evidently
bent on drawing him on, and entangling him in some stupid declaration,
and so he grew cautious. But, somehow, his reserve provoked as little
as his boldness. She did not change in the least; she treated him with a
quiet, easy sort of no-notice,--the most offensive thing possible to one
bent upon being impressive, and firmly persuaded that he need only wish,
to be the conqueror.

Self-worship was too strong in him to suffer a single doubt as to his
own capacity for success, and therefore the only solution to the mystery
of her manner was its being an artful scheme, which time and a little
watching would surely explain. Time went on, and yet he grew none the
wiser; Kate continued the same impassive creature as at first. She never
sought,--never avoided him. She met him without constraint,--without
pleasure, too. They never became intimate, while there was no distance
in their intercourse; till at last, wounded in his self-esteem, he
began to feel that discomfort in her presence which only waits for the
slightest provocation to become actual dislike.

With that peevishness that belongs to small minds, he would have been
glad to have discovered some good ground for hating her; and a dozen
times a day did he fancy that he had “hit the blot,” but somehow he
always detected his mistake erelong; and thus did he live on in that
tantalizing state of uncertainty and indecision which combines about as
much suffering as men of his stamp are capable of feeling.

If Lady Dorothea never suspected the degree of influence Kate silently
exercised over her, the Captain saw it palpably, and tried to nourish
the knowledge into a ground for dislike. But somehow she would no more
suffer herself to be hated than to be loved, and invariably baffled
all his attempts to “get up” an indignation against her. By numberless
devices--too slight, too evanescent to be called regular coquetry--she
understood how to conciliate him, even in his roughest moods, while she
had only to make the very least possible display of her attractions to
fascinate him in his happier moments. The gallant hussar was not much
given to self-examination. It was one of the last positions he would
have selected; and yet he had confessed to his own heart that, though he
'd not like to marry her himself, he 'd be sorely tempted to shoot any
man who made her his wife.

Lady Dorothea and Kate Henderson were seated one morning engaged in the
very important task of revising the invitation-book,--weeding out the
names of departed acquaintance, and canvassing the claims of those who
should succeed them. The rigid criticism as to eligibility showed how
great an honor was the card for her Ladyship's “Tea.” While they were
thus occupied, Captain Martin entered the room with an open letter in
his hand, his air and manner indicating flurry, if not actual agitation.

“Sorry to interrupt a privy council,” said he, “but I've come to ask
a favor,--don't look frightened; it's not for a woman, my Lady,--but I
want a card for your next Saturday, for a male friend of mine.”

“Kate has just been telling me that 'our men' are too numerous.”

“Impossible. Miss Henderson knows better than any one that the success
of these things depends on having a host of men,--all ages, all classes,
all sorts of people,” said he, indolently.

“I think we have complied with your theory,” said she, pointing to the
book before her. “If our ladies are chosen for their real qualities, the
men have been accepted with a most generous forbearance.”

“One more, then, will not damage the mixture.”

“Of course, Captain Martin, it is quite sufficient that he is a friend
of yours--that you wish it--”

“But it is no such thing, Miss Henderson,” broke in Lady Dorothea. “We
have already given deep umbrage in many quarters--very high quarters,
too--by refusals; and a single mistake would be fatal to us.”

“But why need this be a mistake?” cried Captain Martin, peevishly. “The
man is an acquaintance of mine,--a friend, if you like to call him so.”

“And who is he?” asked my Lady, with all the solemnity of a judge.

“A person I met at the Cape. We travelled home together--saw a great
deal of each other--in fact--I know him as intimately as I do--any
officer in my regiment,” said the Captain, blundering and faltering at
every second word.

“Oh! then he is one of your own corps?” said her Ladyship.

“I never said so,” broke he in. “If he had been, I don't fancy I should
need to employ much solicitation in his behalf; the--they are not
usually treated in that fashion!”

“I trust we should know how to recognize their merits,” said Kate,
with a look which sorely puzzled him whether it meant conciliation or
raillery.

“And his name?” asked my Lady. “His name ought to be decisive, without
anything more!”

“He's quite a stranger here, knows nobody, so that you incur no risk as
to any impertinent inquiries, and when he leaves this, to-morrow or next
day, you 'll never see him again.” This the Captain said with all the
confusion of an inexpert man in a weak cause.

“Shall I address his card, or will you take it yourself, Captain
Martin?” said Kate, in a low voice.

“Write Merl,--Mr. Herman Merl,” said he, dropping his own voice to the
same tone.

“Merl!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, whose quick hearing detected the words.
“Why, where on earth could you have made acquaintance with a man called
Merl?”

“I have told you already where and how we met; and if it be
any satisfaction to you to know that I am under considerable
obligations--heavy obligations--to this same gentleman, perhaps it might
incline you to show him some mark of attention.”

“You could have him to dinner at your Club,--you might even bring him
here, when we're alone, Harry; but really, to receive him at one of
our Evenings! You know how curious people are, what questions they will
ask:--'Who is that queer-looking man?'--I 'm certain he is so.--'Is he
English?'--'Who does he belong to?'--'Does he know any one?'”

“Let them ask me, then,” said Martin, “and I may, perhaps, be able to
satisfy them.” At the same moment he took up from the table the card
which Kate had just written, giving her a look of grateful recognition
as he did so.

“You 've done this at your own peril, Miss Henderson,” said Lady
Dorothea, half upbraidingly.

“At _mine_, be it rather,” said the Captain, sternly.

“I accept my share of it willingly,” said Kate, with a glance which
brought a deep flush over the hussar's cheek, and sent through him a
strange thrill of pleasure.

“Then I am to suppose we shall be honored with your own presence on this
occasion,--rare favor that it is,” said her Ladyship.

“Yes, I 'll look in. I promised Merl to present him.”

“Oh, you need n't!” said she, peevishly. “Half the men merely make their
bow when they meet me, and neither expect me to remember who they are
or to notice them. I may leave your distinguished friend in the same
category.”

A quick glance from Kate--fleeting, but full of meaning--stopped Martin
as he was about to make a hasty reply. And, crumpling up the card with
suppressed passion, he turned and left the room.

“Don't put that odious name on our list, Miss Henderson,” said Lady
Dorothea; “we shall never have him again.”

“I 'm rather curious to see him,” said Kate. “All this discussion has
imparted a kind of interest to him, not to say that there would seem
something like a mystery in Captain Martin's connection with him.”

“I confess to no such curiosity,” said my Lady, haughtily. “The taste
to be amused by vulgarity is like the passion some people have to see an
hospital; you may be interested by the sight, but you may catch a malady
for your pains.” And with this observation of mingled truth and fallacy
her Ladyship sailed proudly out of the room in all the conscious
importance of her own cleverness.



CHAPTER V. A LETTER FROM HOME

While this discussion was going on, Martin was seated in his own room,
examining the contents of his letter-bag, which the post had just
delivered to him. A very casual glance at his features would have
discovered that the tidings which met his eye were very rarely of a
pleasant character. For the most part the letters were importunate
appeals for money, subscriptions, loans, small sums to be repaid when
the borrower had risen above his present difficulties, aids to effect
some little enterprise on whose very face was failure. Then there were
the more formal demands for sums actually due, written in the perfection
of coercive courtesy, subjecting the reader to all the tortures of a
moral surgical operation, a suffering actually increased by the very
dexterity of the manipulator. Then came, in rugged hand and gnarled
shape, urgent entreaties for abatements and allowances, pathetic
pictures of failing crops, sickness and sorrow! Somewhat in contrast to
these in matter--most strikingly unlike them in manner--was a short note
from Mr. Maurice Scanlan. Like a rebutting witness in a cause, he spoke
of everything as going on favorably; prices were fair, the oat crop a
reasonable one. There was distress, to be sure, but who ever saw the
West without it? The potatoes had partially failed; but as there was a
great deal of typhus and a threat of cholera, there would be fewer to
eat them. The late storms had done a good deal of mischief, but as the
timber thrown down might be sold without any regard to the entail, some
thousand pounds would thus be realized; and as the gale had carried away
the new pier at Kilkieran, there would be no need to give a bounty to
the fishermen who could not venture out to sea. The damage done to the
house and the conservatories at Cro' Martin offered an opportunity to
congratulate the owner on the happiness of living in a milder climate;
while the local squabbles of the borough suggested a pleasant contrast
with all the enjoyments of a life abroad.

On the whole, Mr. Scanlan's letter was rather agreeable than the
reverse, since he contrived to accompany all the inevitable ills of
fortune by some side-wind consolations, and when pushed hard for these,
skilfully insinuated in what way “things might have been worse.” If the
letter did not reflect very favorably on either the heart or brain that
conceived it, it well suited him to whom it was addressed. To screen
himself from whatever might irritate him, to escape an unpleasant
thought or unhappy reflection, to avoid, above all things, the slightest
approach of self-censure, was Martin's great philosophy; and he esteemed
the man who gave him any aid in this road. Now newspapers might croak
their dark predictions about the coming winter, prophesy famine, fever,
and pestilence; Scanlan's letter, “written from the spot,” by “one who
enjoyed every opportunity for forming a correct opinion,” was there,
and _he_ said matters were pretty much as usual. The West of Ireland had
never been a land of milk and honey, and nobody expected it ever would
be,--the people could live in it, however, and pay rents too; and as
Martin felt that he had no undue severity to reproach himself with,
he folded up the epistle, saying that “when a man left his house and
property for a while, it was a real blessing to have such a fellow as
Scanlan to manage for him;” and truly, if one could have his conscience
kept for a few hundreds a year, the compact might be a pleasant one. But
even to the most self-indulgent this plan is impracticable; and so might
it now be seen in Martin's heightened color and fidgety manner, and
that even _he_ was not as much at ease within as he wished to persuade
himself he was.

Amid the mass of correspondence, pamphlets and newspapers, one note,
very small and neatly folded, had escaped Martin's notice till the very
last; and it was only as he heaped up a whole bundle to throw into the
fire that he discovered this, in Mary's well-known hand. He held it
for some time ere he broke the seal, and his features assumed a sadder,
graver cast than before. His desertion of her--and he had not blinked
the word to himself--had never ceased to grieve him; and however
disposed he often felt to throw upon others the blame which attached to
himself here, he attempted no casuistry, but stood quietly, without one
plea in his favor, before his own heart.

The very consciousness of his culpability had prevented him writing to
her as he ought; his letters were few, short, and constrained. Not all
the generous frankness of hers could restore to him the candid ease of
his former intercourse with her; and every chance expression he used was
conned over and canvassed by him, lest it might convey some sentiment,
or indicate some feeling foreign to his intention. At length so painful
had the task become that he had ceased writing altogether, contenting
himself with a message through Kate Henderson,--some excuse about his
health, fatigue,-and so forth, ever coupled with a promise that he
would soon be himself again, and as active a correspondent as she could
desire.

To these apologies Mary always replied in a kindly spirit. Whatever
sorrow they might have cost her she kept for herself; they never
awakened one expression of impatience, not a word of reproach. She
understood him thoroughly,--his easy indolence of disposition, his
dislike to a task, his avoidance of whatever was possible to defer;
more even than all these, his own unforgiveness of himself for his part
towards her. To alleviate, so far as she might, the poignancy of the
last, was for a while the great object of all her letters; and so
she continued to expatiate on the happy life she was leading, her
contentment with the choice she had made of remaining there, throwing
in little playful sallies of condolence at her uncle's banishment, and
jestingly assuring him how much happier he would be at home!

In whatever mood, however, she wrote, there was a striking absence of
whatever could fret or grieve her uncle throughout all her letters. She
selected every pleasant topic and the favorable side of every theme to
tell of. She never forgot any little locality which he had been partial
to, or any of the people who were his favorites; and, in fact, it might
have seemed that the great object she had in view was to attach him more
and more to the home he had left, and strengthen every tie that bound
him to his own country. And all this was done lightly and playfully, and
with a pleasant promise of the happiness he should feel on the day of
his return.

These letters were about the pleasantest incidents in Martin's present
life; and the day which brought him one was sure to pass agreeably,
while he made vigorous resolutions about writing a reply, and sometimes
got even so far as to open a desk and ruminate over an answer. It so
chanced that now a much longer interval had occurred since Mary's last
letter, and the appearance of the present note, so unlike the voluminous
epistle she usually despatched, struck him with a certain dismay. “Poor
Molly,” said he, as he broke the seal, “she is growing weary at last;
this continued neglect is beginning to tell upon her. A little more,
and she 'll believe--as well she may--that we have forgotten her
altogether.”

The note was even briefer than he had suspected. It was written, too,
in what might seem haste, or agitation, and the signature forgotten.
Martin's hand trembled, and his chest heaved heavily as he read the
following lines:--

“Cro' Martin, Wednesday Night

“Dearest Uncle,--You will not suffer these few lines to remain
unanswered, since they are written in all the pressure of a great
emergency. Our worst fears for the harvest are more than realized; a
total failure in the potatoes--a great diminution in the oat crop; the
incessant rains have flooded all the low meadows, and the cattle are
almost without forage, while from the same cause no turf can be cut, and
even that already cut and stacked cannot be drawn away from the bogs.
But, worse than all these, typhus is amongst us, and cholera, they say,
coming. I might stretch out this dreary catalogue, but here is enough,
more than enough, to awaken your sympathies and arouse you to action.
There is a blight on the land; the people are starving--dying. If every
sense of duty was dead within us, if we could harden our hearts against
every claim of those from whose labor we derive ease, from whose toil we
draw wealth and leisure, we might still be recalled to better things
by the glorious heroism of these poor people, so nobly courageous, so
patient are they in their trials. It is not now that I can speak of
the traits I have witnessed of their affection, their charity, their
self-denial, and their daring--but now is the moment to show them that
we, who have been dealt with more favorably by fortune, are not devoid
of the qualities which adorn their nature.

“I feel all the cruelty of narrating these things to you, too far away
from the scene of sorrow to aid by your counsel and encourage by your
assistance; but it would be worse than cruelty to conceal from you
that a terrible crisis is at hand, which will need all your energy to
mitigate.

“Some measures are in your power, and must be adopted at once. There
must be a remission of rent almost universally, for the calamity has
involved all; and such as are a little richer than their neighbors
should be aided, that they may be the more able to help them. Some
stores of provisions must be provided to be sold at reduced rates, or
even given gratuitously. Medical aid must be had, and an hospital
of some sort established. The able-bodied must be employed on some
permanent work; and for these, we want power from you and some present
moneyed assistance. I will not harrow your feelings with tales of
sufferings. You have seen misery here--enough, I say--you have witnessed
nothing like this, and we are at but the beginning.

“Write to me at once yourself--this is no occasion to employ a
deputy--and forgive me, dearest uncle, for I know not what faults of
presumption I may have here committed. My head is confused; the crash
of misfortunes has addled me, and each succeed so rapidly on each other,
that remedies are scarcely employed than they have to be abandoned.
When, however, I can tell the people that it is their own old friend and
master that sends them help, and bids them to be of good cheer,--when
I can show them that, although separated by distance, your heart never
ceases to live amongst them,--I know well the magic working of such a
spell upon them, and how, with a bravery that the boldest soldier never
surpassed, they will rise up against the stern foes of sickness and
famine, and do battle with hard fortune manfully.

“You have often smiled at what you deemed my exaggerated opinion of
these poor people,--my over-confidence in their capacity for good.
Oh--take my word for it--I never gave them credit for one half the
excellence of their natures. They are on their trial now, and nobly do
they sustain it!

“I have no heart to answer all your kind questions about myself,--enough
that I am well; as little can I ask you about all your doings in Paris.
I 'm afraid I should but lose temper if I heard that they were pleasant
ones; and yet, with my whole soul, I wish you to be happy; and with
this,

“Believe me your affectionate

“Mr. Repton has written me the kindest of letters, full of good advice
and good sense; he has also enclosed me a check for £100, with an offer
of more if wanted. I was low and depressed when his note reached me,
but it gave me fresh energy and hope. He proposed to come down here if
I wished; but how could I ask such a sacrifice,--how entreat him to face
the peril?”

“Tell Captain Martin I wish to speak to him,” said Martin, as he
finished the perusal of this letter. And in a few minutes after, that
gallant personage appeared, not a little surprised at the summons.

“I have got a letter from Mary here,” said Martin, vainly endeavoring
to conceal his agitation as he spoke, “which I want to show you. Matters
are in a sad plight in the West. She never exaggerates a gloomy story,
and her account is very afflicting. Read it.”

The Captain lounged towards the window, and, leaning listlessly against
the wall, opened the epistle.

“You have not written to her lately, then?” asked he, as he perused the
opening sentence.

“I am ashamed to say I have not; every day I made a resolution; but
somehow--”

“Is all this anything strange or new?” broke in the Captain. “I 'm
certain I have forty letters from my mother with exactly the same story.
In fact, before I ever broke the seal, I 'd have wagered an equal
fifty that the potatoes had failed, the bogs were flooded, the roads
impassable, and the people dying in thousands; and yet, when spring came
round, by some happy miracle they were all alive and merry again!”

“Read on,” said Martin, impatiently, and barely able to control himself
at this heartless commentary.

“Egad! I 'd have sworn I had read all this before, except these same
suggestions about not exacting the rents, building hospitals, and so
forth; that _is_ new. And why does she say, 'Don't write by deputy'? Who
_was_ your deputy?”

“Kate Henderson has written for me latterly.”

“And I should say she 's quite equal to that sort of thing; she dashes
off my mother's notes at score, and talks away, too, all the time she 's
writing.”

“That is not the question before us,” said Martin, sternly.

“When I sent for you to read that letter, it was that you might advise
and counsel me what course to take.”

“If you can afford to give away a year's income in the shape of rent,
and about as much more in the shape of a donation, of course you 're
quite free to do it. I only wish that your generosity would begin at
home, though; for I own to you I 'm very hard-up at this moment.” This
the Captain spoke with an attempted jocularity which decreased with
every word, till it subsided into downright seriousness ere he finished.

“So far from being in a position to do an act of munificence, I am
sorely pressed for money,” said Martin.

The Captain started; the half-smile with which he had begun to receive
this speech died away on his lips as he asked, “Is this really the
case?”

“Most truly so,” said Martin, solemnly.

“But how, in the name of everything absurd--how is this possible? By
what stratagem could you have spent five thousand a year at Cro' Martin,
and your estate was worth almost three times as much? Giving a very wide
margin for waste and robbery, I 'd say five thousand could not be made
away with there in a twelvemonth.”

“Your question only shows me how carelessly you must have read my
letters to you, in India,” said Martin; “otherwise you could not have
failed to see the vast improvements we have been carrying out on the
property,--the roads, the harbors, the new quarries opened, the extent
of ground covered by plantation,--all the plans, in fact, which Mary had
matured--”

“Mary! Mary!” exclaimed the Captain. “And do you tell me that all these
things were done at the instigation of a young girl of nineteen or
twenty, without any knowledge, or even advice--”

“And who said she was deficient in knowledge?” cried Martin. “Take up
the map of the estate; see the lands she has reclaimed; look at the
swamps you used to shoot snipe over bearing corn crops; see the thriving
village, where once the boatmen were starving, for they dared not
venture out to sea without a harbor against bad weather.”

“Tell me the cost of all this. What's the figure?” said the Captain;
“that's the real test of all these matters, for if _your_ income could
only feed this outlay, I pronounce the whole scheme the maddest thing
in Christendom. My mother's taste for carved oak cabinets and historical
pictures is the quintessence of wisdom in comparison.”

Martin was overwhelmed and silent, and the other went on,--“Half the
fellows in 'ours' had the same story to tell,--of estates wasted,
and fine fortunes squandered in what are called improvements. If the
possession of a good property entails the necessity to spend it all in
this fashion, one is very little better than a kind of land-steward to
one's own estate; and, for my part, I 'd rather call two thousand a year
my own, to do what I pleased with, than have a nominal twenty, of which
I must disburse nineteen.”

“Am I again to remind you that this is not the question before us?” said
Martin, with increased sternness.

“That is exactly the very question,” rejoined the Captain. “Mary here
coolly asks you, in the spirit of this same improvement-scheme, to
relinquish a year's income, and make a present of I know not how much
more, simply because things are going badly with them, just as if
everybody has n't their turn of ill-fortune. Egad, I can answer for it,
_mine_ has n't been flourishing latterly, and yet I have heard of no
benevolent plan on foot to aid or release me!”

To this heartless speech, uttered, however, in most perfect sincerity,
Martin made no reply whatever, but sat with folded arms, deep in
contemplation. At length, raising his head, he asked, “And have you,
then, no counsel to give,--no suggestion to make me?”

“Well,” said he, suddenly, “if Mary has not greatly overcharged all this
story--”

“That she has not,” cried Martin, interrupting him. “There 's not a
line, not a word of her letter, I 'd not guarantee with all I 'm worth
in the world.”

“In that case,” resumed the Captain, in the same indolent tone, “they
must be in a sorry plight, and _I_ think ought to cut and run as fast as
they can. I know that's what _we_ do in India; when the cholera comes,
we break up the encampment, and move off somewhere else. Tell Mary,
then, to advise them to keep out of 'the jungle,' and make for the hill
country.'”

Martin stared at the speaker for some seconds, and it was evident how
difficult he found it to believe that the words he had just listened to
were uttered in deliberate seriousness.

“If you have read that letter, you certainly have not understood it,”
 said he at last, in a voice full of melancholy meaning.

“Egad, it's only too easy of comprehension,” replied the Captain; “of
all things in life, there's no mistaking a demand for money.”

“Just take it with you to your own room, Harry,” said Martin, with
a manner of more affection than he had yet employed. “It is my firm
persuasion that when you have re-read and thought over it, your
impression will be a different one. Con it over in solitude, and then
come back and give me your advice.”

The Captain was not sorry to adopt a plan which relieved him so speedily
from a very embarrassing situation, and, folding up the note, he turned
and left the room.

There are a great number of excellent people in this world who believe
that “Thought,” like “Écarté,” is a game which requires two people to
play. The Captain was one of these; nor was it within his comprehension
to imagine how any one individual could suffice to raise the doubts he
was called on to canvass or decide. “Who should he now have recourse
to?” was his first question; and he had scarcely proposed it to himself
when a soft low voice said, “What is puzzling Captain Martin?--can I be
of any service to him?” He turned and saw Kate Henderson.

“Only think how fortunate!” exclaimed he. “Just come in here to this
drawing-room, and give me your advice.”

“Willingly,” said she, with a courtesy the more marked because his
manner indicated a seriousness that betokened trouble.

“My father has just dismissed me to cogitate over this epistle; as
if, after all, when one has read a letter, that any secret or mystical
interpretation is to come by all the reconsideration and reflection in
the world.”

“Am I to read it?” asked Kate, as he placed it in her hand.

“Of course you are,” said he.

“There is nothing confidential or private in it which I ought not to
see?”

“Nothing; and if there were,” added he, warmly, “_you_ are one of
ourselves, I trust,--at least _I_ think you so.”

Kate's lips closed with almost stern % impressiveness, but her color
never changed at this speech, and she opened the letter in silence. For
some minutes she continued to read with the same impassive expression;
but gradually her cheek became paler, and a haughty, almost scornful,
expression settled on her lips. “So patient are they in their trials,”
 said she, reading aloud the expression of Mary's note. “Is it not
possible, Captain Martin, that patience may be pushed a little beyond a
virtue, and become something very like cowardice,--abject cowardice?
And then,” cried she impetuously, and not waiting for his reply, “to
say that now is the time to show these poor people the saving care and
protection that the rich owe them, as if the duty dated from the hour of
their being struck down by famine, laid low by pestilence, or that the
debt could ever be acquitted by the relief accorded to pauperism! Why
not have taught these same famished creatures self-dependence, elevated
them to the rank of civilized beings by the enjoyment of rights that
give men self-esteem as well as liberty? What do you mean to do,
sir?--or is that your difficulty?” cried she, hastily changing her tone
to one of less energy.

“Exactly,--that is _my difficulty_. My father, I suspect, wishes me to
concur in the pleasant project struck out by Mary, and that, by way of
helping _them_, we should ruin _ourselves_.”

“And _you_ are for--” She stopped, as if to let him finish her question
for her.

“Egad, I don't know well what I'm for, except it be self-preservation.
I mean,” said he, correcting himself, as a sudden glance of almost
insolent scorn shot from Kate's eyes towards him,--“I mean that I 'm
certain more than half of this account is sheer exaggeration. Mary is
frightened,--as well she may be,--finding herself all alone, and
hearing nothing but the high-colored stories the people brings her, and
listening to calamities from morning to night.”

“But still it _may_ be all true,” said Kate, solemnly. “It may be--as
Miss Martin writes--that 'there is a blight on the land.'”

“What's to be done, then?” asked he, in deep embarrassment.

“The first step is to ascertain what is fact,--the real extent of the
misfortune.”

“And how is that to be accomplished?” asked he.

“Can you not think of some means?” said she, with a scarcely perceptible
approach to a smile.

“No, by Jove! that I cannot, except by going over there one's self.”

“And why not that?” asked she, more boldly, while she fixed her large
full eyes directly upon him.

“If _you_ thought that I ought to go,--if you advised it and would
actually say 'Go'--”

“Well, if I should?”

“Then I'd set off to-night; though, to say truth, neither the journey
nor the business are much to my fancy.”

“Were they ten times less so, sir, I'd say, 'Go,'” said she, resolutely.

“Then go I will,” cried the Captain; “and I'll start within two hours.”



CHAPTER VI. MR. MERL'S DEPARTURE

Worthy reader, you are neither weak of purpose nor undecided in action;
as little are you easily moved by soft influences, when aided by long
eyelashes. But had you been so, it would have been no difficult effort
for you to comprehend the state of mind in which Captain Martin repaired
to his room to make preparation for his journey. There was a kind of
half chivalry in his present purpose that nerved and supported him. It
was like a knight-errant of old setting out to confront a peril at the
behest of his lady-love; but against this animating conviction there
arose that besetting sin of small minds,--a sense of distrust,--a
lurking suspicion that he might be, all this while, nothing but the dupe
of a very artful woman.

“Who can tell,” said he to himself, “what plan she may have in all this,
or what object she may propose to herself in getting _me_ out of the
way? I don't think she really cares one farthing about the distress of
these people, supposing it all to be true; and as to the typhus fever
and cholera, egad! if they be there, one ought to think twice before
rushing into the midst of them. And then, again, what do I know about
the country or its habits? I have no means of judging if it be poorer or
sicklier or; more wretched than usual. To _my_ eyes, it always seemed
at the lowest depth of want and misery; every one went half starved and
more than half naked. I 'm sure there is no necessity for my going some
few hundred and odd miles to refresh my memory on this pleasant fact;
and yet this is precisely what I 'm about to do. Is it by way of trying
her power over me? By Jove, I 've hit it!” cried he, suddenly, as he
stopped arranging a mass of letters which he was reducing to order
before his departure. “That's her game; there's no doubt of it! She
has said to herself, 'This will prove him. If he do this at my bidding,
he'll do more.' Ay, but will he, mademoiselle? that's the question. A
young hussar may turn out to be a very old soldier. What if I were just
to tell her so. Girls of her stamp like a man all the better when he
shows himself to be wide-awake. I 'd lay a fifty on it she 'll care more
for me when she sees I 'm her own equal in shrewdness. And, after all,
why should _I_ go? I could send my valet, Fletcher,--just the kind of
fellow for such a mission,--never knew the secret he could n't worm out;
there never was a bit of barrack scandal he did n't get to the bottom
of. He 'd be back here within a fortnight, with the whole state of the
case, and I'll be bound there will be no humbugging _him_.”

This bright idea was not, however, without its share of detracting
reflections, for what became of all that personal heroism on which he
reposed such hope, if the danger were to be encountered by deputy? This
was a puzzle, not the less that he had not yet made up his mind whether
he 'd really be in love with Kate Henderson, or only involve _her_ in an
unfortunate attachment for _him_. While he thus pondered and hesitated,
strewing his room with the contents of drawers and cabinets, by way of
aiding the labor of preparation, his door was suddenly opened, and Mr.
Merl made his appearance. Although dressed with all his habitual regard
to effect, and more than an ordinary display of chains and trinkets,
that gentleman's aspect betokened trouble and anxiety; at least, there
was a certain restlessness in his eye that Martin well understood as an
evidence of something wrong within.

“Are you getting ready for a journey, Captain?” asked he, as he entered.

“I was thinking of it; but I believe I shall not go. I 'm undecided.”

“Up the Rhine?”

“No; not in that direction.”

“South,--towards Italy, perhaps?”

“Nor there, either. I was meditating a trip to England.”

“We should be on the road together,” said Merl. “I'm off by four
o'clock.”

“How so? What's the reason of this sudden start?”

“There's going to be a crash here,” said Merl, speaking in a lower tone.
“The Government have been doing the thing with too high a hand, and
there's mischief brewing.”

“Are you sure of this?” asked Martin.

“Only too sure, that's all. I bought in, on Tuesday last, at sixty-four
and an eighth, and the same stock is now fifty-one and a quarter, and
will be forty to-morrow. The day after--” Here Mr. Merl made a motion
with his outstretched arm, to indicate utter extinction.

“You're a heavy loser, then?” asked Martin, eagerly.

“I shall be, to the tune of some thirteen thousand pounds. It was just
on that account I came in here. I shall need money within the week, and
must turn those Irish securities of yours into cash,--some of them at
least,--and I want a hint from you as to which I ought to dispose of
and which hold over. You told me one day, I remember, that there was a
portion of the property likely to rise greatly in value--”

“_You_ told me, sir,” said Captain Martin, breaking suddenly in, “when
I gave you these same bonds, that they should remain in your own hands,
and never leave them. That was the condition on which I gave them.”

“I suppose, Captain, you gave them for something; you did not make a
present of them,” said the Jew, coloring slightly.

“If I did not make a present of them,” rejoined Martin, “the transaction
was about as profitable to me.”

“You owed me the money, sir; that, at least, is the way I regard the
matter.”

“And when I paid it by these securities, you pledged yourself not to
negotiate them. I explained to you how the entail was settled,--that the
property must eventually be mine,--and you accepted the arrangement on
these conditions.”

“All true, Captain; but nobody told me, at that time, there was going
to be a revolution in Paris,--which there will be within forty-eight
hours.”

“Confounded fool that I was to trust the fellow!” said Martin to
himself, but quite loud enough to be heard; then turning to Merl, he
said, “What do you mean by converting them into cash? Are you about to
sell part of our estate?”

“Nothing of the kind, Captain,” said Merl, smiling at the innocence of
the question. “I am simply going to deposit these where I can obtain
an advance upon them. I promise you, besides, it shall not be in any
quarter by which the transaction can reach the ears of your family.
This assurance will, I trust, satisfy _you_, and entitle _me_ to the
information I ask for.”

“What information do you allude to?” asked Martin, who had totally
forgotten what the Jew announced as the reason of his visit.

“I asked you, Captain,” said Merl, resuming the mincing softness of
his usual manner, “as to which of these securities might be the more
eligible for immediate negotiation?”

“And how should I know, sir?” replied the other, rudely. “I am very
little acquainted with the property itself; I know still less about the
kind of dealings you speak of. It does not concern me in the least
what you do, or how you do it. I believe I may have given you bonds for
something very like double the amount of all you ever advanced to me.
I hear of nothing from my father but the immense resources of this, and
the great capabilities of that; but as these same eventualities are
not destined to better _my_ condition, I have not troubled my head to
remember anything about them. You have a claim of about twenty thousand
against me.”

“Thirty-two thousand four hundred and seventy-eight pounds,” said the
Jew, reading from a small note-book which he had just taken from his
waistcoat pocket.

“That is some ten thousand more than ever I heard of,” said Martin, with
an hysterical sort of laugh. “Egad, Merl, the fellows were right that
would not have you in the 'Cercle.' You 'd have 'cleared every man of
them out,'--as well let a ferret into a rabbit warren.”

“I was n't aware,--I had not heard that I was put up--”

“To be sure you were; in all form proposed, seconded, and duly
blackballed. I own to you, I thought it very hard, very illiberal. There
are plenty of fellows there that have no right to be particular; and so
Jack Massingbred as much as told them. The fact is, Merl, you ought to
have waited awhile, and by the time that Harlowe and Spencer Cavendish
and a few more such were as deep in your books as I am, you 'd have had
a walk over. Willoughby says the same. It might have cost you something
smart, but you 'd have made it pay in the end,--eh, Merl?”

To this speech, uttered in a strain of jocular impertinence, Merl made
no reply. He had just torn one of his gloves in pieces in the effort
to draw it on, and he was busily exerting himself to get rid of the
fragments.

“Lady Dorothea had given me a card for you for Saturday,” resumed the
Captain; “but as you 're going away--Besides, after this defeat at
the Club, you could n't well come amongst all these people; so there's
nothing for it but patience, Merl, patience--”

“A lesson that may be found profitable to others, perhaps,” said the
Jew, with one of his furtive looks at the Captain, who quailed under it
at once.

“I was going to give you a piece of advice, Merl,” said he, in a tone
the very opposite to his late bantering one. “It was, that you should
just take a run over to Ireland yourself, and see the property.”

“I mean to do so, Captain Martin,” said the other, calmly.

“I can't offer you letters, for they would defeat what you desire to
accomplish; besides, there is no member of the family there at present
but a young lady-cousin of mine.”

“Just the kind of introduction I 'd like,” said the Jew, with all the
zest of a man glad to say what he knew would be deemed an impertinence.

Martin grew crimson with suppressed anger, but never spoke a word.

“Is this the Cousin Mary I have heard you speak of,” said Merl,--“the
great horsewoman, and she that ventures out alone on the Atlantic in a
mere skiff?”

Martin nodded. His temper was almost an overmatch for him, and he dared
not trust himself to speak.

“I should like to see her amazingly, Captain,” resumed Merl.

“Remember, sir, you have no lien upon _her_,” said Martin, sternly.

The Jew smirked and ran his fingers through his hair with the air of one
who deemed such an eventuality by no means so very remote.

“Do you know, Master Merl,” said Martin, staring at him from head
to foot with an expression the reverse of complimentary, “I 'm half
disposed to give you a few lines to my cousin; and if you 'll not take
the thing as a _mauvais plaisanterie_ on my part, I will do so.”. “Quite
the contrary, Captain. I 'll deem it a great favor, indeed,” said Merl,
with an admirable affectation of unconsciousness.

“Here goes, then,” said Martin, sitting down to a table, and preparing
his writing materials, while in a hurried hand he began:--

“'Dear Cousin Mary,--This will introduce to you Mr. Herman Merl, who
visits your remote regions on a tour of----What shall I say?”

“Pleasure,--amusement,” interposed Merl.

“No, when I _am_ telling a fib, I like a big one,--I 'll say,
philanthropy, Merl; and there's nothing so well adapted to cover those
secret investigations you are bent upon,--a tour of philanthropy.

“'You will, I am sure, lend him all possible assistance in his
benevolent object,--the same being to dispose of the family acres,--and
at the same time direct his attention to whatever may be matter of
interest,--whether mines, quarries, or other property easily convertible
into cash,--treating him in all respects as one to whom I owe many
obligations--and several thousand pounds.'

“Will that do, think you?”

“Perfectly; nothing better.”

“In return, I shall ask one favor at your hands,” said Martin, as
he folded and addressed the epistle. “It is that you write me a full
account of what you see in the West,--how the country looks, and the
people. Of course it will all seem terribly poor and destitute, and all
that sort of thing, to your eyes; but just try and find out if it be
worse than usual. Paddy is such a shrewd fellow, Merl, that it will
require all your own sharpness not to be taken in by him. A long letter
full of detail--a dash of figures in it--as to how many sheep have the
rot, or how many people have caught the fever, will improve it,--you
know the kind of thing I mean; and--I don't suppose you care about
shooting, yourself, but you 'll get some one to tell you--are the birds
plenty and in good condition. There's a certain Mr. Scanlan, if you
chance upon him; he 's up to everything, and not a bad performer at
dummy whist,--though I think _you_ could teach him a thing or two.” Merl
smiled and tried to look flattered, while the other went on: “And there
's another, called Henderson,--the steward,--a very shrewd person,--but
_you_ don't need all these particulars; you may be trusted to your own
good guidance,--eh, Merl?”

Merl again smiled in the same fashion as before; in fact, so completely
had he resumed the bland expression habitual to him, that the
Captain almost forgot the unpleasant cause of his visit, and all the
disagreeable incidents of the interview.

“You could n't give me a few lines to this Mr. Scanlan?” asked Merl,
with an air of easy indifference.

“Nothing easier,” cried the Captain, reseating himself; then suddenly
rising, with the expression of one to whom a sudden thought had just
crossed the mind, “Wait one second for me here, Merl; I'll be back with
you at once.” And as he spoke he dashed out of the room, and hastened to
his father.

“By a rare piece of luck,” cried he, as he entered, “I 've just chanced
upon the very fellow we want; an acquaintance I picked up at the
Cape,--up to everything; he goes over to Ireland to-night, and he 'll
take a run down to Cro' Martin, and send us his report of all he sees.
Whatever he tells us may be relied upon; for, depend upon 't, no lady
can humbug _him_. I 've just given him a note for Mary, and I 'll write
a few lines also by way of introducing him to Scanlan.”

Martin could barely follow the Captain, as with rapid utterance he
poured forth this plan. “Do I know him? What's his name?” asked he at
last.

“You never saw him. His name is Merl,--Herman Merl,--a fellow of
considerable wealth; a great speculator,--one of those Stock Exchange
worthies who never deal in less than tens of thousands. He has a
crotchet in his head about buying up half the West of Ireland,--some
scheme about flax and the deep-sea fishery. I don't understand it, but
I suppose _he_ does. At all events, he has plenty of money, and the head
to make it fructify; and if he only take a liking to it, he 's the very
fellow to buy up Kilkieran, and the islands, and the rest of that waste
district you were telling me of t'other night. But I must n't detain
him. He starts at four o'clock; and I only ran over here to tell you not
to worry yourself any more about Mary's letter. He 'll look to it all.”

And with this consolatory assurance the Captain hastened away, leaving
Martin as much relieved in mind as an indolent nature and an easy
conscience were sure to make him. To get anybody “to look to” anything
had been his whole object in life; to know that, whatever happened,
there was always somebody who misstated this, or neglected that, at
whose door all the culpability--where there was such--could be laid
and but for whom he had himself performed miracles of energy and
devotedness, and endured all the tortures and trials of a martyr. He
was, indeed, as are a great many others in this world, an excellent man
to his own heart,--kind, charitable, and affectionate; a well-wisher
to his kind, and hopeful of almost every one; but, all this while, his
virtues, like a miser's gold, had no circulation; they remained locked
up within him for his own use alone, and there he sat, counting them
over and gazing at them, speculating upon all that this affluence could
do, and--never doing it!

Life abounds with such men. They win respect while they live, and white
marble records their virtues when they die! Nor are they all useless.
Their outward bearing at least simulates whatever we revere in good men,
and we accept them in the same spirit of compromise as we take stucco
for stone; if they do no more, they show our appreciation of the “real
article.”

The Captain was not long in inditing a short note to Scanlan, to whom,
“strictly confidential,” Mr. Merl was introduced as a great capitalist
and speculator, desirous to ascertain all the resources of the land.
Scanlan was enjoined to show him every attention, making his visit in
all respects as agreeable as possible.

“This fellow will treat you well, Merl,” said the Captain, as he folded
the letter; “will give you the best salmon you ever tasted, and a glass
of Gordon's Madeira such as few could sport now-a-days. And if you
have a fancy for a day with my Cousin Mary's hounds, he 'll mount you
admirably, and show you the way besides.” And with this speech Martin
wished him good-bye; and closing the door after him, added, “And if
he'll kindly assist you to a broken neck, it's about the greatest
service he could render me!”

The laugh, silly and meaningless, that followed his utterance of this
speech, showed that it was spoken in all the listlessness of one who had
not really character enough to be even a “good hater.”



CHAPTER VII. THE CLUB

So little impression had Merl's gloomy forebodings made upon Captain
Martin, that he actually forgot everything that this shrewd gentleman
predicted, and only partially recalled them when the conversation the
next morning at the Club turned on the disturbed state of the capital.
People in “society” find it excessively difficult to believe in anything
like an organized opposition to the authorities of a government. They
are so accustomed to hear of street assemblages being scattered by a few
soldiers, mobs routed by a handful of mounted policemen, that they are
slow to imagine how any formidable movement can take its rise in such a
source. But the maladies of states, like those of the human frame,
are often mere trifles in their origin; chance, and the concurrence of
events swell their importance, till they assume an aspect of perhaps
greater menace than they deserve. This is essentially the case in
revolutionary struggles, where, at the outset, none ever contemplates
the extent to which the mischief may reach. The proclamation of the
“Ordinances,” as they were called, had produced a great excitement
in Paris. Groups of men in every street were gathered around some one
reading aloud the violent commentaries of the public papers; thoughtful
and stern faces were met at every corner; a look of expectancy--an
expression that seemed to say, What next?--was perceptible on all sides.
Many of the shops were half closed, and in some the objects of great
value were withdrawn to places of greater security. It was clear to see
that men apprehended some great crisis; but whence it should come, or by
whose instrumentality promoted, none seemed able to guess. Now and then
a mounted orderly would ride by at a smart trot, or a patrol party
of dragoons dash past; and the significant glance that followed them
indicated how full of meaning these signs appeared.

The day passed in this state of anxious uncertainty; and although the
journals discussed the condition of the capital as full of danger and
menace, an ostentatious announcement in the “Moniteur” proclaimed Paris
to be tranquil. In society--at least in the world of fashion and high
life--there were very few who would have disputed the official despatch.
“Who and what were they who could dispute the King's Government? Who and
where were there either leaders or followers? In what way should they
attempt it? The troops in and around Paris numbered something over forty
thousand, commanded by an old Marshal of the Empire, now the trustiest
adherent of royalty. The days of Mirabeaus and Robespierres and Dantons
had passed away; nor were these times in which men would like to recall
the reigns of terror and the guillotine.” So they reasoned--or, if the
phrase be too strong, so they talked--who lounged on soft-cushioned
ottomans, or moved listlessly over luxurious carpets; all agreeing that
it would be treasonable in the Ministers to retreat or abate one jot of
the high prerogative of the Crown. Powdered heads shook significantly,
and gold-embroidered vests heaved indignantly at the bare thought that
the old spirit of '95 should have survived amongst them; but not one
dreamed that the event boded seriously, or that the destinies of a great
nation were then in the balance.

It is but five-and-twenty years ago; and how much more have we learned
of the manufacture of revolutions in the interval! Barricades and street
warfare have become a science, and the amount of resistance a half-armed
populace can offer to a regular force is as much a matter of certainty
as a mathematical theorem. At that period, however, men were but in
the infancy of this knowledge; the traditions of the Great Revolution
scarcely were remembered, and, for the most part, they were
inapplicable.

What wonder, then, if people in society smiled scornfully at the
purposeless masses that occasionally moved past beneath their windows,
shouting with discordant voices some fragments of the “Marseillaise,”
 or, as they approached the residence of any in authority, venturing
on the more daring cry of “Down with the Ordinances!” The same tone of
haughty contempt pervaded the “Club.” Young men of fashion, little given
to the cares of political life, and really indifferent to the action of
laws which never invaded the privileges of the play-table, or curtailed
one prerogative of the “Coulisses,” felt an angry impatience at all the
turbulence and riot of the public streets.

In a magnificently furnished salon of the Club a number of these young
men were now assembled. Gathered from every nation of Europe,--many of
them bearing names of high historical interest,--they were, so far as
dress, air, and appearance went, no ignoble representatives of the
class they belonged to. The proud and haughty Spaniard, the fierce-eyed,
daring-looking Pole, the pale, intellectual-faced Italian, the courteous
Russian, and the fair-haired, stalwart Saxon were all there; and,
however dissimilar in type, banded together by the magic influence of
the “set” they moved in, to an almost perfect uniformity of sentiment
and opinion.

“I vote that any man be fined ten Louis that alludes, however remotely,
to this confounded question again,” cried Count Gardoni, rising
impatiently from his chair and approaching a card-table.

“And I second you!” exclaimed a Polish prince, with a Russian decoration
at his button-hole.

“Carried _nem. con._” said Captain Martin, seating himself at the
play-table. “And now for the 'Lansquenet.'” And in a moment every seat
was occupied, and purses of gold and pocket-books of bank-notes were
strewed over the board. They were all men who played high; and the game
soon assumed the grave character that so invariably accompanies large
wagers. Wonderfully little passed, except the terms of the game itself.
Gambling is a jealous passion, and never admits its votaries to wander
in their attention. And now large sums passed from hand to hand, and all
the passions of hope and fear racked heads and hearts around, while a
decorous silence prevailed; or, when broken, some softly toned voice
alone interrupted the stillness.

“Are you going, Martin?” whispered the young French Count de Nevers, as
the other moved noiselessly back from the table.

“It is high time, I think,” said Martin; “this is my seventeenth night
of losing,--losing heavily, too. I'm sick of it!”

“Here 's a chance for you, Martin,” said a Russian prince, who had just
assumed “the bank.” “You shall have your choice of color, and your own
stake.”

“Thanks; but I'll not be tempted.”

“I say red, and a thousand francs,” cried a Neapolitan.

“There 's heavier play outside, I suspect,” said Martin, as a wild,
hoarse shout from the streets re-echoed through the room.

“A fine,--a fine,--Martin is fined!” cried several around the table.

“You have n't left me wherewithal to pay it, gentlemen,” said he,
laughing. “I was just about to retire, a bankrupt, into private life.”

“That's platoon fire,” exclaimed the Pole, as the loud detonation of
small arms seemed to shake the very room.

“Czernavitz also fined,” cried two together.

“I bow in submission to the Court,” said the Pole, throwing down the
money on the table.

“Lend _me_ as much more,” said Martin; “it may change my luck.” And with
this gambler's philosophy, he again drew nigh the table.

This slight interruption over, the game proceeded as before. Martin,
however, was now a winner, every wager succeeding, and every bet he made
a gain.

“There's nothing like a dogged persistence,” said the Russian. “Fortune
never turns her back on him who shows constancy. See Martin, now; by
that very resolution he has conquered, and here we are, all cleared
out!”

“I am, for one,” cried an Italian, flinging his empty purse on the
table.

“There's my last Louis,” said Nevers. “I reserve it to pay for my
supper.”

“Martin shall treat us all to supper!” exclaimed another.

“Where shall it be, then?” said Martin; “here, or at my own quarters?”

“Here, by all means,” cried some.

“I 'm for the Place Vendôme,” said the Pole, “for who knows but we shall
catch a glimpse of that beautiful girl, Martin's 'Belle Irlandaise.'”

“I saw her to-night,” said the Italian, “and I own she _is_ all you say.
She was speaking to Villemart, and I assure you the old Minister won't
forget it in a hurry. Something or other he said about the noise in the
street drew from him the word _canaille_. She turned round at once and
attacked him. He replied, and the controversy grew warm; so much so,
that many gathered around them to listen, amongst whom I saw the Duc
de Guiche, Prince du Saulx, and the Austrian Minister. Nothing could be
more perfect than her manner,--calm, without any effrontery; assured,
and yet no sacrifice of delicacy. It was easy to see, too, that the
theme was not one into which she stumbled by an accident; she knew every
event of the Great Revolution, and used the knowledge with consummate
skill, and, but for one slip, with consummate temper also.

“What was the slip you allude to?” cried the Russian.

“It was when Villemart, after a boastful enumeration of the superior
merits of his order, called them the 'Enlighteners of the People.'

“'You played that part on one occasion,' said she; 'but I scarcely
thought you 'd like to refer to it.'

“'How so? When do you mean?' asked he.

“'When they hung you to the lanterns,' said she, with the energy of
a tigress in her look. Pardié! at that moment I never saw anything so
beautiful or so terrible.”

A loud uproar in the street without, in which the sound of troop-horses
passaging to and fro could be distinguished, now interrupted the
colloquy. As the noise increased, a low, deep roar, like the sound of
distant thunder, could be heard, and the Pole cried out,--“Messieurs les
Sans-culottes, I strongly advise you to turn homewards, for, if I be not
much mistaken, here comes the artillery.”

“The affair may turn out a serious one, after all,” broke in the
Italian.

“A serious one!” echoed the Pole, scornfully. “How can it? Forty
battalions of infantry, ten thousand sabres, and eight batteries; are
they not enough, think you, to rout this contemptible herd of street
rioters?”

“There--listen! It has begun already!” exclaimed Martin, as the sharp
report of fire-arms, quite close to the windows, was followed by a
crash, and then a wild, mad shout, half rage, half defiance.

“There's nothing for it, in these things, but speedy action,” said
the Pole; “grape and cavalry charges to clear the streets, and rifle
practice at anything that shows itself at the windows.”

“It is so easy, so very easy, to crush a mob,” said the Russian, “if you
only direct your attention to the leader,--think of nothing but _him_.
Once you show that, whatever may be the fate of others, death must be
his, the whole assemblage becomes a disorganized, unwieldy mass, to be
sabred or shot down at pleasure.”

“Soldiers have no fancy for this kind of warfare,” said De Nevers,
haughtily; “victory is never glorious, defeat always humiliation.”

“But who talks of defeat?” exclaimed the Pole, passionately. “The
officer who could fail against such an enemy should be shot by a
court-martial. We have, I believe, every man of us here, served; and
I asked you, what disproportion of force could suggest a doubt of
success?”

As he spoke, the door of the room was suddenly opened, and a young
man, with dress all disordered, and the fragment of a hat in his hand,
entered.

“What, Massingbred!” cried one, “how came you to be so roughly handled?”

“So much for popular politeness!” exclaimed the Russian, as he took up
the tattered remains of a dress-coat, and exhibited it to the others.

“Pardon me, Prince,” replied Massingbred, as he filled a glass of
water and drank it off, “this courtesy I received at the hands of the
military. I was turning my cab from the Boulevard to enter this street,
when a hoarse challenge of a sentry, saying I know not what, attracted
my attention. I drew up short to learn, and then suddenly came a rush
of the people from behind, which terrified my horse, and set him off at
speed; the uproar increasing, the affrighted animal dashed madly onward,
the crowd flying on every side, when suddenly a bullet whizzed past my
head, cutting my hat in two; a second, at the same instant, struck my
horse, and killed him on the spot, cab and all rolling over as he fell.
How I arose, gained my legs, and was swept away by the dense torrent of
the populace, are events of which I am very far from clear. I only know
that although the occurrence happened within half an hour ago, it seems
to _me_ an affair of days since.”

“You were, doubtless, within some line of outposts when first
challenged,” said the Pole, “and the speed at which you drove was
believed to be an arranged plan of attack, for you say the mob followed
you.”

“Very possibly your explanation is the correct one,” said Massingbred,
coolly; “but I looked for more steadiness and composure from the troops,
while I certainly did not anticipate so much true courtesy and kindness
as I met with from the people.”

“Parbleu! here's Massingbred becoming Democrat,” said one. “The next
thing we shall hear is his defence of a barricade.”

“You'll assuredly not hear that I attacked one in such company as
inflicted all this upon me,” rejoined he, with an easy smile.

“Here's the man to captivate your 'Belle Irlandaise,' Martin,” cried
one. “Already is he a hero and a martyr to Royal cruelty.”

“Ah! you came too late to hear that,” said the Pole, in a whisper to
Massingbred; “but it seems La Henderson became quite a Charlotte Corday
this evening, and talked more violent Republicanism than has been heard
in a salon since the days of old Égalité.”

“All lights must be extinguished, gentlemen,” said the waiter, entering
hastily. “The street is occupied by troops, and you must pass out by the
Rue de Grenelle.”

“Are the mobs not dispersing, then?” asked the Russian.

“No, your Highness. They have beaten back the troops from the Quai
Voltaire, and are already advancing on the Louvre.”

“What absurdity!” exclaimed the Pole. “If the troops permit this, there
is treason amongst them.”

“I can answer for it there is terror, at least,” said Massingbred.
“All the high daring and spirit is with what you would call the
Sans-culottes.”

“That a man should talk this way because he has lost a cab-horse!” cried
the Pole, insolently.

“There are men who can bear the loss of a country with more
equanimity,--I know that,” whispered Massingbred in his ear, with all
the calm sternness of an insult.

“You mean this for _me?_” said the Pole, in a low voice.

“Of course I do,” was the answer.

“Where?--when?--how?” muttered the Pole, in suppressed passion.

“I leave all at your disposal,” said Massingbred, smiling at the other's
effort to control his rage.

“At Versailles,--to-morrow morning,--pistols.”

Massingbred bowed, and turned away. At the same instant the waiter
entered to say that the house must be cleared at once, or all within it
consent to remain close prisoners.

“Come along, Martin,” said Massingbred, taking his arm. “I shall want
you to do me a favor. Let us make our escape by the Rue de Grenelle, and
I 'll engage to pilot you safely to your own quarters.”

“Has anything passed between you and Czernavitz?” asked Martin, as they
gained the street.

“A slight exchange of civilities which requires an exchange of shots,”
 said Jack, calmly.

“By George! I 'm sorry for it. He can hit a franc-piece at thirty
paces.”

“So can I, Martin; and, what's more, Anatole knows it. He's as brave
as a lion, and it is my confounded skill has pushed him on to this
provocation.”

“He 'll shoot you,” muttered Martin, in a half revery.

“Not impossible,” said Massingbred. “He's a fellow who cannot conceal
his emotions, and will show at once what he means to do.”

“Well, what of that?”

“Simply, that if he intends mischief I shall know it, and send a bullet
through his heart.”

Little as Martin had seen of Massingbred,--they were but Club
acquaintances of a few weeks back,--he believed that he was one of those
smart, versatile men who, with abundance of social ability, acquire
reputation for higher capacity than they possess; but, above all, he
never gave him credit for anything like a settled purpose or a stern
resolution. It was, then, with considerable astonishment that he now
heard him avow this deadly determination with all the composure that
could vouch for its sincerity. There was, however, little time to think
of these things. The course they were driven to follow, by by-streets
and alleys, necessitated a long and difficult way. The great
thoroughfares which they crossed at intervals were entirely in the
possession of the troops, who challenged them as they approached, and
only suffered them to proceed when well satisfied with their account.
The crowds had all dispersed, and to the late din and tumult there had
succeeded the deep silence of a city sunk in sleep, only broken by the
hoarse call of the sentinels, or the distant tramp of a patrol.

“It is all over, I suppose,” said Martin. “The sight of the
eight-pounders and the dark caissons has done the work.”

“I don't think so,” said Massingbred, “nor do the troops think so.
These mobs are not like ours in England, who, with plenty of individual
courage, are always poltroons in the mass. These fellows understand
fighting as an art, know how to combine their movements, arrange
the modes of attack or defence, can measure accurately the means
of resistance opposed to them, and, above all, understand how to be
led,--something far more difficult than it seems. In _my_ good borough
of Oughterard,--or yours, rather, Martin, for I have only a loan of
it,--a few soldiers--the army, as they would call them--would sweep the
whole population before them. Our countrymen can get up a row, these
fellows can accomplish a revolt,--there's the difference.”

“And have they any real, substantial grievance that demands such an
expiation?”

“Who knows?” said he, laughingly. “There never was a Government too bad
to live under,--there never was one exempt from great vices. Half the
political disturbances the world has witnessed have arisen from causes
remote from State Government; a deficient harvest, a dear loaf, the
liberty of the Press invaded,--a tyranny always resented by those who
can't read,--are common causes enough. But here we are now at the Place
Vendôme, and certainly one should say the odds are against the people.”

Massingbred said truly. Two battalions of infantry, with a battery of
guns in position, were flanked by four squadrons of Cuirassiers, the
formidable array filling the entire “Place,” and showing by their air
and attitude their readiness for any eventuality. A chance acquaintance
with one of the staff enabled Massingbred and Martin to pass through
their lines and arrive at their hotel.

“Remember,” said the officer who accompanied them, “that you are close
prisoners now. My orders are that nobody is to leave the Place under any
pretext.”

“Why, you can scarcely suspect that the Government has enemies in this
aristocratic quarter?” said Massingbred, smiling.

“We have them everywhere,” was the brief answer, as he bowed and turned
away.

“I scarcely see how I'm to keep my appointment at Versailles to-morrow
morning,” said Massingbred, as he followed Martin up the spacious
stairs. “Happily, Czernavitz knows me, and will not misinterpret my
absence.”

“Not to say that he may be unable himself to get there,” said Martin.
As he spoke, they had reached the door, opening which with his key, the
Captain motioned to Massingbred to enter.

Massingbred stopped suddenly, and in a voice of deep meaning said, “Your
father lives here?”

“Yes,--what then?” asked Martin.

“Only that I have no right to pass his threshold,” said the other, in
a low voice. “I was his guest once, and I 'm not sure that I repaid the
hospitality as became me. You were away at the time.”

“You allude to that stupid election affair,” said Martin. “I can only
say that I never did, never could understand it. My only feeling was
one of gratitude to you for saving me from being member for the
borough. Come along,” said he, taking his arm; “this is no time for your
scruples, at all events.”

“No, Martin, I cannot,” said the other. “I 'd rather walk up to one of
those nine-pounders there than present myself to your lady-mother--”

“But you needn't. You are _my_ guest; these are _my_ quarters. You shall
see nobody but myself till you leave this. Remember what the Captain
told us; we are prisoners here.” And without waiting for a reply, Martin
pushed him before him into the room.

“Two o'clock,” said Massingbred, looking at his watch; “and we are to be
at Versailles by eight.”

“Well, leave all the care of that to me,” said Martin; “and do you throw
yourself on the bed there, and take some rest. Without you prefer to sup
first?”

“No, an hour's sleep is what I stand most in need of; and so I 'll say
good-night.”

Massingbred said this less that he wanted repose than a brief interval
to be alone with his own thoughts. And now, as he closed his eyes to
affect sleep, it was really to commune with his own heart, and reflect
over what had just occurred.

Independently that he liked Czernavitz personally, he was sorry for a
quarrel at such a moment. There was a great game about to be played, and
a mere personal altercation seemed something small and contemptible in
the face of such events. “What will be said of us,” thought he, “but
that we were a pair of hot-headed fools, thinking more of a miserable
interchange of weak sarcasms than of the high destinies of a whole
nation? And it was _my_ fault,” added he to himself; “I had no right to
reproach him with a calamity hard enough to bear, even without its
being a reproach. What a strange thing is life, after all!” thought
he; “everything of greatest moment that occurs in it the upshot of an
accident,--my going to Ireland, my visit to the West, my election, my
meeting with Kate Henderson, and now this duel.” And, so ruminating, he
dropped off into a sound sleep, undisturbed by sounds that might well
have broken the heaviest slumber.



CHAPTER VIII. AN EVENING OF ONE OP THE “THREE DAYS”

On the evening which witnessed these events Lady Dorothea's “reception”
 had been more than usually brilliant. Numbers had come to show of
how little moment they deemed this “street disturbance,” as they were
pleased to call it; others, again, were curious to pick up in society
the opinions formed on what was passing, among whom were several high
in the favor of the Court and the confidence of the Government. All, as
they arrived, had some little anecdote or adventure to relate as to the
difficulties which beset them on the way,--the distances which they were
obliged to travel, the obstructions and passwords and explanations which
met them at every turn. These were all narrated in the easy, jocular
tone of passing trifles, the very inconvenience of which suggested its
share of amusement.

As the evening wore on, even these became less frequent; the streets
were already thinning, and, except in some remote, unimportant parts of
the capital, the troops were in possession of all the thoroughfares. Of
course, the great topic of conversation was the bold stroke of policy
then enacting,--a measure which all pronounced wise and just, and
eminently called for.

To have heard the sentiments then uttered, the disparaging opinions
expressed of the middle and humbler classes, the hopelessness of ever
seeing them sufficiently impressed with their own inferiority, the
adulation bestowed on the monarch and all around him, one might really
have fancied himself back again at the Tuileries in the time of Louis
the Fourteenth. All agreed in deeming the occasion an excellent one to
give the people a salutary lesson; and it was really pleasant to see
the warm interest taken by these high and distinguished persons in the
fortunes of their less happy countrymen.

To Lady Dorothea's ears no theme could be more grateful; and she moved
from group to group, delighted to mingle her congratulations with those
around, and exchange her hopes and aspirations and wishes with theirs.
Kate Henderson, upon whom habitually devolved the chief part in these
“receptions,” was excited and flurried in manner; a more than ordinary
effort to please being dashed, as it were, by some secret anxiety, and
the expectation of some coming event. Had there been any one to watch
her movements, he might have seen the eagerness with which she listened
to each new account of the state of the capital, and how impatiently
she drank in the last tidings from the streets; nor less marked was the
expression of proud scorn upon her features, as she heard the insulting
estimate of the populace, and the vainglorious confidence in the
soldiery. But more than all these was her haughty indignation as she
listened to the confused, mistaken opinions uttered on every side as to
the policy of the Government and the benevolent intentions of the king.
Once, and only once, did she forget the prudent resolve she wished to
impose upon herself; but temper and caution and reserve gave way, as
she heard a very distinguished person amusing a circle around him by an
unfair and unfaithful portraiture of the great leaders of '92. It was
then, when stung by the odious epithet of _canaille_ applied to those
for whose characters she entertained a deep devotion, that she forgot
everything, and in a burst of indignant eloquence overwhelmed and
refuted the speaker. This was the moment, too, in which she replied to
Villemart by a word of terrible ferocity. Had the red cap of Liberty
itself been suddenly hoisted in that brilliant assemblage, the dread and
terror which arose could scarcely have been greater.

“Where are we?” cried the Marquise de Longueville. “I thought we were in
the Place de Vendôme, and I find myself in the Faubourg St. Antoine!”

“Does my Lady know that her friend and confidante is a Girondist of the
first water?” said an ex-Minister.

“Who could have suspected the spirit of Marat under the mask of Ninon de
l'Enclos?” muttered Villemart.

“What is this I hear, dearest Kate?” cried the Duchesse de Mirecourt,
as she drew the young girl's arm within her own. “They tell me you have
terrified every one,--that Madame de Soissons has gone home ill, and the
old Chevalier de Gardonnes has sent for his confessor.”

“I have been very rash, very foolish,” said Kate, as a deadly pallor
came over her; “but I could bear it no longer. Besides, what does it
matter? They 'll hear worse, and bear it too, before three days are
over.”

“Then it is all true?” cried the Duchess, eagerly. “You told Villemart
that when the Government spoke with grape-shot, the people replied with
the guillotine!”

“Not exactly,” said Kate, with a faint smile. “But are they all going?”

“Of course they are. You have frightened them almost to death; and I
know you only meant it for jest,--one of those little half-cruel jests
you were ever fond of. Come with me and say so,--come, dearest.” And she
drew her, as she spoke, into the crowded salon, now already a scene of
excited leave-taking. The brilliant company, however, fell back as they
came forward, and an expression of mingled dismay and compassion was
turned towards the young Duchess, who with a kind of heroic courage drew
Kate's arm closer within her own.

“I am come to make an explanation, messieurs et mesdames,” said the
Duchess, with her most captivating smile; “pray vouchsafe me a hearing.
My friend--my dearest, best friend here--has, in a moment of sportive
pleasantry, suffered herself to jest--”

“It was a jest, then?” broke in Madame de Longueville, haughtily.

“Just as that is,” replied Kate, lifting her hand and pointing in the
direction whence came a terrible crash of artillery, followed by the
rattle of musketry.

“Let us go,--let us away!” was now heard in affrighted accents on every
side; and the splendid assemblage, with less of ceremony than might be
expected, began to depart. Lady Dorothea alone was ignorant of what had
occurred, and witnessed this sudden leave-taking with amazement. “You
are surely not afraid?” said she to one; “there is nothing serious in
all this.”

“She has told us the reverse, my Lady,” was the reply. “We should be
compromised to remain longer in her company.”

“Adieu, my Lady. I wish we left you in safer companionship.”

“Farewell, Madame, and pray be warned of your danger,” whispered
another.

“Your Ladyship may be called upon to acquit debts contracted by another,
if Mademoiselle continues a member of your family,” said Villemart, as
he bowed his departure.

“Believe me, Madame, none of us include _you_ in the terrible sentiments
we have listened to.”

These, and a vast number of similar speeches attended the leave-taking
of nearly each of her guests, till Lady Dorothea, confused, almost
stunned by reiterated shocks, sat silently accepting these mysterious
announcements, and almost imagining herself in all the bewilderment of a
dream.

Twice she made an effort to ask some explanation, but failed; and it was
only as the Duchesse de Mirecourt drew nigh to say farewell, that in a
faint, weak voice she said,--“Can you tell me what all are hinting at,
or am I only confusing myself with the terrible scenes without?”

“I 'd have prevented it had I been near. I only heard it when too late,
my Lady,” said the Duchess, sorrowfully.

“Prevented what?--heard what?” cried Lady Dorothea.

“Besides, she has often said as much amongst ourselves; we only laughed,
as indeed every one would do now, did not events present so formidable
an aspect.”

“Who is she you speak of? Tell me, I beseech you. What does this mean?”

“I am the culprit, my Lady,” said Kate, approaching with all the
quiet stateliness of her peculiar manner. “I have routed this gorgeous
assembly, shocked your most distinguished guests, and horrified all
whose sentiments breathe loyalty! I am sincerely sorry for my offence;
and it is a grave one.”

“_You--you_ have dared to do this?”

“Too true, madam,” rejoined Kate.

“How and to whom have you had the insolence--”

She stopped, overcome by passion; and Kate replied,--“To all who pleased
to listen, my Lady, I have said what doubtless is not often uttered in
such choice company, but what, if I mistake not greatly, their ears will
grow familiar with erelong.”

“Nay, nay,” said the Duchess, in a tone of apology, “the matter is not
so serious as all this. Every one now is terrified. This disturbance,
the soldiery, the vast crowds that beset the streets, have all produced
so much excitement that even a few words spoken at random are enough
to cause fear. It is one of Kate's fancies to terrorize thus over weak
minds. She has the cruel triumph of not knowing what fear is. In a word,
it is a mere trifling event, sure to be forgotten in the midst of such
scenes as we are passing through.”

This attempt at explanation, poured forth with rapid utterance, did not
produce on Lady Dorothea the conviction it was intended to impose, and
her Ladyship received the last adieus of the Duchess with a cold and
stately formality; and then, as the door closed after her, turned to
Kate Henderson, and said,--“I want _your_ explanation of all this. Let
me have it.”

“It is easily given, my Lady,” said Kate, calmly. And then, in a voice
that never trembled nor varied, she narrated briefly the scene which
had just occurred, not extenuating in the slightest her own share in the
transaction, or offering a single syllable of excuse.

“And you, being who and what you are, dared thus to outrage the best
blood of France!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, trembling all over with
passion.

“Perhaps, my Lady, if I sought for an apology, it would be in the fact
of being who and what I am.”

“And do you imagine that after conduct such as this, after exposing me
to a partnership in the shame that attaches to yourself, that you are
any longer to enjoy the shelter of my roof?”

“It never occurred to me to think of that, madam,” said Kate, with an
ill-repressed scorn.

“Then it is for _me_ to remind you of it,” said her Ladyship, sternly.
“You shall, first of all, write me an humble apology for this vulgar
tirade, this outrage upon my company, and then you shall leave the
house. Sit down there, and write as I shall dictate to you.”

Kate seated herself with an air of implicit obedience at a
writing-table, and took up a pen.

“Write,” cried Lady Dorothea, sternly. “Begin, 'My Lady.' No. 'I
approach your Ladyship for the last time.' No, not that. 'If the sincere
sorrow in which I pen these lines.' No. Do it yourself. You best can
express the shame your heart should feel in such a moment. Let the words
be your own!”

Kate leaned over the paper and wrote rapidly for a few seconds. Having
finished, she read over the lines, and seemed to reflect on them.

“Show me that paper!” cried Lady Dorothea, impatiently. But, without
obeying the command, Kate said,--“Your Ladyship will not be able to
leave Paris for at least forty hours. By that time the Monarchy will
have run its course in France. You will probably desire, however, to
escape from the scenes of turbulence sure to ensue. This will secure you
a free passage, whichever road you take.”

“What raving is all this?” said Lady Dorothea, snatching the paper
from her hand, and then reading aloud in French,-- “'The authorities
are required to aid and tender all assistance in their power to Lady
Dorothea Martin and all who accompany her, neither giving nor suffering
any opposition to be given to her or them in the prosecution of their
journey.'

(Signed) “Jules Lagrange,

“'Minister of Police _ad interim_'

“And this in your own hand, too!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea,
contemptuously.

“Yes, madam; but it will entitle it to the seal of the Prefecture, and
entitle _you_ to all that it professes.”

“So that I have the honor to shelter within my walls a chief of this
insurrection,--if it be worthy of such a name; one in the confidence of
this stupid _canaille_, who fancy that the fall of a Monarchy is like a
row in a _guinguette!_”

“Your Ladyship is no longer in a position to question me or arraign
my actions. Before two days are over, the pageant of a king will have
passed off the stage, and men of a different stamp take the direction
of affairs. One of these will be he whose name I have affixed to that
paper,--not without due warranty to do so. Your Ladyship may or may not
choose to avail yourself of it.”

“I spurn the imposition,” said Lady Dorothea, tearing it in fragments.
“So poor a cheat could not deceive _me_. As for yourself--”

“Oh, do not bestow a thought upon _me_, my Lady. I can suffice for my
own guidance. I only wait for morning to leave this house.”

“And it is to a city in such a state as this you would confide yourself.
Truly, mademoiselle, Republicanism has a right to be proud of you. You
are no half-convert to its principles.”

“Am I again to say, my Lady, that your control over me has ceased?”

“It has not. It shall not cease till I have restored you to the humble
roof from which I took you,” said Lady Dorothea, passionately. “Your
father is our creature; he has no other subsistence than what we
condescend to bestow on him. He shall know, when you re-enter his doors,
why and for what cause you are there. Till that time come, you are, as
you have been, in my service.”

“No, my Lady, the tie between us is snapped. Dependence is but a sad
part at the best; but so long as it is coupled with a certain show of
respect it is bearable. Destroy _that_, and it is mere slavery, abject
and degrading. I cannot go back to your Ladyship's service.” And she
gave to the last word an emphasis of intense scorn.

“You must and you shall,” said Lady Dorothea. “If _you_ are forgetful
of what it is your duty to remember, I am not. Here you shall remain;
without,” added she, in an accent of supreme contempt, “your counsel and
direction shall be sought after by the high and mighty individuals who
are so soon to administer the affairs of this nation.”

The loud roll of a drum, followed by the louder clank of sabres and
musketry, here startled the speakers; and Kate, hastening to the window,
opened it, and stepped out upon the balcony. Day was just dawning; a
gray half-light covered the sky, but the dark shadows of the tall
houses still stretched over the Place. Here, now, the troops were all in
motion; a sudden summons having roused them to form in rank. The hasty
character of the movement showed that some emergency was imminent,--a
fact confirmed by the frequent arrival and departure of orderlies at
full speed.

After a brief interval of preparation the infantry formed in column,
and, followed by the artillery and cavalry, moved out of the Place at
a quick step. The measured tramp of the foot-soldiers, the clattering
noise of the train and the dragoons could be heard long after they had
passed out of sight; and Kate stood listening eagerly as to what would
come next, when suddenly a man in plain clothes rode hastily from one of
the side-streets into the centre of the Place. He looked around him for
a moment or two, and then disappeared. Within a few seconds after, a
dull, indistinct sound seemed to rise from the ground, which swelled
gradually louder and louder, and at last grew into the regular footfall
of a great multitude moving in measured time; and now a vast crowd
poured into the Place, silent and wordless. On they came from the
various quarters that opened into the square,--men, for the most part
clad in blouses or in the coarse garb of laborers. They were armed
either with musket or sword, and in many instances wore the cross-belt
of the soldier. They proceeded at once to barricade the square at its
opening into the Rue de la Paix,--a work which they accomplished with
astonishing speed and regularity; for, while Kate still looked, a
formidable rampart was thrown up across the entire street, along which a
line of armed men was stationed, every one of whom, by his attitude and
gesture, betrayed the old discipline of a soldier's life. Orders were
given and obeyed, movements made, and dispositions effected, with
all the regularity and precision of regular troops; and by the ready
obedience of all, and the steady attitude observed, it was easy to see
that these men were trained to arms and to habits of discipline. Not
less evident was it that they who commanded them were not new to such
duties. But, more important than all such signs was the fact that here
and there through the mass might be seen the uniform of a soldier, or
the epaulette of an officer, showing that desertion to the ranks of the
people had already begun.

Kate was so occupied in attentive observation of the scene that she had
not noticed the arrival of another person in the apartment, and whose
voice now suddenly attracted her. It was Martin himself, hastily aroused
from his bed by his servant, who in great alarm told him that the
capital was in open revolt, the king's troops beaten back, and the
people victorious everywhere. “There 's not a moment to lose,” cried
he; “we must escape while we can. The road to Versailles is yet in
possession of the troops, and we can take that way.”

Lady Dorothea, partly overcome by the late scene, partly stunned by the
repeated shocks she experienced, made no reply whatever; and Martin,
judging from the expression of her features the anxiety she was
suffering, hastily added, “Let me see Kate Henderson,--where is she?”

Lady Dorothea merely pointed towards the balcony, but did not utter a
word.

“Oh, have I found you?” said Martin, stepping out upon the balcony. “You
see what is doing,--I might say what is done,” added he; “for I believe
the game is well-nigh decided. Nothing but an overwhelming force will
now crush this populace. We must get away, and at once. Will you give
the orders? Send for post-horses; tell them to pack up whatever they
can,--direct everything, in fact. My Lady is too ill,--too much overcome
to act, or think of anything. Our whole reliance is upon you.” While he
was yet uttering these broken, disjointed sentences, he had drawn Kate
by the arm within the room, and now stood beside Lady Dorothea's chair.
Her Ladyship raised her head and fixed her eyes upon Kate, who sustained
the gaze calmly and steadily, nor by the slightest movement displayed
one touch of any emotion. The glance, at first haughty and defiant,
seemed at length to grow weaker under the unmoved stare of the young
girl, and finally she bent down her head and sat as though overcome.

“Come, Dora,” said Martin, kindly, “rouse yourself; you are always equal
to an effort when necessity presses. Tell Kate here what you wish, and
she 'll do it.”

“I want no aid,--no assistance, sir. Miss Henderson is her own
mistress,--she may do what, or go where she pleases.”

Martin made a sign to Kate not to mind what he believed to be the mere
wandering of an over-excited brain; and then bending down over the
chair, said, “Dear Dora, we must be active and stirring; the people will
soon be masters of the capital,--for a while, at least,--and there is no
saying what excesses they will commit.”

“Do not offend Miss Henderson, sir,” interposed Lady Dorothea; “she has
equal confidence in their valor and their virtue.”

“What does this mean?--when did she fall into this state?” asked he,
eagerly. And although only spoken in a whisper, Lady Dorothea overheard
them, and said,--“Let _her_ tell you. She can give you the very fullest
explanation.”

“But, Dora, this is no time for trifling; we are here, in the midst of
an enraged populace and a maddened soldiery. There, listen!--that was
artillery; and now, hear!--the bells of the churches are sounding the
alarm.”

“They are ringing the knell of the Monarchy!” said Kate, solemnly.

A hoarse, wild shout--aery like that of enraged wild beasts--arose
from the Place beneath, and all rushed to the window to see what had
occurred. It was a charge of heavy cavalry endeavoring to force the
barricade; and now, vigorously repulsed by the defenders, men and horses
were rolling on the ground in terrible confusion, while on the barricade
itself a hand-to-hand conflict was raging.

“Sharp work, by George!” said a voice behind Kate's shoulder. She turned
and saw Captain Martin, who had just joined them unobserved.

“I thought you many a mile away,” said Kate, in a whisper.

“So I should have been,” replied he, in the same tone, “but I was n't
going to lose this. I knew it was to come off to-day, and I thought it
would have been a thousand pities to be absent.”

“And are your wishes, then, with these gallant fellows?” said she,
eagerly. “Do I hear you aright, that it was to aid them you remained?
There! see how they bear down on the soldiery; they will not be
restrained; they are crossing the barricade, and charging with the
bayonet. It is only for liberty that men can fight thus. Oh that I were
a man, to be amongst them!”

A stray shot from beneath here struck the architrave above their heads,
and sent down a mass of plaster over them.

“Come, Dora, this is needless peril,” said Martin, drawing her within
the room. “If you will not leave this, at least do not expose yourself
unnecessarily.”

“But it is exactly to get away--to escape while there is time--that I
came for,” said the Captain. “They tell me that the mob are getting the
best of it, and, worse again, that the troops are joining them; so,
to make sure, I 've sent off Fenton to the post for horses, and I 'm
expecting him every moment. But here he is. Well, have you got the
horses?”

“No, sir: the horses have all been taken by the people to mount
orderlies; the postmaster, too, has fled, and everything is in
confusion. But if we had horses the streets are impassable; from here to
the Boulevard there are no less than five barricades.”

“Then what is to be done?” cried Martin.

“They say, sir,” replied Fenton, “that by gaining the outer Boulevard on
foot, carriages and horses are easily found there, to reach Belleville,
St. Germain, or Versailles.”

“He is right,” said the Captain; “there is nothing else to be done. What
do _you_ think?” said he, addressing Kate, who stood intently watching
the movements in the Place beneath.

“Yes; do you agree with this plan?” asked Martin, approaching her.

“Look!” cried she, eagerly, and not heeding the question; “the troops
are rapidly joining the people,--they come in numbers now,--and yonder
is an officer in his uniform.”

“Shame on him!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, indignantly.

“So say I too,” said Kate. “He who wears a livery should not assume the
port and bearing of a free man. This struggle is for liberty, and should
only be maintained by the free!”

“How are we to pass these barricades?” cried Martin, anxiously.

“I will be your guide, sir, if that be all,” said Kate. “You may trust
me. I promise no more than I can perform.”

“She speaks truly,” said Lady Dorothea. “Alas that we should see the day
when we cannot reject the aid!”

“There is a matter I want to speak to you about,” said Martin,
drawing his father aside, and speaking in a low, confidential tone.
“Massingbred--Jack Massingbred--is now here, in my room. I know all
about my mother's dislike to him, and _he_ knows it; indeed, he has as
much as owned to me that he deserved it all. But what is to be done? We
cannot leave him here.”

“How came he to be here?” asked Martin.

“He accompanied me from the Club, where, in an altercation of some sort,
he had just involved himself in a serious quarrel. He came here to be
ready to start this morning for Versailles, where the meeting was to
take place; but indeed he had no thought of accepting shelter under
our roof; and when he found where he was, it was with the greatest
difficulty I could persuade him to enter. None of us anticipated such a
serious turn of affairs as this; and now, of course, a meeting will be
scarcely possible. What are we to do with him?”

“Ask him frankly to join us if we obtain the horses.”

“But my mother?”

“I 'll speak to her,--but it were better you did it, Harry. These are
not times to weigh scruples and balance difficulties. I don't myself
think that Massingbred treated us fairly, but it is not now I 'd like to
remember it. There, go; tell her what you have told me, and all will be
well.”

The Captain drew nigh Lady Dorothea, and, leaning over her chair,
whispered to her for some minutes. At first, a slight gesture of
impatience burst from her, but afterwards she seemed to hear him calmly
and tranquilly.

“It would seem as though the humiliations of this night are never to
have an end,” said she, with a sigh. “But I'll bear my share of them.”

“Remember,” said the other, “that it was by no choice of _his_ he came
here. His foot was on the threshold before he suspected it.”

“Miss Henderson sent me, my Lady,” said a servant, entering hastily, “to
say that there is not a minute to be lost. They are expecting an attack
on the barricade in the Rue de la Paix, and we ought to pass through at
once.”

“By whose orders?” began she, haughtily; then, checking herself
suddenly, and in a voice weak and broken, added: “I am ready. Give me
your arm, Harry, and do not leave me. Where is Mr. Martin?” asked she.

“He is waiting for your Ladyship at the foot of the stairs with another
gentleman,” said the servant.

“That must be Massingbred, for I told them to call him,” said the
Captain.

When Lady Dorothea, supported by the arm of her son, had reached
the gate, she found Martin and Massingbred standing to receive them,
surrounded by a numerous escort of servants, each loaded with some
portion of the family baggage.

“A hasty summons, sir,” said she, addressing Massingbred, and thus
abruptly avoiding the awkwardness of a more ceremonious meeting. “A
few hours back none of us anticipated anything like this. Will it end
seriously, think you?”

“There is every prospect of such, madam,” said he, bowing respectfully
to her salutation. “Every moment brings fresh tidings of defection among
the troops, while the Marshal is paralyzed by contradictory orders.”

“Is it always to be the fate of monarchy to be badly served in times of
peril?” said she, bitterly.

“It is very difficult to awaken loyalty against one's convictions of
right, madam. I mean,” added he, as a gesture of impatience broke from
her, “that these acts of the king, having no support from his real
friends, are weak stimulants to evoke deeds of daring and courage.”

“They are unworthy supporters of a Crown who only defend what they
approve of. This is but Democracy at best, and smacks of the policy
which has little to lose and everything to gain by times of trouble.”

“And yet, madam, such cannot be the case here; at least, it is assuredly
not so in the instance of him who is now speaking with Miss Henderson.”
 And he pointed to a man who, holding the bridle of his horse on his arm,
walked slowly at Kate's side in the street before the door.

“And who is he?” asked she, eagerly.

“The greatest banker in Paris, madam,--one of the richest capitalists of
Europe,--ready to resign all his fortune in the struggle against a rule
which he foresees intended to bring back the days of a worn-out, effete
monarchy, rather than a system which shall invigorate the nation, and
enrich it by the arts of commerce and trade.”

“But his name--who is he?” asked she, more impatiently.

“Charles Lagrange, madam.”

“I have heard the name before. I have seen it somewhere lately,” said
she, trying to remember where and how.

“You could scarcely have paid your respects at Neuilly, madam,
without seeing him. He was, besides, the favored guest at Madame de
Mirecourt's.”

“You would not imply, sir, that the Duchess condescended to any sympathy
with this party?”

“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.”



CHAPTER IX. SOME CONFESSIONS OF JACK MASSINGBRED

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.”



CHAPTER X. HOW ROGUES AGREE!

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.

[Illustration: 124]

“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.”

[Illustration: 130]

“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.



CHAPTER XI. MR. MERL “AT FENCE”

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.



CHAPTER XII. MR. MERL'S MEDITATIONS.

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.'”



CHAPTER XIII. A NIGHT OF STORM

The curtains were closely drawn, and a cheerful turf fire blazed in
the room where Mr. Merl sat at dinner. The fare was excellent, and even
rustic cookery sufficed to make fresh salmon and mountain mutton and
fat woodcocks delectable; while the remains of Mr. Scanlan's hamper set
forth some choice Madeira and several bottles of Sneyd's claret. Nor was
he for whose entertainment these good things were provided in any way
incapable of enjoying them. With the peculiar sensuality of his race,
he loved his dinner all to himself and alone. He delighted in the
privileged selfishness that isolation conferred, and he revelled in a
sort of complacent flattery at the thought of all the people who were
dining worse than himself, and the stray thousands besides who were not
destined on that day to dine at all.

The self-caressing shudder that came over him as the sound of a horse at
speed on the shore outside was heard, spoke plainly as words themselves
the pleasant comparison that crossed his mind between the condition of
the rider and his own. He drew nearer the fire, he threw on a fresh log
of pine, and, filling up a bumper, seemed to linger as he viewed it, as
though wishing health and innumerable blessings to Mr. Herman Merl.

The noise of the clattering hoofs died away in distance and in the
greater uproar of the storm, and Mr. Merl thought no more of them. How
often happens it, dear reader, that some brief interruption flashes
through our seasons of enjoyment; we are startled, perhaps; we even
need a word or two to reassure us that all is well, and then the work of
pleasure goes on, and we forget that it had ever been retarded; and
yet, depend upon it, in that fleeting second of time some sad episode of
human life has, like a spectre, crossed our path, and some deep sorrow
gone wearily past us.

Let us follow that rider, then, who now, quitting the bleak shore,
has entered a deep gorge between the mountain. The rain swept along in
torrents; the wind in fitful gusts dashes the mountain stream in many a
wayward shape, and snaps the stems of old trees in pieces; landslips and
broken rocks impede the way; and yet that brave horse holds ever onward,
now stretching to a fast gallop, now gathering himself to clear some
foaming torrent, or some fragment of fallen timber.

The night is so dark that the rider cannot see the horse's length in
advance; but every feature of the way is well known, and an instinctive
sense of the peril to be apprehended at each particular spot guides that
hand and nerves that heart. Mary Martin--for she it is--had ridden that
same path at all seasons and all hours, but never on a wilder night,
nor through a more terrible hurricane than this. At moments her speed
relaxed, as if to breathe her horse; and twice she pulled up short, to
listen and distinguish between the sound of thunder and the crashing
noise of rocks rolling from the mountain. There was a sublimity in the
scene, lit up at moments by the lightning; and a sense of peril, too,
that exalted the adventurous spirit of the girl, and imparted to her
heart a high heroic feeling. The glorious sentiment of confronting
danger animated and excited her; and her courage rose with each new
difficulty of the way, till her very brain seemed to reel with the wild
transport of her emotions.

As she emerged from the gorge, she gained a high tableland, over which
the wind swept unimpeded. Not a cliff, not a rock, not a tree, broke the
force of the gale, which raged with all the violence of a storm at sea.
Crouching low upon the saddle, stooping at times to the mane, she could
barely make way against the hurricane; and more than once her noble
charger was driven backward, and forced to turn his back to the storm.
_Her_ courage never failed. Taking advantage of every passing lull, she
dashed forward, ready to wheel and halt when the wind shot past with
violence.

Descending at last from this elevated plateau, she again entered a deep
cleft between the mountain, the road littered with fallen earth and
branches of trees, so as almost to defy a passage. After traversing
upwards of a mile of this wearisome way, she arrived at the door of a
small cabin, the first trace of habitation since she had quitted the
village. It was a mere hovel, abutting against a rock, and in its dreary
solitude seemed the last refuge of direst poverty.

She bent down from her saddle to look in at the window; but, except some
faint embers on the hearth, all was dark within. She then knocked with
her whip against the door, and called “Morris” two or three times; but
no reply was given. Springing from her horse, Mary fastened the bridle
to the hasp of the door-post, and entered. The heavy breathing of one
in deep sleep at once caught her attention > and, approaching the
fireplace, she lighted a piece of pine-wood to examine about her. On a
low settle in one corner lay the figure of a young woman, whose pale,
pinched features contrasted strongly with the bright ribbons of her cap
floating loosely at either side. Mary tottered as she drew nigher; a
terrible sense of fear was over her,--a terror of she knew not what.
She held the flickering flame closer, and saw that she was dead! Poor
Margaret, she had been one of Mary's chief favorites; the very cap that
now decked her cold forehead was Mary's wedding-gift to her. But a few
days before, her little child had been carried to the churchyard; and
it was said that the mother never held up her head after. Sick almost
to fainting, Mary Martin sank into a chair, and then saw, for the first
time, the figure of a man, who, half kneeling, lay with his head on the
foot of the bed, fast asleep! Weariness, utter exhaustion, were
marked in his pale-worn features, while his attitude bespoke complete
prostration. His hand still clasped a little rosary.

[Illustration: 156]

It seemed but the other day that she had wished them “joy” upon their
wedding, and they had gone home to their little cabin in hopefulness
and high-hearted spirit, and there she lay now a cold corpse, and he,
bereaved and childless. What a deal of sad philosophy do these words
reveal! What dark contrasts do we bring up when we say, “It was but the
other day.” It was but “the other day,” and Cro' Martin was the home
of one whose thriving tenantry reflected back all his efforts for their
welfare, when movement and occupation bespoke a condition of activity
and cheerful industry; when, even in their poverty, the people bore
bravely up, and the cases of suffering but sufficed to call out traits
of benevolence and kind feeling. It was but “the other day,” and Mary
herself rode out amidst the people, like some beloved sovereign in the
middle of her subjects; happy faces beamed brighter when she came, and
even misery half forgot itself in her presence. But “the other day” and
the flag waved proudly from the great tower, to show that Cro' Martin
was the residence of its owner, and Mary the life and soul of all that
household!

Such-like were her thoughts as she stood still gazing on the sad scene
before her. She could not bring herself to awaken the poor fellow, who
thus, perchance, stole a short respite from his sorrows; but leaving
some money beside him on a chair, and taking one farewell look of poor
Margaret, she stole silently away, and remounted her horse.

Again she is away through the storm and the tempest! Her pace is now
urged to speed, for she knows every field and every fence,--where to
press her horse to his gallop, where to spare and husband his strength.
At one moment she steals carefully along amid fragments of fallen rocks
and broken timber; at another, she flies, with racing speed, over the
smooth sward. At length, through the gloom and darkness, the tall towers
of Cro' Martin are seen over the deep woods; but her horse's head is not
turned thitherward. No; she has taken another direction, and, skirting
the wall of the demesne, she is off towards the wild, bleak country
beyond. It is past midnight; not a light gleams from a cabin window as
she dashes past; all is silent save the plashing rain, which, though the
wind has abated, continues to fall in torrents. Crossing the bleak moor,
whose yawning pits even in daylight suggest care and watchfulness, she
gains the foot of the barren mountain on which Barnagheela stands,
and descries in the distance the flickering of a light dimly traceable
through the falling rain.

For the first time her horse shows signs of fatigue, and Mary caresses
him with her hand, and speaks encouragingly to him as she slackens her
pace, ascending the hill at a slow walk. After about half an hour of
this toilsome progress, for the surface is stony and rock-covered, she
reaches the little “boreen” road which forms the approach to the house.
Mary has never been there before, and advances now slowly and carefully
between two rude walls of dry masonry which lead to the hall-door. As
she nears the house, the gleam of lights from between the ill-closed
shutters attracts her, and suddenly through the swooping rain come the
sounds of several voices in tones of riot and revelry. She listens; and
it is now the rude burst of applause that breaks forth,--a din of voices
loudly proclaiming the hearty approval of some sentiment or opinion.

While she halts to determine what course next to follow,--for these
signs of revelry have disconcerted her,--she hears a rough, loud voice
from within call out, “There's another toast you must drink now, and
fill for it to the brim. Come, Peter Hayes, no skulking; the liquor is
good, and the sentiment the same. Gentlemen, you came here to-night to
honor my poor house--my ancestral house, I may call it--on the victory
we 've gained over tyranny and oppression.” Loud cheers here interrupted
him, but he resumed: “They tried--by the aid of the law that they made
themselves--to turn me out of my house and home. They did all that false
swearing and forged writing could do, to drive me--me, Tom Magennis,
the last of an ancient stock--out upon the highways.” (Groans from the
hearers.) “But they failed,--ay, gentlemen, they failed. Old Repton,
with all his skill, and Scanlan, with all his treachery, could n't do
it. Joe Nelligan, like Goliath--no, like David, I mean--put a stone
between their two eyes, and laid them low.” (Loud cheering, and cries of
“Why is n't he here?” “Where is he to-night?”) “Ay, gentlemen,” resumed
the speaker, “ye may well ask where is he this night? when we are
celebrating not only our triumph, but his; for it was the first brief he
ever held,--the first guinea he ever touched for a fee! I 'll tell
you where he is. Skulking--ay, that's the word for it--skulking in
Oughterard,--hiding himself for shame because he beat the Martins!” (
Loud expressions of anger, and some of dissent, here broke forth; some
inveighing against this cowardice, others defending him against the
charge.) “Say what you like,” roared Magennis; “I know, and he knows
that I know it. What was it he said when Mahony went to him with my
brief? 'I'll not refuse to undertake the case,' said he, 'but I 'll not
lend myself to any scurrilous attack upon the family at Cro' Martin!'”
 (Groans.) “Ay, but listen,” continued he: “'And if I find,' said he--'if
I find that in the course of the case such an attempt should be made, I
'll throw down my brief though I never should hold another.' There's Joe
Nelligan for you! There's the stuff you thought you 'd make a Patriot
out of!”

“Say what you like, Tom Magennis, he's a credit to the town,” said old
Hayes, “and he won your cause this day against one of the 'cutest of the
Dublin counsellors.”

“He did so, sir,” resumed Magennis, “and he got his pay, and there's
nothing between us; and I told him so, and more besides; for I said,
'You may flatter them and crawl to them; you may be as servile as a
serpent or a boa-constrictor to them; but take _my_ word for it, Mister
Joe,--or Counsellor Nelligan, if you like it better,--they'll never
forget who and what you are,--the son of old Dan there, of the High
Street,--and you 've a better chance to be the Chief Justice than the
husband of Mary Martin!'”

“You told him that!” cried several together. “I did, sir; and I believe
for a minute he meant to strike me; he got pale with passion, and then
he got red--blood red; and, in that thick way he has when he 's angry,
he said, 'Whatever may be my hopes of the Bench, I'll not win my way
to it by ever again undertaking the cause of a ruffian!' 'Do you mean
_me?_' said I,--'do you mean _me?_' But he turned away into the house,
and I never saw him since. If it had n't been for Father Neal there, I
'd have had him out for it, sir!”

“We've other work before us than quarrelling amongst ourselves,” said
the bland voice of Father Rafferty; “and now for your toast, Tom, for I
'm dry waiting for it.”

“Here it is, then,” cried Magennis. “A speedy downfall to the Martins!”

“A speedy downfall to the Martins!” was repeated solemnly in chorus;
while old Hayes interposed, “Barring the niece,--barring Miss Mary.”

“I won't except one,” cried Magennis. “My august leader remarked,
'It was false pity for individuals destroyed the great revolution of
France.' It was--” Mary did not wait for more, but, turning her horse's
head, moved slowly around towards the back of the house.

Through a wide space, of which the rickety broken gate hung by a single
hinge, Mary entered a large yard, a court littered with disabled carts,
harrows, and other field implements, all equally unserviceable. Beneath
a low shed along one of the walls stood three or four horses, with
harness on them, evidently belonging to the guests assembled within. All
these details were plainly visible by the glare of an immense fire which
blazed on the kitchen hearth, and threw its light more than half-way
across the yard. Having disposed of her horse at one end of the shed,
Mary stealthily drew nigh the kitchen window, and looked in. An old,
very old woman, in the meanest attire, sat crouching beside the fire;
and although she held a huge wooden ladle in her hand, seemed, by her
drooped head and bent-down attitude, either moping or asleep. Various
cooking utensils were on the fire, and two or three joints of meat hung
roasting before it, while the hearth was strewn with dishes, awaiting
the savory fare that was to fill them.

These, and many other indications of the festivity then going on within,
Mary rapidly noticed; but it was evident, from the increasing eagerness
of her gaze, that the object which she sought had not yet met her eye.
Suddenly, however, the door of the kitchen opened and a figure entered,
on which the young girl bent all her attention. It was Joan Landy, but
how different from the half-timid, half-reckless peasant girl that last
we saw her! Dressed in a heavy gown of white satin, looped up on either
side with wreaths of flowers, and wearing a rich lace cap on her head,
she rushed hurriedly in, her face deeply flushed, and her eyes sparkling
with excitement. Hastily snatching up a check apron that lay on a chair,
she fastened it about her, and drew near the fire. It was plain from her
gesture, as she took the ladle from the old woman's hand, that she
was angry, and by her manner seemed as if rebuking her. The old crone,
however, only crouched lower, and spreading out her wasted fingers
towards the blaze, appeared insensible to everything addressed to
her. Meanwhile Joan busied herself about the fire with all the zealous
activity of one accustomed to the task. Mary watched her intently; she
scrutinized with piercing keenness every lineament of that face, now
moved by its passing emotions, and she muttered to herself, “Alas, I
have come in vain!” Nor was this depressing sentiment less felt as Joan,
turning from the fire, approached a fragment of a broken looking-glass
that stood against the wall. Drawing herself up to her full height, she
stood gazing proudly, delightedly, at her own figure. The humble apron,
too, was speedily discarded, and as she trampled it beneath her feet
she seemed to spurn the mean condition of which it was the symbol. Mary
Martin sighed deeply as she looked, and muttered once more, “In vain!”

Then suddenly starting, with one of those bursts of energy which
so often had steeled her heart against peril, she walked to the
kitchen-door, raised the latch, and entered. She had made but one step
within the door when Joan turned and beheld her; and there they both
stood, silently, each surveying the other. Mary felt too intensely the
difficulty of the task before her to utter a word without well weighing
the consequences. She knew how the merest accident might frustrate all
she had in view, and stood hesitating and uncertain, when Joan, who now
recognized her, vacillated between her instinctive sense of respect and
a feeling of defiance in the consciousness of where she was. Happily
for Mary the former sentiment prevailed, and in a tone of kindly anxiety
Joan drew near her and said,--“Has anything happened? I trust in God no
accident has befell you.”

“Thank God, nothing worse than a wetting,” said Mary,--“some little
fatigue; and I'll think but little of either if they have brought me
here to a good end. May I speak with you alone,--quite alone?”

“Come in here,” said Joan, pushing open the door of a small room off the
kitchen which served for a species of larder,--“come in here.”

“I have come on a sad errand,” said Mary, taking her hand between both
her own, “and I would that it had fallen to any other than myself. It is
for you to decide that! have not come in vain.”

“What is it? tell me what it is?” cried Joan, as a sudden paleness
spread over her features.

“These are days of sorrow and mourning everywhere,” said Mary, gloomily.
“Can you not guess what my tidings may be? No, no,” cried she, as a
sudden gesture of Joan interrupted her,--“no, not yet; he is still
alive, and entreats to see you.”

“To curse me again, is it?” cried the other, wildly; “to turn me from
the door, and pray down curses on me,--is it for that he wants to see
me?”

“Not for that, indeed,” said Mary; “it is to see you--to give you his
last kiss--his last blessing--to forgive you and be forgiven. Remember
that he is alone, deserted by all that once were his. Your father and
mother and sisters are all gone to America, and poor old Mat lingers
on,--nay, the journey is nigh ended. Oh, do not delay, lest it be too
late. Come now--now.”

“And if I see him once, can I ever come back to this?” cried Joan, in
bitter agony. “Will I ever be able to hear his words and live as I do
now?”

[Illustration: 162]

“Let your own good heart guide you for that,” cried Mary; “all I ask is
that you should see him and be with him. I have pledged myself for your
coming, and you will not dishonor my words to one on his death-bed.”

“And I 'll be an outcast for it. Tom will drive me from the door and
never see me again. I know it,--I know _him_!”

“You are wrong, Joan Landy.”

“Joan!--who dares to call me Joan Landy when I'm Mrs. Magennis of
Barnagheela? and if _I'm_ not _your_ equal, I 'm as good as any other in
the barony. Was it to insult me you came here to-night, to bring up to
me who I am and where I came from? That 's the errand that brought you
through the storm! Ay,” cried she, lashed to a wilder passion by her own
words,--“ay! ay! and if you and yours had their will we 'd not have the
roof to shelter us this night. It 's only to-day that we won the trial
against you.”

“Whatever my errand here this night,” said Mary, with a calm dignity,
“it was meant to serve and not insult you. I know, as well as your
bitterest words can tell me, that this is not my place; but I know, too,
if from yielding to my selfish pride I had refused your old grandfather
this last request, it had been many a year of bitter reproach to me.”

“Oh, you 'll break my heart, you will, you will!” cried Joan, bitterly.
“You 'll turn the only one that's left against me, and I 'll be alone in
the world.”

“Come with me this night, and whatever happen I 'll befriend you,” said
Mary.

“And not desert me because I 'm what I am?”

“Never, Joan, never!”

“Oh, my blessings on you,--if the blessing of one like me is any good,”
 cried she, kissing Mary's hand fervently. “Oh, they that praised you
said the truth; you have goodness enough in your heart to make up for us
all! I 'll go with you to the world's end.”

“We'll pass Cro' Martin, and you shall have my horse--”

“No, no, Miss Mary, I 'll go on my feet; it best becomes me. I 'll go by
Burnane--by the Gap--I know it well--too well!” added she, as the tears
rushed to her eyes. As she was speaking, she took off the cap she wore
and threw it from her; and then removing her dress, put on the coarse
woollen gown of her daily wear. “Oh, God forgive me!” cried she, “if I
curse the day that I ever wore better than this.”

Mary assisted her with her dress, fastening the hood of her cloak over
her head, and preparing her, as best she might, for the severe storm
she was to encounter; and it was plain to see that Joan accepted these
little services without a thought of by whom they were rendered, so
intensely occupied was her mind by the enterprise before her. A feverish
haste to be away marked all she did. It was partly terror lest her
escape might be prevented; partly a sense of distrust in herself, and
that she might abandon her own resolution.

“Oh, tell me,” she cried, as the tears streamed from her eyes, and her
lips quivered with agony,--“oh, tell me I'm doing right; tell me that
God's blessing is going with me this night, or I can't do it.”

“And so it is, dear Joan,” said Mary; “be of good heart, and Heaven will
support you. I 'm sure the trial is a sore one.”

“Oh, is it not to leave this--to leave him--maybe forever? To be sure,
it's forever,” cried she, bitterly. “He 'll never forgive me!”

A wild burst of revelry now resounded from the parlor, and the
discordant sounds of half-drunken voices burst upon their ears.

Joan started, and gazed wildly around her. The agonized look of her
features bespoke her dread of detection; and then with a bound she
sprung madly from the spot, and was away. Mary followed quickly; but
before she had secured her horse and mounted, the other was already
half-way down the mountain. Now catching, now losing sight of her again,
Mary at last came up with her.

“Remember, dear Joan,” said Mary, “there are nine weary miles of
mountain before you.”

“I know it well,” was the brief reply.

“And if you go by Burnane the rocks are slippy with the rain, and the
path to the shore is full of danger.”

“If I was afeard of danger, would I be here?” cried she. “Oh, Miss
Mary,” added she, stopping and grasping her hand in both her own, “leave
me to myself; don't come with me,--it's not one like you ought to keep
me company.”

“But Joan,--dear Joan,--I have promised to be your friend, and I am not
one who forgets a pledge.”

“My heart will break; it will break in two if you talk to me. Leave me,
for the love of Heaven, and let me go my road all alone. There, at the
two trees there, is the way to Cro' Martin; take it, and may the Saints
guide you safe home!”

“And if I do, Joan, will you promise me to come straight back to Cro'
Martin after you 've seen him? Will you do this?”

“I will,--I will,” cried she, bathing Mary's hand with her tears as she
kissed it.

“Then God bless and protect you, poor girl!” said Mary. “It is not for
me to dictate to your own full heart. Goodbye,--good-bye.”

Before Mary had dried the warm tears that rose to her eyes, Joan was
gone.



CHAPTER XIV. THE END OF A BAR MESS

There are few things more puzzling to the uninitiated than the total
separation lawyers are able to exercise between their private sentiments
and the emotions they display in the wear and tear of their profession.
So widely apart are these two characters, that it is actually difficult
to understand how they ever can unite in one man. But so it is. He can
pass his morning in the most virulent assaults upon his learned brother,
ridiculing his law, laughing at his logic, arraigning his motives,--nay,
sometimes ascribing to him some actually base and wicked. Altercations,
heightened by all that passion stimulated by wit can produce, ensue.
Nothing that can taunt, provoke, or irritate, is omitted. Personalities
even are introduced to swell the acrimony of the contest; and yet,
when the jury have given in their verdict and the court breaks up, the
gladiators, who seemed only thirsting for each other's blood, are seen
laughingly going homeward arm-in-arm, mayhap discoursing over the very
cause which, but an hour back, seemed to have stamped them enemies for
the rest of life.

Doubtless there is a great deal to be pleased at in all this, and, we
ought to rejoice in the admirable temper by which men can discriminate
between the faithful performance of a duty and the natural course of
their affections. Still, small-minded folk--of which wide category
we own ourselves to be a part--may have their misgivings that the
excellence of this system is not without its alloy, and that even the
least ingenious of men will ultimately discover how much principle is
sapped, and how much truthfulness of character is sacrificed in this
continual struggle between fiction and reality.

The Bar is the nursery of the Senate, and it would not be a very
fanciful speculation were we to ascribe the laxity of purpose, the
deficient earnestness, and the insincerity of principle we often deplore
in our public men, to this same legal training.

The old lawyer, however, finds no difficulty in the double character.
With his wig and gown he puts on his sarcasm, his insolence, and his
incredulity. His brief bag opens to him a Pandora's box of noxious
influences; and as he passes the precincts of the court, he leaves
behind him all the amenities of life and all the charities of his
nature. The young barrister does not find the transmutation so easy. He
gives himself unreservedly to his client, and does not measure his ardor
by the instructions in his brief. Let us ask pardon of our reader for
what may seem _a mal à propos_ digression; but we have been led to these
remarks by the interests of our story.

It was in the large dining-room of the “Martin Arms” at Oughterard, that
a party of lawyers spent the evening, some of whose events, elsewhere,
our last chapter has recorded. It was the Bar mess of the Western
Circuit, and the chair was filled by no less a person than “Father
Repton.” This able “leader” had determined not to visit the West of
Ireland so long as his friend Martin remained abroad; but a very urgent
entreaty from Scanlan, and a pressing request for his presence, had
induced him to waive that resolve, and come down special to Oughterard
for the Magennis case.

A simple case of ejectment could scarcely have called for that imposing
array of learned counsel who had repaired to this unfrequented spot;
so small a skirmish could never have called for the horse, foot, and
dragoons of law,--the wily conveyancer, the clap-trap orator, the
browbeater of witnesses, and the light sharpshooter at technicalities;
and yet there they were all met, and--with all reverence be it
spoken--very jolly companions they were.

An admirable rule precluded the introduction of, or even an allusion
to, professional subjects, save when the burden of a joke, whose
success might excuse the transgression; and thus these crafty, keen
intelligences argued, disputed, jested, and disported together, in a
vein which less practised talkers would find it hard to rival. To the
practice of these social amenities is doubtless ascribable the absence
of any rancor from the rough contests and collisions of public life, and
thus men of every shade of politics and party, differing even in class
and condition, formed admirable social elements, and cohered together to
perfection.

As the evening wore on, the company insensibly thinned off. Some of the
hard-workers retired early; a few, whose affectation it was to pretend
engagements, followed. The “juniors” repaired in different groups to the
chambers of their friends, where loo and brandy-and-water awaited them;
and at last Repton was left, with only two others, sole occupants of
that spacious apartment. His companions were, like himself, soldiers of
the “Vieille Garde” veterans who remembered Curran and Lawrence Parsons,
John Toler and Saurin, and a host of others, who only needed that the
sphere should have been greater to be themselves among the great of the
nation.

Rawlins was Repton's schoolfellow, and had been his rival at the Bar
for nigh fifty years. Niel, a few years younger than either, was the
greatest orator of his time. Both had been opposed to Repton in the
present suit, and had held heavy retainers for their services.

“Well, Repton,” said Rawlins, as soon as they were left thus to
themselves, “are you pondering over it still? I see that you can't get
it out of your head.”

“It is quite true, I cannot,” said Repton. “To summon us all down
here,--to bring us some fifty miles away from our accustomed beat, for a
trumpery affair like this, is totally beyond me. Had it been an election
time, I should probably have understood it.”

“How so?” cried Niel, in the shrill piercing voice peculiar to him,
and which imparted to him, even in society, an air of querulous
irritability.

“On the principle that Bob Mahon always puts a thoroughbred horse in his
gig when he drives over to a country race. He's always ready for a match
with what he jocularly calls 'the old screw I 'm driving this minute;'
so, Niel, I thought that the retainer for the ejectment might have
turned out to be a special fee for the election.”

“And he 'd have given them a speech, and a rare good one, too, I promise
you,” said Rawlins; “and even if he had not time to speak it, the county
paper would have had it all printed and corrected from his own hand,
with all the appropriate interruption of 'vociferous cheering,' and the
places where the orator was obliged to pause, from the wild tumult of
acclamation that surrounded him.”

“Which all resolves itself into this,” screamed Niel,--“that some men's
after-grass is better than other men's meadows.”

“Mine has fallen to the scythe many a day ago,” said Rawlins,
plaintively; “but I remember glorious times and glorious fellows. It
was, indeed, worth something to say, '_Vixissi cum illis_.'”

“There 's another still better, Rawlins,” cried Repton, joyously, “which
is to have survived them!”

“Very true,” cried Niel. “I 'd always plead a demurrer to any notice to
quit; for, take it all in all, this life has many enjoyments.”

“Such as Attorney-Generalships, Masters of the Rolls, and such like,”
 said Repton.

“By the way,” said Rawlins, “who put that squib in the papers about your
having refused the rolls,--eh, Niel?”

“Who but Niel himself?” chimed in Repton. “It was filing a bill of
discovery. He wanted to know the intentions of the Government.”

“I could have had but little doubt of them,” broke in Niel. “It was my
advice, man, cancelled your appointment as Crown Counsel, Repton. I told
Massingbred, 'If you do keep a watch-dog, let it be, at least, one who
'll bite some one beside the family.'”

“He has muzzled you there, Repton,” said Rawlins, laughing. “Eh, that
was a bitter draught!”

“So it was,” said Repton. “It was Curran wine run to the lees! and
very unlike the racy flavor of the true liquor. And to speak in all
seriousness, what has come over us all to be thus degenerate and fallen?
It is not alone that we have not the equals of the first-rate men, but
we really have nothing to compare with O'Grady, and Parsons, and a score
of others.”

“I 'll tell you why,” cried Niel,--“the commodity is n't marketable. The
stupid men, who will always be the majority everywhere, have got up the
cry, that to be agreeable is to be vulgar. We know how large cravats
came into fashion; tiresome people came in with high neckcloths.”

“I wish they 'd go out with hempen ones, then,” muttered Repton.

“I 'd not refuse them the benefit of the clergy,” said Niel, with a
malicious twinkle of the eye, that showed how gladly, when occasion
offered, he flung a pebble at the Church.

“They were very brilliant,--they were very splendid, I own,” said
Rawlins; “but I have certain misgivings that they gave themselves too
much to society.”

“Expended too much of their powder in fireworks,” cried Niel,
sharply,--“so they did; but their rockets showed how high they could
rise to.”

“Ay, Niel, and we only burn our fingers with ours,” said Repton,
sarcastically.

“Depend upon it,” resumed Rawlins, “as the world grows more practical,
you will have less of great convivial display. Agreeability will cease
to be the prerogative of first-rate men, but be left to the smart people
of society, who earn their soup by their sayings.”

“He's right,” cried Niel, in his shrillest tone. “The age of alchemists
is gone; the sleight-of-hand man and the juggler have succeeded him.”

“And were they not alchemists?” exclaimed old Repton, enthusiastically.
“Did they not transmute the veriest dross of the earth, and pour
it forth from the crucible of their minds a stream of liquid
gold?--glorious fellows, who, in the rich abundance of their minds,
brought the learning of their early days to illustrate the wisdom of
their age, and gave the fresh-heartedness of the schoolboy to the ripe
intelligence of manhood.”

“And yet how little have they bequeathed to us!” said Niel.

“Would it were even less,” broke in Repton. “We read the witticism
of brilliant conversera in some diary or journal, often ill recorded,
imperfectly given, always unaccompanied by the accessories of the scene
wherein they occurred. We have not the crash, the tumult, the headlong
flow of social intercourse, where the impromptu fell like a thunderbolt,
and the bon mots rattled like a fire of musketry. To attempt to convey
an impression of these great talkers by a memoir, is like to picture a
battle by reading out a list of the killed and wounded.”

“Repton is right!” exclaimed Niel. “The recorded bon mot is the words of
a song without the music.”

“And often where it was the melody that inspired the verses,” added
Repton, always glad to follow up an illustration.

“After all,” said Rawlins, “the fashion of the day is changed in other
respects as well as in conversational excellence. Nothing is like what
we remember it!--literature, dress, social habits, oratory. There, for
instance, was that young fellow to-day; his speech to the jury,--a very
good and sensible one, no doubt,--but how unlike what it would have been
some five-and-thirty or forty years ago.”

“It was first-rate,” said Repton, with enthusiasm. “I say it frankly,
and 'fas est ab hoste,' for he tripped me up in a point of law, and
I have, therefore, a right to applaud him. To tell you the truth,” he
added slyly, “I knew I was making a revoke, but I thought none of the
players were shrewd enough to detect me.”

“Niel and I are doubtless much complimented by the remark,” said
Rawlins.

“Pooh, pooh!” cried Repton, “what did great guns like you and Niel care
for such 'small deer.' You were only brought down here as a great _corps
de réserve_. It was young Nelligan who fought the battle, and admirably
he did it. While I was listening to him to-day, I could not help saying
to myself, 'It's well for us that there were no fellows of this stamp
in our day.' Ay, Rawlins, you know it well. We were speech-makers; these
fellows are lawyers.”

“Why didn't he dine with us to-day?” asked Niel, sharply.

“Heaven knows. I believe his father lives in the town here; perhaps,
too, he had no fancy for a dress-parade before such drill-sergeants as
you and Rawlins there.”

“You are acquainted with him, I think?” asked Rawlins.

“Yes, slightly; we met strangely enough, at Cro' Martin last year. He
was then on a visit there, a quiet, timid youth, who actually seemed to
feel as though his college successes were embarrassing recollections in
a society who knew nothing of deans or proctors. There was another young
fellow also there at the time,--young Massingbred,--with about a tenth
of this man's knowledge, and a fiftieth of his capacity, who took the
lead of him on every subject, and by the bare force of an admirable
manner and a most unabashed impudence, threw poor Nelligan completely
into the background. It was the same kind of thing I 've often seen Niel
there perform at the Four Courts, where he has actually picked up his
law from a worsted opponent, as a highwayman arms himself with the
pistols of the man he has robbed.”

“I never pillaged _you_, Repton,” said Niel, with a sarcastic smile.
“_You_ had always the privilege the poet ascribes to him who laughs
'before a robber.'”

“Vacuus sed non Inanis,” replied Repton, laughing good-humoredly.

“But tell us more of this man, Nelligan,” said Rawlins. “I 'm curious to
hear about him.”

“And so you are sure to do some of these days, Rawlins. That fellow is
the man to attain high eminence.”

“His religion will stop him!” cried Niel, sharply; for, being himself
a Romanist, he was not sorry to have an opportunity of alluding to the
disqualifying element.

“Say, rather, it will promote him,” chimed in Repton. “Take my word for
it, Niel, there is a spirit of mawkish reparation abroad which affects
to feel that all your coreligionists have a long arrear due to them, and
that all the places and emoluments so long withheld from their ancestors
should be showered down upon the present generation;--pretty much upon
the same principle that you 'd pension a man now because his grandfather
had been hanged for rebellion!”

“And very justly, too, if you discovered that what you once called
rebellion had been very good loyalty!” cried Niel.

“We have not, however, made the discovery you speak of,” said Rep ton;
“we have only commuted a sentence, in the sincere hope that you are
wiser than your forefathers. But to come back. You may trust me when I
say that a day is coming when you 'll not only bless yourself because
you're a Papist, but that you _are_ one! Ay, sir, it is in 'Liffey
Street Chapel' we 'll seek for an attorney-general, and out of the
Church of the Conception, if that be the name of it, we 'll cull our law
advisers of the Crown. For the next five-and-twenty years, at least,”
 said he, solemnly, “the fourth-rate Catholic will be preferred to the
first-rate Protestant.”

“I only hope you may be better at Prophecy than you are in Logic,” cried
Niel, as he tossed off his glass; “and so, I 'm sure, does Nelligan!”

“And Nelligan is exactly the man who will never need the preference,
sir. His abilities will raise him, even if there were obstacles to
be surmounted. It is men of a different stamp that the system
will favor,--fellows without industry for the toils of a laborious
profession, or talents for the subtleties of a difficult career; men who
cherish ambition and are yet devoid of capacity, and will plead the old
disabilities of their faith,--pretty much as a man might claim his right
to be thought a good dancer because his father had a club foot.”

“A most lame conclusion!” cried Niel. “Ah, Rawlins,” added he, with much
compassion, “our poor friend here is breaking terribly. Sad signs there
are of decay about him. Even his utterance begins to fail him.”

“No, no,” said Repton, gayly. “I know what you allude to. It is an
old imperfection of mine not to be able to enunciate the letter _r_
correctly, and that was the reason today in court that I called you my
ingenious Bother; but I meant Brother, I assure you.”

They all laughed good-humoredly at the old man's sally; in good truth,
so trained were they to these sort of combats, that they cared little
for the wounds such warfare inflicted. And although the tilt was ever
understood as with “reversed lances,” none ever cherished an evil memory
if an unlucky stroke smote too heavily.

“I have asked young Nelligan to breakfast with me tomorrow,” said
Repton; “will you both come and meet him?”

“We 're off at cock-crow!” cried Kiel. “Tell him, however, from me that
I am delighted with his _débuts_ and that all the best wishes of my
friends and myself are with him.”

And so they parted.

Repton, however, did not retire to bed at once; his mind was still
intent upon the subject which had engaged him during the day, and as
he walked to and fro in his room, he still dwelt upon it. Scanlan's
instructions had led him to believe that the Martins were in this case
to have been “put upon their title;” and the formidable array of counsel
employed by Magennis seemed to favor the impression. Now it was true
that a trifling informality in the service of the writ had quashed the
proceedings for the present; but the question remained, “Was the great
struggle only reserved for a future day?”

It was clear that a man embarrassed as was Magennis could never have
retained that strong bar of eminent lawyers. From what fund, then, came
these resources? Was there a combination at work? And if so, to what
end, and with what object?

The crafty old lawyer pondered long and patiently over these things.
His feelings might not inaptly be compared to those of a commandant of
a garrison, who sees his stronghold menaced by an enemy he had never
suspected. Confident as he is in the resources of his position, he yet
cannot resist the impression that the very threat of attack has been
prompted by some weakness of which he is unaware.

“To put us on our title,” said he, “implies a great war. Let us try and
find out who and what are they who presume to declare it!”



CHAPTER XV. A FIRST BRIEF

The reader has been already told that Joe Nelligan had achieved a great
success in his first case. A disputed point of law had been raised,
in itself insignificant, but involving in its train a vast variety
of momentous interests. Repton, with an ingenuity all his own, had
contrived to draw the discussion beyond its original limits, that he
might entangle and embarrass the ambitious junior who had dared to
confute him. Nelligan accepted the challenge at once, and after a stormy
discussion of some hours came out the victor. For a while his timid
manner, and an overpowering sense of the great odds against him, seemed
to weigh oppressively on him. The very successes he had won elsewhere
were really so many disparagements to him now, giving promise, as it
were, of his ability. But, despite all these disadvantages, he entered
the lists manfully and courageously.

What a many-sided virtue is this same courage, and how prone is the
world to award its praises unequally for it! We are enthusiastic for the
gallant soldier the earliest in the breach, or the glorious sailor who
first jumps upon the enemy's quarter-deck, and yet we never dream of
investing with heroism him who dares to combat with the most powerful
intellects of debate, or enters the field of argument against minds
stored with vast resources of knowledge, and practised in all the
subtleties of disputation.

It is time, existence is not in the issue; but are there not things a
thousand times dearer than life at peril? Think of him who has gone on
from success to success; whose school triumphs have but heralded the
riper glories of college life; who, rising with each new victory,
is hailed by that dearest and best of all testimonies,--the prideful
enthusiasm of his own age. Fancy him, the victor in every struggle,
who has carried all before him,--the vaunted chief of his
contemporaries,--fancy him beaten and worsted on his first real field of
action. Imagine such a man, with all the prestige of his college fame,
rudely encountered and overcome in the contest of public life, and say
if any death ever equalled the suffering!

Happily, our task has not to record any such failure in the present
case. Young Nelligan sat down amidst the buzzing sound of approving
voices, and received a warm eulogy from the Court on the promise of so
conspicuous an opening. And a proud man was Dan Nelligan on that day!
At any other time how deeply honored had he felt by the distinguished
notice of the great dignitaries who now congratulated him on his son's
success! With what pride had he accepted the polite recognition of Chief
Barons and silk-gowned “leaders”! Now, however, his heart had but room
for one thought,--Joe himself,--his own boy,--the little child as it
were of yesterday, now a man of mark and note, already stamped with the
impress of success in what, to every Irishman's heart at least, is the
first of all professions. The High Sheriff shook old Nelligan's hand in
open court, and said, “It is an honor to our county, Nelligan, to
claim him.” The Judge sent a message that he wished to see him in his
robing-room, and spoke his warm praises of the “admirable speech, as
remarkable for its legal soundness as for its eloquence;” and Repton
overtook him in the street, and, catching his hand, said, “Be proud of
him, sir, for we are all proud of him.”

Mayhap the hope is not a too ambitious one, that some one of those who
may glance over these humble lines may himself have once stood in the
position of Joe Nelligan, in so far as regards the hour of his triumph,
and have felt in his heart the ecstasy of covering with his fame the
“dear head” of a father.

If so, I ask him boldly,--whatever may have been the high rewards of
his later fire, whatever honors may have been showered upon him, however
great his career, and however brilliant its recognitions,--has he ever,
in his proudest moments, tasted such a glorious thrill of delight as
when he has fallen into his father's arms overcome by the happiness that
he has made that father proud of him? Oh, ye who have experienced this
thrill of joy within you, cherish and preserve it. The most glowing
eulogies of eloquence, the most ornate paragraphs of a flattering press,
are sorry things in comparison to it. For ourselves, we had rather have
been Joe Nelligan when, with his father's warm tears dimming his eyes,
he said, “God bless you, my boy!” than have gained all the honors that
even talents like his can command!

He could not bear to absent himself from home that day; and although his
father would gladly have celebrated his triumph by gathering his friends
about him, Joe entreated that they might be alone. And they were so. The
great excitement of the day over, a sense of weariness, almost sadness,
stole over the young man; and while his father continued to relate for
his mother's hearing various little incidents of the trial, he listened
with a half-apathetic dreaminess, as though the theme oppressed him. The
old man dwelt with delight on the flattering attention bestowed by the
Court on Joseph's address, the signs of concurrence vouchsafed from time
to time by the Bench, the approving murmur of the Bar while he spoke,
and then the honest outburst of enthusiasm that shook the very walls as
he concluded. “I tried,” continued Dan Nelligan,--“I tried to force my
way through the crowd, and come and tell you that he had gained the day,
but I couldn't; they were all around me, shaking my hands, patting me on
the shoulders, and saying, as if I did n't know it in my own heart, 'He
'll make you a proud man yet, Mr. Nelligan.'”

“I heard it all, five minutes after it was over,” said Mrs. Nelligan;
“and you 'd never guess who told me.”

“Counsellor Walsh,” cried Nelligan.

“No, indeed; I never seen him.”

“It was Hosey Lynch, then, for I saw him running like mad through the
town, spreading the news everywhere.”

“It was not Hosey,” said she, half contemptuously. “I wish, Joe, you'd
give a guess yourself who told me.”

“Guess, mother,--guess who told you what?” said he, suddenly starting
from some deep meditation.


“Who told me that you won the cause, and beat all the great counsellors
from Dublin.”

“I'm sure, mother, it would be hard for me to say,” said Joseph, smiling
faintly; “some of our kind townsfolk, perhaps. Father Neal, old Peter
Hayes, or--”

“I'll just tell you at once,” broke she in, half irritated at the
suggested source of her information. “It was Miss Mary herself, and no
other.”

“Miss Martin!” exclaimed old Nelligan.

“Miss Mary Martin!” echoed Joe; while a sickly paleness crept over his
features, and his lips trembled as he spoke.

“How came you to see her? Where was she?” asked Nelligan, eagerly.

“I 'll tell you,” replied she, with all the methodical preparation by
which she heralded in the least important communications,--“I 'll tell
you. I was sitting here, working at the window, and wondering when the
trial would be over, for the goose that was for dinner was too near the
fire, and I said to myself--”

“Never mind what you said to yourself,--confound the goose,” broke in
old Dan, fiercely.

“Faith, then, I 'd like to know if you 'd be pleased to eat your dinner
on the cold loin of veal--”

“But Miss Martin, mother,--Miss Martin,” urged Joe, impatiently.

“I'm coming to her, if you'll let me; but when you flurry me and
frighten me, I 'm ready to faint. It was last Candlemas you gave me a
start, Dan, about--what was it, now? Lucky Mason's dog, I believe. No,
it was the chimney took fire--”

“Will you just go back to Miss Martin, if you please,” said old
Nelligan, sternly.

“I wish I knew where I was,--what I was saying last,” said she, in a
tone of deep sorrow and contrition.

“You were going to say how Miss Mary told you all about the trial,
mother,” said Joe, taking her hand kindly within his own.

“Yes, darling; now I remember it all. I was sitting here at the window
hemming them handkerchiefs of yours, and I heard a sharp sound of a
horse coming along quick, and, by the way he cantered, I said to myself,
'I know _you_,' and, sure enough, when I opened the window, there she
was, Miss Mary herself, all dripping with wet, and her hat flattened on
her face, at the door.

“'Don't ask me to get down, Mrs. Nelligan,' said she, 'for I'm in a
great hurry. I have to ride out to Kilkieran with this'--and she showed
me a bottle she had in the pocket of her saddle. 'I only called to tell
you that your son has gained another--' What was it she called it?--a
victory, or a battle,--no, it was something else--”

“Never mind--go on,” cried Joe; “and then?”

“'But, my dear Miss Mary,' says I, 'you 're wet through and through.
It's more than your life's worth to go off now another ten miles. I'll
send our gossoon, Mickey Slater, with the medicine, if you 'll just come
in and stay with us.' I did n't say to dinner, for I was ashamed to ask
her to that.

“'I should be delighted, Mrs. Nelligan,' said she, 'but it is impossible
to-day. I 'd have stayed and asked you for my dinner,'--her very
words,--'asked you for my dinner, but I have promised poor Mat Landy to
go back to him. But perhaps it is as well as it is; and my aunt Dorothy
might say, if she heard of it, that it was a strange choice I had made
of a festive occasion,--the day on which we were beaten, and the society
of him that worsted us.'

“'Oh, but, Miss Mary,' says I, 'sure you don't think the worse of poor
Joe--'

“'I never thought more highly of him, my dear Mrs. Nelligan,' said
she, 'than at this moment; and, whatever others may say or think, I'll
maintain my opinion, that he is a credit to us all. Good-bye! good-bye!'
and then she turned short round, and said, 'I can't answer for how
my uncle may feel about what has occurred to-day, but you know _my_
sentiments. Farewell!' And with that she was off; indeed, before I had
time to shut down the window, she was out of sight and away.”

“She ought to know, and she will know, that Joe never said one hard
thing of her family. And though he had in his brief enough to tempt him
to bring the Martins up for judgment, not a word, not a syllable did he
utter.” This old Nelligan spoke with a proud consciousness of his son's
honorable conduct.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Joe, “is it not enough that a man sells his
intellect, pawns his capacity, and makes traffic of his brains, without
being called on to market his very nature, and set up his very emotions
for sale? If my calling demands this at my hands, I have done with
it,--I renounce it.”

“But I said you refrained, Joe. I remarked that you would not suffer the
heat of discussion to draw you into an angry attack--”

“And you praise me for it!” broke in Joe, passionately. “You deem it an
occasion to compliment me, that, in defending the cause of a worthless
debauchee, I did not seize with avidity the happy moment to assail
an honorable gentleman; and not alone you, but a dozen others,
congratulated me on this reserve,--this constraint,--as though the
lawyer were but a bravo, and, his stiletto once paid for, he must
produce the body of his victim. I regard my profession in another and
a higher light; but if even its practice were the noblest that could
engage human faculties, and its rewards the highest that could crown
them, I'd quit it tomorrow, were its price to be the sacrifice of an
honorable self-esteem and the regard of--of those we care for.” And in
the difficult utterance of the last words his cheek became crimson, and
his lip trembled.

“I 'll tell you what you 'll do, Joe,” said his mother, whose kindness
was not invariably distinguished by tact,--“just come over with _me_
to-morrow to Cro' Martin. I 'm going to get slips of the oak-leaf
geranium and the dwarf rose, and we 'll just go together in a friendly
way, and when we 're there you 'll have some opportunity or other to
tell Miss Mary that it wasn't your fault for being against them.”

“He 'll do no such thing,” broke in Nelligan, fiercely. “Miss Mary
Martin wants no apologies,--her family have no right to any. Joe is a
member of a high and powerful profession. If he does n't fill as great a
place now, who knows where he 'll not be this day fifteen years, eh, my
boy? Maybe I 'll not be here to see,--indeed, it's more than likely I
'll not,--but I know it now. I feel as sure of it as I do that my name
's Dan.”

“And if you are not to see it, father,” said Joe, as he pressed his
father's hand between both his own,--“you and my dearest mother,--the
prize will be nigh valueless. If I cannot, when my reward is won, come
home,--to such a home as this,--the victory will be too late.” And so
saying he rose abruptly, and hurried from the room. The moment after he
had locked his door, and, flinging himself upon his bed, buried his face
between his hands.

With all the proud sensations of having achieved a great success, his
heart was heavily oppressed. It seemed to him as though Destiny had
decreed that his duty should ever place him in antagonism to his
affections. Up to a short period before this trial came on he had
frequently been in Miss Martin's company. Now, it was some trifling
message for his mother; now, some book he had himself promised to
fetch her; then visits to the sick--and Joe, latterly, had taken a most
benevolent turn--had constantly brought them together; and often, when
Mary was on foot, Joe had accompanied her to the gates of the demesne.
In these meetings one subject usually occupied them,--the sad condition
of the country, the destitution of the poor,--and on this theme their
sympathies and hopes and fears all agreed. It was not only that they
concurred in their views of the national character, but that they
attributed its traits of good or evil to the very same causes; and while
Nelligan was amazed at finding the daughter of a proud house deeply
conversant with the daily life of the humblest peasant, she, too,
was astonished how sincere in his respect for rank, how loyal in
his devotion to the claims of blood, was one whose birth might have
proclaimed him a democrat and a destroyer.

These daily discussions led them closer and closer to each other, till
at length confidences grew up between them, and Mary owned to many of
the difficulties that her lone and solitary station exposed her to.
Many things were done on the property without--some in direct opposition
to--her concurrence. As she once said herself, “We are so ready to
satisfy our consciences by assuming that whatever we may do legally
we have a right to do morally, and at the same time, in the actual
condition of Ireland, what is just may be practically the very heaviest
of all hardships.” This observation was made with reference to some law
proceedings of Scanlan's instituting, and the day after she chanced to
make it Joe started for Dublin. It was there that Magennis's attorney
had sent him the brief in that cause,--a charge which the etiquette of
his profession precluded his declining.

In what way he discharged the trust we have seen,--what sorrow it cost
him is more than we can describe. “Miss Martin,” thought he, “would know
nothing of the rules which prescribe our practice, and will look upon my
conduct here as a treason. For weeks long she has conversed with me in
candor over the state of the county and its people; we separate for a
few days, and she finds me arrayed with others against the interests of
her family, and actually paid to employ against her the very knowledge
she has imparted to me! What a career have I chosen,” cried he, in his
agony, “if every success is to be purchased at such a price!” With such
men as Magennis he had nothing in common; their society, their habits,
their opinions were all distasteful to him, and yet it was for him and
his he was to sacrifice the dearest hope of his heart,--to lose the good
esteem of one whose praise he had accounted more costly than the highest
distinction a sovereign could bestow on him. “And what a false position
mine!” cried he again. “Associated by the very closest ties with a party
not one of whose objects have my sympathies, I see myself separated by
blood, birth, and station from all that I venerate and respect. I must
either be a traitor to my own or to myself; declare my enmity to all I
think most highly of, or suffer my motives to be impugned and my fame
tarnished.”

There was, indeed, one circumstance in this transaction which displeased
him greatly, and of which he was only aware when too late. The Magennis
defence had been “got up” by a subscription,--a fund to which Joseph's
own father had contributed. Amongst the machinery of attack upon the
landed gentry, Father Neal Rafferty had suggested the expediency
of “putting them on their titles” in cases the most trivial and
insignificant. Forfeiture and confiscation had followed each other so
frequently in Irish history,--grants and revocations were so mixed
up together,--some attested in all formality, others irregular and
imperfect,--that it was currently believed there was scarcely one single
estate of the whole province could establish a clear and indisputable
title. The project was, therefore, a bold one which, while disturbing
the rights of property, should also bring under discussion so many vexed
questions of English rule and tyranny over the Irish. Libraries and
cabinets were ransacked for ancient maps of the counties; and old
records were consulted to ascertain how far the original conditions of
service, and so forth, had been complied with on which these estates
were held.

Joseph had frequently carried home books from the library of Cro'
Martin, rare and curious volumes, which bore upon the ancient history of
the country. And now there crossed him the horrible suspicion that the
whole scheme of this attack might be laid to his charge, the information
to substantiate which he had thus surreptitiously-obtained. It was clear
enough, from what his mother had said, that such was not Miss Martin's
present impression; but who could say what representations might be made
to her, and what change effected in her sentiments? “And this,” cried
he, in indignation--“and this is the great career I used to long
for!--this the broad highway I once fancied was to lead me to honor
and distinction! Or is it, after all, my own fault, for endeavoring
to reconcile two-things which never can have any agreement,--an humble
origin and high aspirings? Were I an Englishman, the difficulty would
not be impassable; but here, in Ireland, the brand of a lowly fortune
and a despised race is upon me. Can I--dare I resist it?”

A long and arduous conflict was that in which he passed the night,--now
inclining to abandon his profession forever, now to leave Ireland
and join the English or some Colonial Bar; and at length, as day was
breaking, and as though the fresh morning air which now blew upon him
from his open window had given fresh energy to his nature, he determined
he would persist in his career in his own country. “_My_ fate shall be
an example or a warning!” cried he. “They who come after me shall know
whether there be rewards within reach of honest toil and steady industry
without the contamination of a mock patriotism! If I _do_ rise, it shall
be from no aid derived from a party or a faction; and if I fail, I bring
no discredit upon 'my order.'”

There are men who can so discipline their minds that they have but to
establish a law to their actions to make their whole lives “a system.”
 Such individuals the Germans not inaptly call “self-contained men,” and
of these was Joe Nelligan one.

A certain concentration of his faculties, and the fatigues of a whole
night passed thus in thought, gave a careworn, exhausted look to his
features as he entered the room where Repton sat awaiting him for
breakfast.

“I see what's the matter with you,” said the old lawyer, as he entered.
“You have passed the night after a 'first brief.' This day ten years
you'll speak five hours before the Lords 'in error,' and never lose a
wink of sleep after it's over!”



CHAPTER XVI. MR. REPTON LOOKS IN

On the day after that some of whose events we have just recorded, and
towards nightfall, Mary Martin slowly drove along the darkly wooded
avenue of Cro' Martin. An unusual sadness overweighed her. She was just
returning from the funeral of poor old Mat Landy, one of her oldest
favorites as a child. He it was who first taught her to hold an oar;
and, seated beside him, she first learned to steer a “corragh” through
the wild waves of the Atlantic. His honest, simple nature, his fine
manly contentedness with a very humble lot, and a cheerful gayety of
heart that seemed never to desert him, were all traits likely to impress
such a child as she had been and make his companionship a pleasure. With
a heavy heart was it, therefore, now that she thought over these things,
muttering to herself as she went along snatches of the old songs he used
to sing, and repeating mournfully the little simple proverbs he would
utter about the weather.

The last scene itself had been singularly mournful. Two fishermen of the
coast alone accompanied the car which bore the coffin; death or sickness
was in every house; few could be spared to minister to the dead, and
even of those, the pale shrunk features and tottering limbs bespoke how
dearly the duty cost them. Old Mat had chosen for his last resting-place
a little churchyard that crowned a cliff over the sea,--a wild, solitary
spot,--an old gable, a ruined wall, a few low gravestones, and no more.
The cliff itself, rising abruptly from the sea to some four hundred
feet, was perforated with the nests of sea-fowl, whose melancholy cries,
as they circled overhead, seemed to ring out a last requiem. There it
was they now laid him. Many a time from that bleak summit had he lighted
a beacon fire to ships in distress.

Often and often, from that same spot, had he gazed out over the sea,
to catch signs of those who needed succor, and now that bold heart was
still and that strong arm stiffened, and the rough, deep voice that used
to sound above the tempest, silent forever.

[Illustration: 188]

“Never mind, Patsey,” said Mary, to one of the fishermen, who was
endeavoring with some stray fragments of a wreck to raise a little
monument over the spot, “I'll look to that hereafter.” And so saying,
she turned mournfully away to descend the cliff. A stranger, wrapped in
a large boat-cloak, had been standing for some time near the place; and
as Mary left it, he drew nigh and asked who she was.

“Who would she be?” said the fisherman, gruffly, and evidently in no
humor to converse.

“A wife, or a daughter, perhaps?” asked the other again.

“Neither one nor the other,” replied the fisherman.

“It is Miss Mary, sir,--Miss Martin,--God bless her!” broke in the
other; “one that never deserts the poor, living or dead. Musha! but
she's what keeps despair out of many a heart!”

“And has she come all this way alone?” asked he.

“What other way could she come, I wonder?” said the man he had first
addressed. “Did n't they leave her there by herself, just as if she was
n't belonging to them? They were kinder to old Henderson's daughter than
to their own flesh and blood.”

“Hush, Jerry, hush!--she 'll hear you,” cried the other. And saluting
the stranger respectfully, he began to follow down the cliff.

“Are there strangers stopping at the inn?” asked Mary, as she saw lights
gleaming from some of the windows as she passed.

“Yes, miss, there's him that was up there at the churchyard--ye didn't
remark him, maybe--and one or two more.”

“I did not notice him,” said Mary; and, wishing the men good-night, set
out homeward. So frequent were the halts she made at different cabins as
she drove along, so many times was she stopped to give a word of advice
or counsel, that it was already duskish as she reached Cro' Martin,
and found herself once more near home. “You're late with the post this
evening, Billy,” said she, overtaking the little fellow who carried the
mail from Oughterard.

“Yes, miss, there was great work sortin' the letters that came in this
morning, for I believe there's going to be another election; at least I
heard Hosey Lynch say it was all about that made the bag so full.”

“I 'm sorry for it, Billy,” said she. “We have enough to think of,
ay, and troubles enough, too, not to need the strife and bitterness of
another contest amongst us.”

“Thrue for ye, miss, indeed,” rejoined Billy. '“Tis wishing them far
enough I am, them same elections; the bag does be a stone heavier every
day till it's over.”

“Indeed!” said Mary, half smiling at the remark.

“Thrue as I 'm here, miss. I would n't wonder if it was the goold for
bribin' the chaps makes it weigh so much.”

“And is there any other news stirring in the town, Billy?”

“Next to none, miss. They were talkin' of putting up ould Nelligan's son
for the mimber; and more says the Magennis of Barnagheela will stand.”

“A most excellent choice that would be, certainly,” said Mary, laughing.

“Faix! I heerd of another that wasn't much better, miss.”

“And who could that be?” asked Mary, in astonishment.

“But sure you'd know better than me, if it was thrue, more by token it
would be the master's own orders.”

“I don't understand you, Billy.”

“I mean, miss, that it's only his Honer, Mr. Martin, could have the
power to make Maurice Scanlan a Parlimint man.”

“And has any one hinted at such a possibility?” said she, in
astonishment.

“Indeed, then, it was the talk of the market this mornin', and many a
one said he's the very fellow would get in.”

“Is he such a general favorite in Oughterard?”

“I'm not sure it's that, miss,” said Billy, thoughtfully.

“Maybe some likes him, and more is afraid of him; but he himself knows
everybody and everybody's business. He can raise the rent upon this man,
take it off that; 'tis his word can make a barony-constable or one of
the watch. They say he has the taxes, too, in his power, and can cess
you just as he likes. Be my conscience, he 's all as one as the Prime
Minister.”

Just as Billy had delivered this sage reflection they had reached the
hall door, where, having consigned the letter-bag to the hands of a
servant, he turned his steps to the kitchen, to take an “air of the
fire” before he set out homeward. Mary Martin had not advanced many
steps within the hall when both her hands were cordially grasped, and a
kind voice, which she at once recognized as Mr. Repton's, said, “Here
I am, my dear Miss Martin; arrived in time, too, to welcome you home
again. You paid me a visit yesterday--”

“Yes,” broke she in; “but you were shaking your ambrosial curls at the
time, browbeating the bench, or cajoling the jury, or something of that
sort.”

“That I was; but I must own with scant success. You 've heard how that
young David of Oughterard slew the old Goliath of Dublin? Well, shall
I confess it? I'm glad of it. I feel proud to think that the crop of
clever fellows in Ireland is flourishing, and that when I, and a dozen
like me, pass away, our places will be filled by others that will keep
the repute of our great profession high in the public estimation.”

“This is worthy of you, sir,” cried Mary, pressing the arm ahe leaned on
more closely.

“And now, my dear Miss Mary,” said he, as they entered the
drawing-room,--“now that I have light to look at you, let me make
my compliments on your appearance. Handsomer than ever, I positively
declare. They told me in the town that you half killed yourself with
fatigue; that you frequently were days long on horseback, and nights
watching by sick-beds; but if this be the result, benevolence is indeed
its own reward.”

“Ah, my dear Mr. Repton, I see you do not keep all your flatteries for
the jury-box.”

“My moments are too limited here to allow me time for an untruth. I
must be off; to-night I have a special retainer for a great record at
Roscommon, and at this very instant I should be poring over deeds
and parchments, instead of gazing at 'orbs divinely blue;' not but, I
believe, now that I look closer, yours are hazel.”

“Let me order dinner, then, at once,” said she, approaching the bell.

“I have done that already, my dear,” said he, gayly; “and what is more,
I have dictated the bill of fare. I guessed what a young lady's simple
meal might be, and I have been down to the cook, and you shall see the
result.”

“Then it only remains for me to think of the cellar. What shall it be,
sir? The Burgundy that you praised so highly last winter, or the Port
that my uncle preferred to it?”

“I declare that I half suspect your uncle was right. Let us move for a
new trial, and try both over again,” said he, laughing, as she left the
room.

“Just to think of such a girl in such a spot,” cried he to himself, as
he walked alone, up and down the room; “beauty, grace, fascination,--all
that can charm and attract; and then, such a nature, childlike in
gayety, and chivalrous,--ay, chivalrous as a chevalier!”

“I see, sir, you are rehearsing for Roscommon,” said Mary, who entered
the room while he was yet declaiming alone; “but I must interrupt you,
for the soup is waiting.”

“I obey the summons,” said he tendering his arm. And they both entered
the dinner-room.

So long as the meal lasted, Repton's conversation was entirely devoted
to such topics as he might have discussed at a formal dinner-party. He
talked of the world of society, its deaths, births, and marriages; its
changes of place and amusement. He narrated the latest smart things that
were going the round of the clubs, and hinted at the political events
that were passing. But the servants gone, and the chairs drawn closer
to the blazing hearth, his tone changed at once, and in a voice of
tremulous kindness he said,--“I can't bear to think of the solitude of
this life of yours!--nay, hear me out. I say this, not for _you_, since
in the high devotion of a noble purpose you are above all its penalties;
but I cannot endure to think that _we_ should permit it.”

“First of all,” said Mary, rapidly, “what you deem solitude is scarcely
such; each day is so filled with its duties, that when I come back here
of an evening, it often happens that my greatest enjoyment is the very
sense of isolation that awaits me. Do you know,” added she, “that
very often the letter-bag lies unopened by me till morning? And as to
newspapers, there they lie in heaps, their covers unbroken to this hour.
Such is actually the case to-day. I haven't read my letters yet.”

“I read mine in my bed,” cried Repton. “I have them brought to me by
candlelight in winter, and I reflect over all the answers while I am
dressing. Some of the sharpest things I have ever said have occurred to
me while I was shaving; not,” added he, hastily, “but one's really
best things are always impromptu. Just as I said t' other day to the
Viceroy,--a somewhat felicitous one. He was wishing that some historian
would choose for his subject the lives of Irish Lord-Lieutenants;
not, he remarked, in a mere spirit of party, or with the levity of
partisanship, but in a spirit becoming the dignity of history,--such
as Hume himself might have done. 'Yes, my Lord,' I replied, 'your
observation is most just; it should be a continuation of Rapine.' Eh! it
was a home-thrust, wasn't it?--'a continuation of Rapine.'” And the old
man laughed till his eyes ran over.

“Do these great folk ever thoroughly forgive such things?” asked Mary.

“My dear child, their self-esteem is so powerful they never feel them;
and even when they do, the chances are that they store them up in their
memories, to retail afterwards as their own. I have detected my own
stolen property more than once; but always so damaged by wear, and
disfigured by ill-usage, that I never thought of reclaiming it.”

“The affluent need never fret for a little robbery,” said Mary, smiling.

“Ay, but they may like to be the dispensers of their own riches,”
 rejoined Repton, who never was happier than when able to carry out
another's illustration.

“Is Lord Reckington agreeable?” asked Mary, trying to lead him on to any
other theme than that of herself.

“He is eminently so. Like all men of his class, he makes more of a small
stock in trade than we with our heads full can ever pretend to. Such men
talk well, for they think fluently. Their tact teaches them the popular
tone on every subject, and they have the good sense never to rise above
it.”

“And Massingbred, the secretary, what of him?”

“A very well-bred gentleman, strongly cased in the triple armor of
official dulness. Such men converse as stupid whist-players play
cards; they are always asking to 'let them see the last trick;' and the
consequence is they are ever half an hour behind the rest of the world.
Ay, Miss Mary, and this is an age where one must never be half a second
in arrear. This is really delicious Port; and now that the Burgundy is
finished, I think I prefer it. Tell Martin I said so when you write to
him. I hope the cellar is well stocked with it.”

“It was so when my uncle went away, but I fear I have made great inroads
upon it. It was my chief remedy with the poor.”

“With the poor! such wine as this,--the richest grape that ever purpled
over the Douro! Do you tell me that you gave this to these--Heaven
forgive me, what am I saying? Of course you gave it; you gave them
what was fifty times more precious,--the kind ministerings of your own
angelic nature, the soft words and soft looks and smiles that a prince
might have knelt for. I 'm not worthy to drink another glass of it,”
 added he, as he pushed the decanter from him towards the centre of the
table.

“But you shall, though,” said Mary, filling his glass, “and it shall be
a bumper to my health.”

“A toast I'd stake my life for,” said he, reverently, as he lifted her
hand to his lips and kissed it with all the deference of a courtier.
“And now,” added he, refilling his glass, “I drink this to the worthy
fellow whose portrait is before me; and may he soon come back again.”
 He arose as he spoke, and giving his hand to Mary, led her into the
drawing-room. “Ay, my dear Miss Mary,” said he, following up the theme
in his own thoughts, “it is here your uncle ought to be. When the army
is in rout and dismay, the general's presence is the talisman that
restores discipline. Everything around us at this moment is full of
threatening danger. The catalogue of the assizes is a dark record; I
never saw its equal, no more have I ever witnessed anything to compare
with the dogged indifference of the men arraigned. The Irishman is half
a fatalist by nature; it will be an evil hour that makes him wholly
one!”

“But still,” said Mary, “you 'd scarcely counsel his return here at this
time. The changes that have taken place would fret him deeply, not to
speak of even worse!”

She delivered the last few words in a voice broken and trembling; and
Repton, turning quickly towards her, said,--“I know what you point at:
the irritated feeling of the people, and that insolent menace they dared
to affix to his own door.”

“You heard of that, then?” cried she, eagerly.

“To be sure, I heard of it; and I heard how your own hands tore it down,
and riding with it into the midst of them at Kiltimmon market, you said,
'I 'll give five hundred pounds to him who shows me who did this, and I
'll forfeit five hundred more if I do not horsewhip the coward from the
county.'”

Mary hid her face within her hands; but closely as she pressed them
there, the warm tears would force their way through, and fall, dropping
on her bosom.

“You are a noble girl,” cried he, in ecstasy; “and in all your
great trials there is nothing finer than this, that the work of your
benevolence has never been stayed by the sense of ill-requital, and you
have never involved the character of a people in the foul crime of a
miscreant.”

“How could I so wrong them, sir?” broke she out. “Who better than myself
can speak of their glorious courage, their patient resignation, their
noble self-devotion? Has not the man, sinking under fever, crawled
from his bed to lead me to the house of another deeper in misery than
himself? Have I not seen the very poorest sharing the little alms
bestowed upon their wretchedness? Have I not heard the most touching
words of gratitude from lips growing cold in death? You may easily
show me lands of greater comfort, where the blessings of wealth and
civilization are more widely spread; but I defy you to point to any
where the trials of a whole people have been so great and so splendidly
sustained.”

“I'll not ask the privilege of reply,” said Repton; “perhaps I 'd rather
be convinced by you than attempt to gainsay one word of your argument.”

“At your peril, sir,” said she, menacing him with her finger, while a
bright smile lit up her features.

“The chaise is at the door, sir,” said a servant, entering and
addressing Repton.

“Already!” exclaimed he. “Why, my dear Miss Mary, it can't surely be
eight o'clock. No; but,” added he, looking at his watch, “it only wants
a quarter of ten, and I have not said one half of what I had to say, nor
heard a fourth of what you had to tell me.”

“Let the postboy put up his horses, William,” said Miss Martin, “and
bring tea.”

“A most excellent suggestion,” chimed in Repton. “Do you know, my dear,
that we old bachelors never thoroughly appreciate all that we have
missed in domesticity till we approach a tea-table. We surround
ourselves with fifty mockeries of home-life; we can manage soft carpets,
warm curtains, snug dinners, but somehow our cup of tea is a rude
imitation that only depicts the inaccuracy of the copy. Without the
priestess the tea-urn sings forth no incantation.”

“How came it that Mr. Repton remained a Benedict?” asked she, gayly.

“By the old accident, that he would n't take what he might have, and
could n't get what he wished. Add to that,” continued he, after a pause,
“when a man comes to a certain time of life without marrying, the world
has given to him a certain place, assigned to him, as it were, a certain
part which would be utterly marred by a wife. The familiarity of one's
female acquaintance--the pleasantest spot in old bachelorhood--could n't
stand such an ordeal; and the hundred-and-one eccentricities pardonable
and pardoned in the single man would be condemned in the married one.
You shake your head. Well, now, I 'll put it to the test. Would you, or
could you, make me your confidant so unreservedly if there were such a
person as Mrs. Repton in the world? Not a bit of it, my dear child. We
old bachelors are the lay priests of society, and many come to us with
confessions they 'd scruple about making to the regular authorities.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said she, thoughtfully; “at all events, _I_
should have no objection to you as my confessor.”

“I may have to claim that promise one of these day yet,” said he,
significantly. “Eh, here comes William again. Well, the postboy won't
wait, or something has gone wrong. Eh, William, what is it?”

“The boy's afraid, sir, if you don't go soon, that there will be no
passing the river at Barnagheela,--the flood is rising every minute.”

“And already the water is too deep,” cried Mary. “Give the lad his
supper, William. Let him make up his cattle, and say that Mr. Repton
remains here for the night.”

“And Mr. Repton obeys,” said he, bowing; “though what is to become of
'Kelly _versus_ Lenaham and another,' is more than I can say.”

“They 'll have so many great guns, sir,” said Mary, laughing; “won't
they be able to spare a twenty-four pounder?”

“But I ought, at least, to appear in the battery, my dear. They 'll say
that I stayed away on account of that young fellow Nelligan; he has a
brief in that cause, and I know he 'd like another tussle with me. By
the way, Miss Mary, that reminds me that I promised him to make his--no,
not his excuses, he was too manly for that; but his--his explanations
to you about yesterday's business. He was sorely grieved at the part
assigned him; he spoke feelingly of all the attentions he once met at
your uncle's hands, but far more so of certain kindnesses shown to
his mother by yourself; and surmising that you might be unaware of the
exacting nature of our bar etiquette, that leaves no man at liberty
to decline a cause, he tortured himself inventing means to set himself
right with you.”

“But I know your etiquette, sir, and I respect it; and Mr. Nelligan
never stood higher in my estimation than by his conduct of yesterday.
You can tell him, therefore, that you saw there was no necessity to
touch on the topic; it will leave less unpleasantness if we should meet
again.”

“What a diplomatist it is!” said Repton, smiling affectionately at her.
“How successful must all this tact be when engaged with the people! Nay,
no denial; you know in your heart what subtle devices it supplies you
with.”

“And yet, I 'm not so certain that what you call my diplomacy may not
have involved me in some trouble,--at least, there is the chance of it.”

“As how, my dear child?”

“You shall hear, sir. You know the story of that poor girl at
Barnagheela, whom they call Mrs. Magennis? Well, her old grandfather--as
noble a heart as ever beat--had never ceased to pine after her fall. She
had been the very light of his life, and he loved her on, through
her sorrow, if not her shame, till, as death drew nigh him, unable to
restrain his craving desire, he asked me to go and fetch her, to give
her his last kiss and receive his last blessing. It was a task I had
fain have declined, were such an escape open to me, but I could not. In
a word, I went and did his bidding. She stayed with him till he breathed
his last breath, and then--in virtue of some pledge I hear that she
made him--she fled, no one knows whither. All trace of her is lost; and
though I have sent messengers on every side, none have yet discovered
her.”

“Suicide is not the vice of our people,” said Repton, gravely.

“I know that well, and the knowledge makes me hopeful. But what
sufferings are yet before her, what fearful trials has she to meet!”

“By Jove!” cried Repton, rising and pacing the room, “you have courage,
young lady, that would do honor to a man. You brave the greatest perils
with a stout-heartedness that the best of us could scarcely summon.”

“But, in this case, the peril is not mine, sir.”

“I am not so sure of that, Miss Mary,” said Repton, doubtingly,--“I
'm not so sure of that.” And, with crossed arms and bent-down head, he
paced the room slowly back and forwards. “Ay,” muttered he to himself,
“Thursday night--Friday, at all events--will close the record. I can
speak to evidence on the morning, and be back here again some time in
the night. Of course it is a duty,--it is more than a duty.” Then he
added, aloud, “There 's the moon breaking out, and a fine breezy sky. I
'll take the road, Miss Mary, and, with your good leave, I 'll drink tea
with you on Friday evening. Nay, my dear, the rule is made absolute.”

“I agree,” said she, “if it secures me a longer visit on your return.”

A few moments afterwards saw Repton seated in the corner of his chaise,
and hurrying onward at speed. His eyes soon closed in slumber, and as
he sank off to rest, his lips murmured gently, “My Lord, in rising to
address the Court, under circumstances of no ordinary difficulty, and in
a case where vast interest, considerable influence, and, I may add--may
add--” The words died away, and he was asleep.



CHAPTER XVII. LADY DOROTHEA'S LETTER

Though it was late when Repton took his departure, Mary Martin felt
no inclination for sleep, but addressed herself at once to examine the
letter bag, whose contents seemed more than usually bulky. Amid a mass
of correspondence about the estate, she came at length upon the foreign
letters, of which there were several from the servants to their friends
or relations at Cro' Martin,--all, as usual, under cover to Miss Martin;
and at last she found one in Lady Dorothea's own hand, for herself,--a
very rare occurrence; nay, indeed, it was the first epistle her Ladyship
had favored her with since her departure.

It was not, then, without curiosity as to the cause that Mary broke the
large seal and read as follows:--

“Carlsruhe, Saturday Evening, Cour de Bade.

“My dear Niece,--It was only yesterday, when looking over your uncle's
papers, I chanced upon a letter of yours, dated some five or six weeks
back, and which, to my great astonishment, I discovered had never been
communicated to me,--though this mark of deficient confidence will
doubtless seem less surprising to _you_.

“To bring your letter to your mind, _I_ may observe it is one in which
you describe the condition of the people on the estate, and the fatal
inroads then making upon them by famine and pestilence. It is not my
intention here to advert to what may possibly be a very natural error
in your account,--the exaggerated picture you draw of their sufferings;
your sympathy with them, and your presence to witness much of what they
are enduring, will explain and excuse the highly colored statement of
their sorrows. It were to be wished that an equally valid apology could
be made for what I am forced to call the importunity of your demands in
their favor. Five of your six last letters now before me are filled
with appeals for abatements of rent, loans to carry out improvements,
stipends for schoolmasters, doctors, scripture-readers, and a tribe of
other hangers-on, that really seem to augment in number as the pauperism
of the people increases. However ungracious the task of disparaging the
accuracy of your view, I have no other alternative but to accept it, and
hence I am forced to pen these lines myself in preference to committing
the office to another.

“It really seems to me that you regard our position as landed
proprietors in the light of a mere stewardship, and that it is our
bounden duty to expend upon the tenantry the proceeds of the estate,
reserving a scanty percentage, perhaps, for ourselves to live upon. How
you came to this opinion, and whence you acquired it, I have no means of
knowing. If, however, it has been the suggestion of your own genius, it
is right you should know that you hold doctrines in common with the most
distinguished communists of modern times, and are quite worthy of a seat
of honor beside those who are now convulsing society throughout Europe.

“I am unwilling to utter anything like severity towards errors, many
of which take their rise in a mistaken and ill-directed benevolence,
because the original fault of committing the management of this property
to your hands was the work of another. Let me hope that sincere sorrow
for so fatal a mistake may not be the primary cause of his present
attack--”

When Mary read so far, she started with a sudden fear; and turning over
the pages of the long letter, she sought for some allusion to her uncle.
At length she found the following lines:--“Your cousin would have
left this for Ireland, but for the sudden seizure your poor uncle has
suffered from, and which came upon him after breakfast, in apparently
his ordinary health. The entire of the left side is attacked,--the face
particularly,--and his utterance quite inarticulate.”

For some minutes she could read no more; the warm tears rolled down her
cheeks and dropped heavily on the paper, and she could only mutter to
herself, “My poor, dear uncle,--my last, my only friend in the world!”
 Drying her eyes, with a great effort she read on:--

“The remedies have been so far successful as to arrest the progress
of the malady, and his appetite is good, and his spirits, everything
considered, are excellent. Of course, all details of business are
strictly excluded from his presence; and your cousin has assumed
whatever authority is necessary to the management of the property. We
thought at one time your presence here might have been desirable, but,
considering the distance, the difficulty of travelling without suitable
companionship, and other circumstances, it would, on the whole, be a
step we should not recommend; and, indeed, your uncle himself has not
expressed any wishes on the subject.”

She dropped the letter at these words, and, covering her face with her
hands, sobbed bitterly and long; at length, and with an effort which
taxed her strength to the utmost, she read on:--

“Although, however, you are to remain at Cro' Martin, it will be more
than ever imperative you should reduce the establishment there within
the very strictest possible limits; and to begin this-reform, I 'm fully
assured it is necessary you should depose old Mrs. Broon, who is really
incapable of her duties, while her long-acquired habits of expense
render her incompatible with any new regulations to enforce economy. A
moderate pension--something, however, in accordance with her real
wants and requirements, rather than what might be called her
expectations--should be settled upon her, and there are several farmers
on the estate, any one of whom would gladly take charge of her. The
gardens still figure largely in the account, and considering the very
little probability of our makings the place a residence again, might
be turned to more profitable use. You will confer with Henderson on
the subject, and inquire how far it might be advisable to cultivate
vegetables for market, or convert them into paddocks for calves, or,
in short, anything which, if less remunerative, should still save the
enormous outlay we now hear of I scarcely like to allude to the stable,
knowing how much you lean to the enjoyment of riding and driving; but
really these are times when retrenchment is called for at every hand;
and I am persuaded that for purposes of health walking is infinitely
better than carriage exercise. I know myself, that since I have taken to
the habit of getting out of the carriage at the wells, and walking twice
round the parterre, I feel myself braced and better for the day.

“It is not improbable but when the changes I thus suggest, and others
similar to them, are enacted, that you will see to what little purpose
a large house is maintained for the mere accommodation of a single
individual, without suitable means, or indeed any reason whatever, to
dispense them. If then, I say, you should come to this conviction,--at
which I have already arrived,--a very great saving might be effected
by obtaining a tenant for Cro' Martin, while you, if still desirous of
remaining in the county, might be most comfortably accommodated at the
Hendersons'.”

Three times did Mary Martin read over this passage before she could
bring herself to believe in its meaning; and hot tears of sorrow coursed
down her cheeks as she became assured of its import.

“It is not,” went on the epistle--“it is not in your uncle's present
most critical state that I could confer with him on this project,
nor strengthen my advice by what most probably would be _his_ also. I
therefore make the appeal simply to your own sense of what you may
think in accordance with our greatly increased outlay and your own
requirements. Should you receive this suggestion in the spirit in which
it is offered, I think that both for your uncle's satisfaction and your
own dignity, the proposal ought to come from yourself. You could make it
to me in a letter, stating all the reasons in its favor, and of course
not omitting to lay suitable stress upon the isolation of your present
life, and the comfort and security you would derive from the protection
of a family. Mrs. H. is really a very nice person, and her tastes and
habits would render her most companionable; and she would, of course,
make you an object of especial attention and respect. It is, besides,
not impossible that the daughter may soon return--though this is a point
I have not leisure to enter upon at present. A hundred a year would he a
very handsome allowance for Henderson, and indeed for that sum he ought
to keep your pony, if you still continue your taste for equipage. You
would thus be more comfortable, and really richer,--that is, have
more disposable means--than you have hitherto had. I forbear to insist
further upon what--till it has your own approval--may be a vain advocacy
on my part. I can only say, in conclusion, that in adopting this plan
you would equally consult what is due to your own dignity, as what is
required by your uncle's interests. Your cousin, I am forced to avow it,
has been very silly, very inconsiderate, not alone in contracting heavy
debts, but in raising large sums to meet them at fabulous rates of
interest. The involvements threaten, from what I can gather, to imperil
a considerable part of the estate, and we are obliged to send for
Scanlan to come out here, and confer with him as to the means of
extrication. I feel there is much to be said in palliation of errors
which have their origin in high and generous qualities. Plantagenet
was thrown at a very early age into the society of a most expensive
regiment, and naturally contracted the tastes and habits around him.
Poor fellow, he is suffering severely from the memory of these early
indiscretions, and I see that nothing but a speedy settlement of his
difficulties will ever restore him to his wonted spirits. You will thus
perceive, that if my suggested change of life to you should not conform
entirely to your wishes, that you are in reality only accepting your
share of the sacrifices called for from each of us.

“There are a great number of other matters on which I wished to
touch,--some, indeed, are not exactly within your province, such as
the political fortunes of the borough, whose seat Mr. Massingbred has
determined to vacate. Although not admitting the reason for his conduct,
I am strongly convinced that the step is a mere acknowledgment of
an error on his part, and an effort, however late, at the _amende
honorable_. The restitution, for so I am forced to regard it, comes most
inopportunely, since it would be a most ill-chosen moment in which to
incur the expense of a contested election; besides that, really your
cousin has no desire whatever for Parliamentary honors. Plantagenet,
however, would seem to have some especial intentions on the subject
which he keeps secret, and has asked of Massingbred not to send off
his farewell address to the constituency for some days. But I will not
continue a theme so little attractive to you.

“Dr. Schubart has just called to see your uncle. He is not altogether
so satisfied with his state as I could have hoped; he advises change of
scene, and a little more intercourse with the world, and we have some
thought of Nice, if we cannot get on to Naples. Dr. S., to whom I spoke
on the subject of your Irish miseries, tells me that cholera is now
the most manageable of all maladies, if only taken early; that you must
enjoin the persons attacked to a more liberal diet, no vegetables, and
a sparing use of French wines, excepting, he says, the generous 'Vins du
Midi.' There is also a mixture to be taken--of which he promised me
the prescription--and a pill every night of arnica or aconite--I 'm not
quite certain which--but it is a perfect specific. He also adds, what
must be felt as most reassuring, that the disease never attacks but the
very poorest of the population. As to typhus, he smiled when I spoke
of it. It is, he says, a mere 'Gastrite,' a malady which modern science
actually despises. In fact, my dear niece, these would seem, like all
other Irish misfortunes, the mere offshoots of her own dark ignorance
and barbarism. If it were not for the great expense--and of course that
consideration decides the question--I should have requested you to send
over your doctor here to confer with Dr. Schubart. Indeed, I think
it might be a very reasonable demand to make of the Government, but
unhappily my present 'relations' with my relative Lord Reckington
preclude any advances of mine in that quarter.

“I was forgetting to add that, with respect to cholera, and indeed fever
generally, that Dr. S. lays great stress upon what he calls the moral
treatment of the people, amusing their minds by easily learned games and
simple pleasures. I fear me, however, that the coarser natures of our
population may not derive adequate amusement from the resources which
would have such eminent success with the enlightened peasant of the
Rhine land. Dr. S., I may remark, is a very distinguished writer on
politics, and daily amazes us with the astounding speculations he is
forming as to the future condition of Europe. His conviction is that our
great peril is Turkey, and that Mohammedanism will be the religion
of Europe before the end of the present century. Those new baths
established at Brighton by a certain Hamet are a mere political agency,
a secret propaganda, which his acuteness has alone penetrated. Miss
Henderson has ventured to oppose these views with something not very far
from impertinent ridicule, and for some time back, Dr. S. only discusses
them with myself alone.

“I had left the remainder of the sheet for any intelligence that might
occur before post hour, but I am suddenly called away, and shall close
it at once. When I was sitting with your uncle awhile ago, I _half_
broached the project I was suggesting to you, and he seemed highly to
approve of so much as I ventured to tell him. Nothing then is wanting
but your own concurrence to make it as practicable as it is deemed
advisable by your affectionate aunt,

“Dorothea Martin.”


The eccentricities of her aunt's character had always served as
extenuating circumstances with Mary Martin. She knew the violence of
her prejudices, the enormous amount of her self-esteem, and the facility
with which she was ever able to persuade herself that whatever she
wished to do assumed at once all the importance and gravity of a duty!
This thorough appreciation of her peculiarities enabled Mary to bear
up patiently under many sore trials and some actual wrongs. Where the
occasion was a light one, she could afford to smile at such trials, and,
even in serious cases, they palliated the injustice; but here was an
instance wherein all her forgiveness was in vain. To take the moment of
her poor uncle's illness--that terrible seizure, which left him without
self-guidance, if even a will--to dictate these hard and humiliating
terms, was a downright cruelty. Nor did it diminish the suffering which
that letter cost her that its harsh conditions seemed dictated by a
spirit of contempt for Ireland and its people. As Mary re-read the
letter, she felt that every line breathed this tone of depreciation. It
was to her Ladyship a matter of less than indifference what became of
the demesne, who inhabited the house,--the home of “the Martins” for
centuries! She was as little concerned for the prestige of “the old
family,” as she was interested for the sorrows of the people. If Mary
endeavored to treat these things dispassionately to her own heart,
by dwelling upon all the points which affected others, still, her own
individual wrong would work to the surface, and the bitter and insulting
suggestion made to her rose up before her in all its enormity.

She did her very best to turn her thoughts into some other channel,--to
fix them upon her poor uncle, on his sick-bed, and sorrowing as he
was sure to be; to think of her cousin Harry, struggling against the
embarrassments of his own imprudence; of the old housekeeper, Catty
Broon, to whom she could not summon courage to speak the cruel tidings
of her changed lot,--but all, all in vain; back she would come to the
humiliation that foreshadowed her own fortune, and threatened to depose
her from her station forever.

An indignant appeal to her uncle--her own father's brother--was her
first resolve. “Let me learn,” said she to herself, “from his own lips,
that such is the destiny he assigns me; that in return for my tried
affection, my devotion, he has no other recompense than to lower me in
self-esteem and condition together. Time enough, when assured of
this, to decide upon what I shall do. But to whom shall I address this
demand?” thought she again. “That dear, kind uncle is now struck down
by illness. It were worse than cruelty to add to his own sorrows any
thought of _mine_. If he have concurred in Lady Dorothea's suggestion,
who knows in what light it may have been presented to him, by what
arguments strengthened, with what perils contrasted? Is it impossible,
too, that the sacrifice may be imperative? The sale of part of the
property, the pressure of heavy claims,--all show that it may be
necessary to dispose of Cro' Martin. Oh,” exclaimed she, in agony,
“it is but a year ago, that when Mr. Repton hinted vaguely at such a
casualty, how stoutly and indignantly did I reject it!

“'Your uncle may choose to live abroad,' said he; 'to sell the estate,
perhaps.' And I heard him with almost scornful defiance; and now the
hour is come! and even yet I cannot bring myself to believe it. When
Repton drew the picture of the tenantry, forsaken and neglected, the
poor unnoticed, and the sick uncared for, he still forgot to assign me
my place in the sad 'tableau,' and show that in destitution my lot was
equal to their own; the very poorest and meanest had yet some spot, poor
and mean though it were, they called a home, that Mary Martin was the
only one an outcast!”

These gloomy thoughts were darkened as she bethought her that of her
little fortune--on which, by Scanlan's aid, she had raised a loan--a
mere fragment remained,--a few hundred pounds at most. The outlay on
hospitals and medical assistance for the sick had more than quadrupled
what she had estimated. The expense once begun, she had persevered with
almost reckless determination. She had despatched to Dublin, one by one,
the few articles of jewelry and value she possessed for sale; she had
limited her own expenditure to the very narrowest bounds, nor was it
till driven by the utmost urgency that she wrote the appeal to her uncle
of which the reader already knows.

“How I once envied Kate Henderson,” cried she, aloud, “the brilliant
accomplishments she possessed, the graceful charm that her cultivation
threw over society, and the fascination she wielded, by acquirements of
which I knew nothing; but how much more now do I envy her, that in those
same gifts her independence was secured,--that, high above the chances
of the world, she could build upon her own efforts, and never descend to
a condition of dependence!”

Her diminished power amongst the people had been fully compensated by
the sincere love and affection she had won from them by acts of charity
and devotion. Even these, however, owed much of their efficacy to the
prestige of her station. No peasant in Europe puts so high a value on
the intercourse with a rank above his own as does the Irish. The most
pleasant flattery to his nature is the notice of “the gentleman,” and
it was more than half the boon Mary bestowed upon the poor, that she
who sat down beside the bed, who heated the little drink, who raised the
head to swallow it, was the daughter of the Great House! Would not her
altered fortune destroy this charm? was now her bitter reflection. Up
to this hour, greatly reduced as were the means she dispensed, and the
influence she wielded, she still lived in the proud home of her family,
and all regarded her as the representative of her honored name. But
now--No, she could not endure the thought! “If I must descend to further
privations,” said she to herself, “let me seek out some new scene,--some
spot where I am unknown, have never been heard of; there, at least, I
shall be spared the contrast of the past with the present, nor see in
every incident the cruel mockery of my former life.

“And yet,” thought she, “how narrow-minded and selfish is all this, how
mean-spirited, to limit the question to my own feelings! Is there no
duty involved in this sacrifice? Shall I not still--reduced though I be
in fortune--shall I not still be a source of comfort to many here? Will
not the very fact of my presence assure them that they are not deserted?
They have seen me under some trials, and the lesson has not been
fruitless. Let them then behold me, under heavier ones, not dismayed nor
cast down. What I lose in the prestige of station I shall more than gain
in sympathy; and so I remain!” No sooner was the resolve formed than
all her wonted courage came back. Rallying with the stimulus of action
before her, she began to plan out a new life, in which her relation
to the people should be closer and nearer than ever. There was a small
ornamental cottage on the demesne, known as the Chalet, built by
Lady Dorothea after one she had seen in the Oberland; this Mary now
determined on for her home, and there, with Catty Broon alone, she
resolved to live.

“My aunt,” thought she, “can scarcely be so wedded to the Henderson
scheme but that this will equally satisfy her wishes; and while it
secures a home and a resting-place for-poor Catty, it rescues _me_ from
what I should feel as a humiliation.”

The day was already beginning to dawn as Mary sat down to answer Lady
Dorothea's letter. Most of her reply referred to her uncle, to whose
affection she clung all the more as her fortunes darkened. She saw all
the embarrassment of proffering her services to nurse and tend him,
living, as he was, amidst his own; but still, she said that of the
journey or its difficulties she should never waste a thought, if her
presence at his sick-bed could afford him the slightest satisfaction.
“He knows me as a nurse already,” said she. “But tell him that I have
grown, if not wiser, calmer and quieter than he knew me formerly; that
I should not disturb him by foolish stories, but sit patiently save when
he would have me to talk. Tell him, too, that if changed in many things,
in my love to_ him_ I am unaltered.” She tried to add more, but could
not. The thought that these lines were to be read to her uncle by Lady
Dorothea chilled her, and the very tones of that supercilious voice
seemed to ring in her ears, and she imagined some haughty or insolent
comment to follow them as they were uttered.

With regard to her own future, she, in a few words, remarked upon the
unnecessary expense of maintaining a large house for the accommodation
of a single person, and said that, if her Ladyship concurred in the
plan, she would prefer taking up her home at the Chalet with old Catty
for companion and housekeeper.

She pointed out the advantages of a change which, while securing a
comfortable home to them, would equally suggest to their dependants
lessons of thrift and self-sacrifice, and added, half sportively, “As
for me, when I find myself _en Suisse_, I 'm sure I shall less regret
horses and dogs, and such-like vanities, and take to the delights of
a dairy and cream cheeses with a good grace. Indeed, I 'm not quite
certain but that Fortune, instead of displacing, will in reality be
only installing me in the position best suited to me. Do not, then, be
surprised, if at your return you find me in sabots and an embroidered
bodice, deep in the mystery of all cottage economics, and well content
to be so.

“You are quite right, my dear aunt,” she continued, “not to entertain
me with politics. The theme is as much above as it is distasteful to
me; and so grovelling are my sentiments, that I 'd rather hear of
the arrival of a cargo of oatmeal at Kilkieran than learn that the
profoundest statesman of Great Britain had condescended to stand for
our dear borough of Oughterard. At the same time, if Cousin Harry should
change his mind, and turn his ambition towards the Senate, tell him I
'm quite ready to turn out and canvass for him to-morrow, and that the
hospitalities of the Chalet shall do honor to the cause. As you speak
of sending for Mr. Scanlan, I leave to him to tell you all the events of
our late assizes here,--a task I escape from the more willingly, since
I have no successes to record. Mr. Repton, however,--he paid me a visit
yesterday, and stopped here to dinner,--says that he has no fears for
the result at the next trial, and honestly confesses that our present
defeat was entirely owing to the skill and ability of the counsel
opposed to us. By some delay or mistake, I don't exactly know which,
Scanlan omitted to send a retainer to young Mr. Nelligan, and who, being
employed for the other side, was the chief cause of our failure. My
uncle will be pleased to learn that Mr. N.'s address to the jury was
scrupulously free from any of that invective or attack so frequently
levelled at landlords when defending the rights of property. Repton
called it 'a model of legal argument, delivered with the eloquence of a
first-rate speaker, and the taste and temper of a gentleman.' Indeed,
I understand that the tone of the speech has rendered all the ribaldry
usual on such occasions in local journals impossible, and that the young
barrister has acquired anything but popularity in consequence. Even
in this much, is there a dawn of better things; and under such
circumstances a defeat may be more profitable than a victory.”

With a few kind messages to her uncle, and an earnest entreaty for
early tidings of his state, Mary concluded a letter in which her great
difficulty lay in saying far less than her thoughts dictated, and
conveying as much as she dare trust to Lady Dorothea's interpretation.
The letter concluded and sealed, she lay down, dressed as she was, on
her bed, and fell a-thinking over the future.

There are natures to whom the opening of any new vista in life suggests
fully as much of pleasure as anxiety. The prospect of the unknown and
the untried has something of the adventurous about it which more than
counterbalances the casualties of a future. Such a temperament was hers;
and the first sense of sorrowful indignation over, she really began
to speculate upon her cottage life with a certain vague and dreamy
enjoyment. She foresaw, that when Cro' Martin Castle fell into other
hands, that her own career ceased, her occupation was gone, and that
she should at once fashion out some new road, and conform herself to new
habits. The cares of her little household would probably not suffice to
engage one whose active mind had hitherto embraced so wide a field of
action, and Mary then bethought her how this leisure might be devoted to
study and improvement. It was only in the eager enthusiasm of her many
pursuits that she buried her sorrows over her neglected and imperfect
education; and now a time was approaching when that reflection could no
longer be resisted. She pondered long and deeply over these thoughts,
when suddenly they were interrupted; but in what way, deserves a chapter
of its own,--albeit a very brief one.



CHAPTER XVIII. MR. MERL'S EXPERIENCES IN THE WEST

“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.

[Illustration: 222]

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.



CHAPTER XIX. MR. MERL'S “LAST” IRISH IMPRESSION

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!



CHAPTER XX. SOMETHING NOT EXACTLY FLIRTATION.

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.”

[Illustration: 232]

“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.



CHAPTER XXI. LADY DOROTHEA

The Cour de Bade, at which excellent hotel the Martins were installed,
received on the day we have just chronicled a new arrival. He had come
by the diligence, one of that undistinguishable ten thousand England
sends off every week from her shores to represent her virtues or her
vices, her oddities, vulgarities, and pretensions, to the critical eyes
of continental Europe.

Perfectly innocent of any foreign language, and with a delightful
ambiguity as to the precise geography of where he stood, he succeeded,
after some few failures, in finding out where the Martins stopped, and
had now sent up his name to Lady Dorothea, that name being “Mr. Maurice
Scanlan.”

Lady Dorothea Martin had given positive orders that except in the
particular case of this individual she was not to be interrupted by any
visitor. She glanced her eye at the card, and then handed it across the
table to her son, who coolly read it, and threw it from him with the air
of one saying to himself, “Here's more of it! more complication, more
investigation, deeper research into my miserable difficulties, and
consequently more unhappiness.” The table at which they were seated was
thickly covered with parchments, papers, documents, and letters of every
shape and size. There were deeds, and bonds, and leases, rent-rolls,
and valuations, and powers of attorney, and all the other imposing
accessories of estated property. There were also voluminous bills of
costs, formidable long columns of figures, “carried over” and “carried
over” till the very eye of the reader wearied of the dread numerals and
turned recklessly to meet the awful total at the bottom! Terrified by
the menacing applications addressed to Mr. Martin on his son's account,
and which arrived by every post, Lady Dorothea had resolved upon herself
entering upon the whole state of the Captain's liabilities, as well as
the complicated questions of the property generally.

Distrust of her own powers was not in the number of her Ladyship's
defects. Sufficiently affluent to be always able to surround herself
with competent subordinates, she fancied--a not very uncommon error, by
the way--that she individually accomplished all that she had obtained
through another. Her taste in the fine arts, her skill in music, her
excellence as a letter-writer, were all accomplishments in this wise;
and it is not improbable that, had she been satisfied to accept her
success in finance through a similar channel, the result might have
proved just as fortunate. A shrinking dislike, however, to expose the
moneyed circumstances of the family, and a feeling of dread as to the
possible disclosures which should come out, prevented her from accepting
such co-operation. She had, therefore, addressed herself to the task
with no other aid than that of her son,--a partnership, it must be
owned, which relieved her very little of her burden.

Had the Captain been called away from the pleasures and amusements
of life to investigate the dry records of some far-away cousin's
embarrassments,--to dive into the wearisome narrative of
money-borrowing, bill-renewing, and the rest of it, by one whom he had
scarcely known or seen,--his manner and bearing could not possibly
have betrayed stronger signs of utter weariness and apathy than he
now exhibited. Smoking his cigar, and trimming his nails with a
very magnificent penknife, he gave short and listless replies to her
Ladyship's queries, and did but glance at the papers which from time to
time she handed to him for explanation or inquiry.

“So he is come at last!” exclaimed she, as the Captain threw down the
visiting-card. “Shall we see him at once?”

“By Jove! I think we've had enough of 'business,' as they call it, for
one morning,” cried he. “Here have we been since a little after eleven,
and it is now four, and I am as sick of accounts and figures as though I
were a Treasury clerk.”

“We have done next to nothing, after all!” said she, peevishly.

“And I told you as much when you began,” said he, lighting a fresh
cigar. “There's no seeing one's way through these kind of things after
the lapse of a year or two. Fordyce gets hold of the bills you gave
Mossop, and Rawkins buys up some of the things you had given renewals
for, and then all that trash you took in part payment of your
acceptances turns up, some day or other, to be paid for; and what
between the bills that never were to be negotiated--but somehow do get
abroad--and the sums sent to meet others applied in quite a different
direction, I'll lay eighty to fifty in tens or ponies there's no
gentleman living ever mastered one of these embarrassments. One must be
bred to it, my Lady, take my word for it. It's like being a crack rider
or a poet,--it's born with a man. 'The Henderson,'” added he, after a
pause, “she can do it, and I should like to see what she couldn't!”

“I am curious to learn how you became acquainted with these financial
abilities of Miss Henderson?” said Lady Dorothea, haughtily.

“Simply enough. I was poring over these confounded accounts one day at
Manheim, and I chanced to ask her a question,--something about compound
interest, I think it was,--and so she came and looked over what I was
doing, or rather endeavoring to do. It was that affair with Throgmorton,
where I was to meet one third of the bills, and Merl and he were to
look to the remainder; but there was a reservation that if Comus won the
Oaks, I was to stand free--no, that's not it--if Comus won the double
event--”

“Never mind your stupid contract. What of Miss Henderson?” broke in Lady
Dorothea.

“Well, she came over, as I told you, and took up a pencil and began
working away with all sorts of signs and crosses,--regular algebra, by
Jove!--and in about five minutes out came the whole thing, all square,
showing that I stood to win on either event, and came off splendidly
if the double should turn up. 'I wish,' said I to her, 'you 'd just
run your eye over my book and see how I stand.' She took it over to the
fire, and before I could well believe she had glanced at it, she said:
'This is all full of blunders. You have left yourself open to three
casualties, any one of which will sweep away all your winnings. Take
the odds on Roehampton, and lay on Slingsby a couple of hundred
more,--three, if you can get it,--and you 'll be safe enough. And when
you 've done that,' said she, 'I have another piece of counsel to give;
but first say will you take it?' 'I give you my word upon it,' said
I. 'Then it is this,' said she: 'make no more wagers on the turf. You
haven't skill to make what is called a “good book,” and you 'll always
be a sufferer.'”

“Did n't she vouchsafe to offer you her admirable assistance?” asked her
Ladyship, with a sneer.

“No, by Jove!” said he, not noticing the tone of sarcasm; “and when I
asked her, 'Would not she afford me a little aid?' she quickly said,
'Not on any account. You are now in a difficulty, and I willingly come
forward to extricate you. Far different were the case should I conspire
with you to place others in a similar predicament. Besides, I have your
pledge that you have now done with these transactions, and forever.'”

“What an admirable monitor! One only wonders how so much morality
coexists with such very intimate knowledge of ignoble pursuits.”

“By Jove! she knows everything,” broke in the Captain. “Such a canter as
she gave me t' other morning about idleness and the rest of it, saying
how I ought to study Hindostanee, and get a staff appointment, and
so on,--that every one ought to place himself above the accidents of
fortune; and when I said something about having no opportunity at hand,
she replied, 'Never complain of that; begin with _me_. I know quite
enough to initiate you; and as to Sanscrit, I 'm rather “up” in it.'”

“I trust you accepted the offer?” said her Ladyship, with an ambiguous
smile.

“Well, I can't say I did. I hate work,--at least that kind of work.
Besides, one doesn't like to come out 'stupid' in these kind of things,
and so I merely said, 'I 'd think of it--very kind of her,' and so on.”

“Did it never occur to you all this while,” began her Ladyship; and then
suddenly correcting herself, she stopped short, and said, “By the way,
Mr. Scanlan is waiting for his answer. Ring the bell, and let him come
in.”

Perhaps it was the imperfect recollection of that eminent
individual,--perhaps the altered circumstances in which she now saw him,
and possibly some actual changes in the man himself,--but really Lady
Dorothea almost started with surprise as he entered the room, dressed
in a dark pelisse, richly braided and frogged, an embroidered
travelling-cap in his hand, and an incipient moustache on his upper
lip,--all evidencing how rapidly he had turned his foreign experiences
to advantage. There was, too, in his address a certain confident
assurance that told how quickly the habits of the “Table d'hôte” had
impressed him, and how instantaneously his nature had imbibed the vulgar
ease of the “Continent.”

“You have just arrived, Mr. Scanlan?” said her Ladyship, haughtily, and
not a little provoked at the shake-hand salutation her son had accorded
him.

“Yes, my Lady, this instant, and such a journey as we 've had! No water
on the Rhine for the steamers; and then, when we took to the land, a
perfect deluge of rain, that nearly swept us away. At Eisleben, or some
such name, we had an upset.”

“What day did you leave Ireland?” asked she, in utter indifference as to
the casualty.

“Tuesday fortnight last, my Lady. I was detained two days in Dublin
making searches--”

“Have you brought us any letters, sir?”

“One from Miss Mary, my Lady, and another from Mr. Repton--very pressing
he said it was. I hope Mr. Martin is better? Your Ladyship's last--”

“Not much improvement,” said she, stiffly, while her thin lips were
compressed with an expression that might mean pride or sorrow, or both.

“And the country, sir? How did you leave it looking?”

“Pretty well, my Lady. More frightened than hurt, as a body might say.
They 've had a severe winter, and a great deal of sickness; the rains,
too, have done a deal of mischief; but on the whole matters are looking
up again.”

“Will the rents be paid, sir?” asked she, sharply.

“Indeed, I hope so, my Lady. Some, of course, will be backward, and beg
for time, and a few more will take advantage of Magennis's success, and
strive to fight us off.”

“There must have been some gross mismanagement in that business, sir,”
 broke in her Ladyship. “Had I been at home, I promise you the matter
would have ended differently.”

“Mr. Repton directed all the proceedings himself, my Lady. He conferred
with Miss Mary.”

“What could a young lady know about such matters?” said she, angrily.
“Any prospect of a tenant for the house, sir?”

“If your Ladyship really decides on not going back--”

“Not the slightest intention of doing so, sir. If it depended upon
me, I'd rather pull it down and sell the materials than return to live
there. You know yourself, sir, the utter barbarism we were obliged to
submit to. No intercourse with the world--no society--very frequently
no communication by post. Surrounded by a set of ragged creatures, all
importunity and idleness, at one moment all defiance and insolence, at
the next crawling and abject. But it is really a theme I cannot dwell
upon. Give me your letters, sir, and let me see you this evening.” And
taking the papers from his hand, she swept out of the room in a haughty
state.

The Captain and Mr. Scanlan exchanged looks, and were silent, but their
glances were far more intelligible than aught either of them would have
ventured to say aloud; and when the attorney's eyes, having followed her
Ladyship to the door, turned and rested on the Captain, the other gave a
brief short nod of assent, as though to say, “Yes, you are right; she's
just the same as ever.”

“And _you_, Captain,” said Scanlan, in his tone of natural
familiarity,--“how is the world treating _you?_”

“Devilish badly, Master Scanlan.”

“Why, what is it doing, then?”

“I'll tell you what it's doing! It's charging me fifty--ay, sixty per
cent; it's protesting my bills, stimulating my blessed creditors to
proceed against me, worrying my very life out of me with letters.
Letters to the governor, letters to the Horse Guards, and, last of all,
it has just lamed Bonesetter, the horse 'I stood to win' on for the
Chester Cup, I would n't have taken four thousand for my book yesterday
morning!”

“Bad news all this.”

“I believe you,” said he, lighting a cigar, and throwing another across
the table to Scanlan. “It's just bad news, and I have nothing else for
many a long day past. A fellow of your sort, Master Maurice, punting
away at county races and small sweepstakes, has a precious deal better
time of it than a captain of the King's Hussars with his head and
shoulders in the Fleet.”

“Come, come, who knows but luck will turn, Captain? Make a book on the
Oaks.”

“I've done it; and I'm in for it, too,” said the other, savagely.

“Raise a few thousands, you can always sell a reversion.”

“I have done that also,” said he, still more angrily.

“With your position and advantages you could always marry well. If you'd
just beat up the manufacturing districts, you'd get your eighty thousand
as sure as I'm here! And then matrimony admits of a man's changing all
his habits. He can sell off hunters, get rid of a racing stable, and
twenty other little embarrassments, and only gain character by the
economy.”

“I don't care a brass farthing for that part of the matter, Scanlan. No
man shall dictate to me how I 'm to spend my money. Do you just find me
the tin, and I 'll find the talent to scatter it.”

“If it can't be done by a post-obit--”

“I tell you, sir,” cried Martin, peevishly, “as I have told you before,
that has been done. There is such a thing as pumping a well dry, is n't
there?”

Scanlan made a sudden exclamation of horror; and after a pause, said,
“Already!”

“Ay, sir, already!”

“I had my suspicions about it,” muttered Scanlan, gloomily.

“You had? And how so, may I beg to ask?” said Martin, angrily.

“I saw him down there, myself.”

“Saw whom? Whom are you talking of?”

“Of that Jew, of course. Mr. Merl, he calls himself.”

A faint groan was all Martin's reply, as he turned away to hide his
face.

Scanlan watched him for a minute or so, and then resumed: “I guessed
at once what he was at; _he_ never deceived me, talking about snipe and
woodcocks, and pretending to care about hare-hunting. I saw my man at a
glance. 'It's not sporting ever brought you down to these parts,' said
I. '_Your_ game is young fellows, hard up for cash, willing to give up
their birthright for a few thousands down, and never giving a second
thought whether they paid twenty per cent, or a hundred and twenty.'
Well, well, Captain, you ought to have told me all about it. There
wasn't a man in Ireland could have putted you through like myself.”

“How do you mean?” cried Martin, hurriedly.

“Sure, when he was down in the West, what was easier? Faix, if I had
only had the wind of a word that matters were so bad, I 'd have had
the papers out of him long ago. You shake your head as if you did n't
believe me; but take my word for it, I 'm right, sir. I 'd put a quarrel
on him.”

“_He'd_ not fight you!” said Martin, turning away in disappointment.

“Maybe he wouldn't; but mightn't he be robbed? Couldn't he be waylaid,
and carried off to the Islands? There was no need to kill him.
Intimidation would do it all! I'd lay my head upon a block this minute
if I would n't send him back to London without the back of a letter
in his company; and what's more, a pledge that he 'd never tell what's
happened to him!”

“These cockney gents are more 'wide awake' than you suspect, Master
Maurice, and the chances are that he never carried a single paper or
parchment along with him.”

“Worse for him, then,” said Scanlan. “He'd have to pass the rest of
his days in the Arran Islands. But I'm not so sure he's as 'cute as you
think him,” added Maurice, after a pause. “He left a little note-book
once behind him that told some strange stories, by all accounts.”

“What was that you speak of?” cried Martin, eagerly.

“I did n't see it myself, but Simmy Crow told me of it; and that it was
full of all the fellows he ruined,--how much he won from this man, what
he carried off from that; and, moreover, there was your own name, and
the date of the very evening that he finished you off! It was something
in this wise: 'This night's work makes me an estated gentleman, _vice_
Harry Martin, Esquire, retired upon less than half-pay!'”

A terrible oath, uttered in all the vehemence of a malediction, burst
from Martin, and seizing Scanlan's wrist, he shook his arm in an agony
of passion.

“I wish I had given you a hint about him, Master Scanlan,” said he,
savagely.

“It's too late to think of it now, Captain,” said the other; “the fellow
is in Baden.”

“Here?” asked Martin.

“Ay. He came up the Rhine along with me; but he never recognized me,--on
account of my moustaches perhaps,--he took me for a Frenchman or a
German, I think. We parted at Mayence, and I saw no more of him.”

“I would that I was to see no more of him!” said Martin, gloomily, as he
walked into another room, banging the door heavily behind him.



CHAPTER XXII. HOW PRIDE MEETS PRIDE

Kate Henderson sat alone in her room reading a letter from her father,
her thoughtful brow a shade more serious perhaps than its wont, and at
times a faint, half-sickly smile moving her dimpled cheek. The interests
of our story have no concern with that letter, save passingly, nor do
we regret it. Enough, if we say it was in reply to one of her own,
requesting permission to return home, until, as she phrased it, she
could “obtain another service.” That the request had met scant favor was
easy to see, as, folding up the letter, she laid it down beside her with
a sigh and a muttered “I thought as much!--'So long as her Ladyship
is pleased to accept of your services,'” said she, repeating aloud an
expression of the writer. “Well, I suppose he's right; such is the true
reading of the compact, as it is of every compact where there is wealth
on one side, dependence on the other! Nor should I complain,” said
she, still more resolutely, “if these same services could be rendered
toilfully, but costing nothing of self-sacrifice in honorable feeling. I
could be a drudge--a slave--to-morrow; I could stoop to any labor; but I
cannot--no, I cannot--descend to companionship! They who hire us,” cried
she, rising, and pacing the room in slow and measured tread, “have a
right to our capacity. We are here to do their bidding; but they can
lay no claim to that over which we ourselves have no control--our
sympathies, our affections--we cannot sell these; we cannot always give
them, even as a gift.” She paused, and opening the letter, read it for
some seconds, and then flinging it down with a haughty gesture, said,
“'Nothing menial--nothing to complain of in my station!' Can he not see
that there is no such servitude as that which drags out existence, by
subjecting, not head and hands, but heart and soul, to the dictates of
another? The menial--the menial has the best of it. Some stipulate that
they are not to wear a livery; but what livery exacts such degradation
as this?” And she shook the rich folds of her heavy silk dress as she
spoke. The tears rose up and dimmed her eyes, but they were tears of
offended pride, and as they stole slowly along her cheeks, her features
acquired an expression of intense haughtiness. “They who train their
children to this career are but sorry calculators!--educating them but
to feel the bitter smart of their station, to see more clearly the wide
gulf that separates them from what they live amongst!” said she, in a
voice of deep emotion.

“Her Ladyship, Miss Henderson,” said a servant, throwing wide the door,
and closing it after the entrance of Lady Dorothea, who swept into
the room in her haughtiest of moods, and seated herself with all that
preparation that betokened a visit of importance.

“Take a seat, Miss Henderson,” said she. And Kate obeyed in silence.
“If in the course of what I shall have to say to you,” resumed her
Ladyship,--“if in what I shall feel it my _duty_ to say to you, I may
be betrayed into any expression stronger than in a calmer moment would
occur to me,--stronger in fact, than strict justice might warrant--”

“I beg your Ladyship's pardon if I interrupt, but I would beg to
remark--”

“What?” said Lady Dorothea, proudly.

“That simply your Ladyship's present caution is the best security for
future propriety. I ask no other.”

“You presume too far, young lady. I cannot answer that _my_ temper may
not reveal sentiments that my judgment or my breeding might prefer to
keep in abeyance.”

“If the sentiments be there, my Lady, I should certainly say, better to
avow them,” said Kate, with an air of most impassive coldness.

“I 'm not aware that I have asked your advice on that head, Miss
Henderson,” said she, almost insolently. “At the same time, your habits
of late in this family may have suggested the delusion.”

“Will your Ladyship pardon me if I confess I do not understand you?”

“You shall have little to complain of on that score, Miss Henderson;
I shall not speak in riddles, depend upon it. Nor should that be an
obstacle if your intelligence were only the equal of your ambition.”

“Now, indeed, is your Ladyship completely beyond me.”

“Had you felt that I was as much 'above' you, Miss Henderson, it were
more to the purpose.”

“I sincerely hope that I have never forgotten all the deference I owe
your Ladyship,” said Kate. Nor could humble words have taken a more
humble accent; and yet they availed little to conciliate her to whom
they were addressed; nay, this very humility seemed to irritate and
provoke her to a greater show of temper, as with an insolent laugh she
said,--“This mockery of respect never imposed on we, young lady. I have
been bred and born in a rank where real deference is so invariable that
the fictitious article is soon detected, had there been any hardy enough
to attempt it.”

Kate made no other answer to this speech than a deep inclination of her
head. It might mean assent, submission, anything.

“You may remember, Miss Henderson,” said her Ladyship, with all the
formality of a charge in her manner,--“you may remember that on the day
I engaged your services you were obliging enough to furnish me with a
brief summary of your acquirements.” She paused, as if expecting some
intimation of assent, and after an interval of a few seconds, Kate
smiled, and said,--“It must have been a very meagre catalogue, my Lady.”

“Quite the reverse. It was a perfect marvel to me how you ever
found time to store your mind with such varied information; and yet,
notwithstanding that imposing array of accomplishments, I now find that
your modesty--perhaps out of deference to my ignorance--withheld fully
as many more.”

Kate's look of bewilderment at this speech was the only reply she made.

“Oh, of course you do not understand me,” said Lady Dorothea,
sneeringly; “but I mean to be most explicit. Have you any recollection
of the circumstance I allude to?”

“I remember perfectly the day, madam, I waited on you for the first
time.”

“That's exactly what I mean. Now, pray, has any portion of our discourse
dwelt upon your mind?”

“Yes, my Lady; a remark of your Ladyship's made a considerable
impression upon me at the moment, and has continued frequently to rise
to my recollection since that.”

“May I ask what it was?”

“It was with reference to the treatment I had been so long accustomed
to in the family of the Duchesse de Luygnes, and which your Ladyship
characterized by an epithet I have never forgotten. At the time I
thought it severe; I have learned to see it just. You called it an
'irreparable mischief.' Your Ladyship said most truly.”

“I was never more convinced of the fact than at this very moment,” said
Lady Dorothea, as a flush of anger covered her cheek. “The ill-judging
condescension of your first protectors has left a very troublesome
legacy for their successors. Your youth and inexperience--I do not
desire to attribute it to anything more reprehensible--led you,
probably, into an error regarding the privileges you thus enjoyed, and
you fancied that you owed to your own claims what you were entirely
indebted to from the favor of others.”

“I have no doubt that the observation of your Ladyship is quite
correct,” said Kate, calmly.

“I sincerely wish that the conviction had impressed itself upon your
conduct then,” said Lady Dorothea, whose temper was never so outraged
as by the other's self-possession. “Had such been the case, I might have
spared myself the unpleasantness of my present task.” Her passion
was now fully roused, and with redoubled energy she continued:
“Your ambition has taken a high flight, young lady, and, from the
condescension by which I accorded you a certain degree of influence
in this family, you have aspired to become its head. Do not
affect any misconception of my meaning. My son has told me
everything--everything--from your invaluable aid to him in his pecuniary
difficulties, to your sage counsels on his betting-book; from the
admirable advice you gave him as to his studies, to the disinterested
offer of your own tuition. Be assured if _he_ has not understood all the
advantages so generously presented to him, I, at least, appreciate them
fully. I must acknowledge you have played your game cleverly, and you
have made the mock independence of your character the mask of your
designs. With another than myself you might have succeeded, too,”
 said her Ladyship, with a smile of bitter irony; “but _I_ have few
self-delusions, Miss Henderson, nor is there amongst the number that of
believing that any one serves me, in any capacity, from any devotion
to my own person. I natter myself, at least, that I have so much of
humility.”

“If I understand your Ladyship aright, I am charged with some designs on
Captain Martin?” said Kate, calmly.

“Yes; precisely so,” said Lady Dorothea, haughtily.

“I can only protest that I am innocent of all such, my Lady,” said she,
with an expression of great deference. “It is a charge that does not
admit of any other refutation, since, if I appeal to my conduct, your
Ladyship's suspicions would not exculpate me.”

“Certainly not.”

“I thought so. What, then, can I adduce? I'm sure your Ladyship's
own delicacy will see that this is not a case where testimony can be
invoked. I cannot--you would not ask me to--require an acquittal from
the lips of Captain Martin himself; humble as I stand here, my Lady, you
never could mean to expose me to this humiliation.” For the first time
did her voice falter, and a sickly paleness came over her as she uttered
the last words.

“The humiliation which you had intended for this family, Miss Henderson,
is alone what demands consideration from _me_. If what you call your
exculpation requires Captain Martin's presence, I confess I see no
objection to it.”

“It is only, then, because your Ladyship is angry with me that you could
bring yourself to think so, especially since another and much easier
solution of the difficulty offers itself.”

“How so? What do you mean?”

“To send me home, madam.”

“I understand you, young lady. I am to send you back to your father's
house as one whose presence here was too dangerous, whose attractions
could only be resisted by means of absence and distance. A very
interesting martyrdom might have been made of it, I 've no doubt, and
even some speculation as to the conduct of a young gentleman so suddenly
bereaved of the object of his affections. But all this is much too
dignified for me. _My_ son shall be taught to respect himself without
the intervention of any contrivance.”

[Illustration: 256]

As she uttered the last words, she arose and approached the bell.

“Your Ladyship surely is not going--”

“I am going to send for Captain Martin, Miss Henderson.”

“Do not, I entreat of you,--I implore your Ladyship,” cried Kate, with
her clasped hands trembling as she spoke.

“This agitation is not without a cause, and would alone decide me to
call for my son.”

“If I have ever deserved well at your hands, my Lady,--if I have served
you faithfully in anything,--if my devotion has lightened you of one
care, or aided you through one difficulty,--spare me, oh, spare me, I
beseech you, this--degradation!”

“I have a higher consideration to consult here, Miss Henderson, than
any which can have reference to you.” She pulled the bell violently, and
while her hand still held the cord, the servant entered. “Tell Captain
Martin to come here,” said she, and sat down.

Kate leaned her arm upon the chimney-piece, and, resting her head on it,
never uttered a word.

For several minutes the silence was unbroken on either side. At last
Lady Dorothea started suddenly, and said,--“We cannot receive Captain
Martin here.”

“Your Ladyship is full of consideration,” said Kate, bitterly. “For a
moment I had thought it was only an additional humiliation to which you
had destined me.”

“Follow me into the drawing-room, Miss Henderson,” said Lady Dorothea,
proudly, as she left the room. And with slow, submissive mien Kate
quitted the chamber, and walked after her.

Scarcely had the door of the drawing-room been closed upon them than it
was re-opened to admit Captain Martin. He was booted and spurred for
his afternoon canter, and seemed in no wise pleased at the sudden
interruption to his project.

“They said you wanted me,” cried he; “and here have I been searching for
you in your dressing-room, and all over the house.”

“I desire to speak with you,” said she, proudly; and she motioned to a
chair.

“I trust the _séance_ is to be a brief one, otherwise I 'll beg a
postponement,” said he, half laughingly. Then turning his glance towards
Kate, he remarked for the first time the deathlike color of her face,
and an expression of repressed suffering that all her self-control
could not conceal. “Has anything happened? What is it?” said he, in a
half-whisper.

But she never replied, nor even seemed to heed his question.

“Tell me, I beseech you,” cried he, turning to Lady Dorothea,--“tell me,
has anything gone wrong?”

“It is precisely on that account I have sent for you, Captain Martin,”
 said her Ladyship, as she assigned to him a seat with a motion of her
hand. “It is because a great deal has gone wrong here--and were it not
for my vigilance, much more still likely to follow it--I have sent for
you, sir, that you should hear from this young lady's lips a denial
which, I own, has not satisfied _me_; nor shall it, till it be made
in your presence and meet with your corroboration. Your looks, Miss
Henderson,” said she, addressing her, “would imply that all the
suffering of the present moment falls to _your_ share; but I would beg
you to bear in mind what a person in _my_ sphere must endure at the bare
possibility of the event which now demands investigation.”

“Good heavens! will not you tell me what it is?” exclaimed Martin, in
the last extremity of impatience.

“I have sent for you, sir,” resumed she, “that you should hear Miss
Henderson declare that no attentions on your part--no assiduities, I
should perhaps call them--have ever been addressed to her; that, in
fact”--here her Ladyship became embarrassed in her explanation,--“that,
in fact, those counsels--those very admirable aids to your conduct
which she on so many occasions has vouchsafed to afford you--have had
no object--no ulterior object, I should perhaps call it--and that
your--your intercourse has ever been such as beseems the heir of Cro'
Martin, and the daughter of the steward on that property!”

“By Jove, I can make nothing of all this!” cried the Captain, whose
bewildered looks fully corroborated the assertion.

“Lady Dorothea, sir, requires you to assure her that I have never
made love to you,” said Kate Henderson, with a look of scorn that her
Ladyship did not dare to reply to. “_I_,” added she, “have already given
my pledge on this subject. I trust that your testimony will not gainsay
me.”

“Confound me if I can fathom it at all!” said he, more distracted than
ever. “If you are alluding to the offer I made you--”

“The offer you made,” cried Lady Dorothea. “When?--how?--in what wise?”

“No, no, I will speak out,” said he, addressing Kate. “I am certain
_you_ never divulged it; but I cannot accept that all the honorable
dealing should be on one side only. Yes, my Lady, however you learned
it, I cannot guess, but it is perfectly true; I asked Miss Henderson to
be my wife, and she refused me.”

A low, faint sigh broke from Lady Dorothea, and she fell back into her
chair.

“She would have it,--it's not my fault,--you are witness it's not,”
 muttered he to Kate. But she motioned him in silence to the door, and
then opening the window, that the fresh air might enter, stood silently
beside the chair.

A slight shivering shook her; and Lady Dorothea--her cheeks almost
lividly pale--raised her eyes and fixed them on Kate Henderson.

“You have had your triumph!” said she, in a low but firm voice.

“I do not feel it such, madam,” said Kate, calmly. “Nor is it in a
moment of humiliation like this that a thought of triumph can enter.”

“Hear me,--stoop down lower. You can leave this--tomorrow, if you wish
it.”

Kate bowed slowly in acquiescence.

“I have no need to ask you that what has occurred here should never be
mentioned.”

“You may trust me, madam.”

“I feel that I may. There--I am better--quite well, now! You may leave
me.” Kate courtesied deeply, and moved towards the door. “One word
before you go. Will you answer me one question? I'll ask but one; but
your answer must be full, or not at all.”

“So it shall be, madam. What is it?”

“I want to know the reason--on what grounds--you declined the proposal
of my son?”

“For the same good reason, madam, that should have prevented his ever
making it.”

“Disparity--inequality of station, you mean?”

“Something like it, madam. Our union would have been both a blunder
and a paradox. Each would have married beneath him!” And once more
courtesying, and with an air of haughty dignity, Kate withdrew, and left
her Ladyship to her own thoughts.

Strange and conflicting were the same thoughts; at one moment
stimulating her to projects of passionate vengeance, at the next
suggesting the warmest measures of reconciliation and affection. These
indeed predominated, for in her heart pride seemed the emblem of all
that was great, noble, or exalted; and when she saw that sentiment,
not fostered by the accidents of fortune, not associated with birth,
lineage, and high station, but actually rising superior to the absence
of all these, she almost felt a species of worship for one so gloriously
endowed.

“She might be a duchess!” was the only speech she uttered, and the words
revealed a whole volume of her meditations. It was curious enough
how completely all recollection of her son was merged and lost in the
greater interest Kate's character supplied. But so is it frequently in
life. The traits which most resemble our own are those we alone attach
importance to, and what we fancy admiration of another is very often
nothing more than the gratified contemplation of ourselves.



CHAPTER XXIII. MAURICE SCANLAN ADVISES WITH “HIS COUNSEL”

Jack Massingbred sat in expectation of Mr. Merl's arrival till nigh ten
o'clock; and if not manifesting any great degree of impatience at the
delay, still showing unmistakable signs of uneasiness, as though the
event were not destitute of some cause for anxiety. At last a note
arrived to say that a sudden and imperative necessity to start at once
for England would prevent Mr. Merl from keeping his appointment. “I
shall be in town by Tuesday,” continued the writer, “and if Captain
Martin has any communication to make to me respecting his affairs, let
it be addressed to Messrs. Twining and Scape's, solicitors, Furnival's
Inn. I hope that with regard to your own matter, you will make suitable
provision for the acceptance due on the ninth of next month. Any further
renewal would prove a great inconvenience to yours

“Very sincerely and to command,

“Herman Merl.”

“Negotiations have ended ere they were opened, and war is proclaimed at
once,” said Massingbred, as he read over this brief epistle. “You may
come forth, Master Scanlan,” added he, opening the door of his bedroom,
and admitting that gentleman. “Our Hebrew is an overmatch for us. He
declines to appear.”

“Why so? How is that?” asked Scanlan.

“There 's his note,” said the other; “read and digest it.”

“This smacks of suspicion,” said Scanlan. “He evidently suspects that we
have concerted some scheme to entangle him, and he is resolved not to be
caught.”

“Precisely; he 'll do nothing without advice. Well, well, if he but knew
how unprepared we are, how utterly deficient not only in resources,
but actually in the commonest information of our subject, he might have
ventured here in all safety.”

“Has Captain Martin not put you in possession of the whole case, then?”

“Why, my good Scanlan, the Captain knows nothing, actually nothing, of
his difficulties. He has, it is true, a perfect conviction that he is
out of his depth; but whether he be in five fathom water or fifty, he
doesn't know; and, what 's stranger, he does n't care!”

“After all, if it be over his head, I suppose it's pretty much the same
thing,” said Scanlan, with a bitter laugh.

“I beg to offer my dissent to that doctrine,” said Mas-singbred, gently.
“Where the water is only just out of a man's depth, the shore is usually
not very distant. Now, if we were quite certain such were the case here,
we might hope to save him. If, on the contrary, he has gone down out
of all sight of land--” He stopped, gazed steadily at Scanlan for a few
seconds, and then in a lower tone, not devoid of a touch of anxiety,
said, “Eh, do you really know this to be so?”

“I'll tell you all I know, Mr. Massingbred,” said he, as having turned
the key in the door, he took his seat at the table. “And I 'll tell you,
besides, how I came by the knowledge, and I 'll leave it to your own
judgment to say what his chance is worth. When Merl was stopping at
Kilkieran, he left there a little pocket-book, with memorandums of all
his secret transactions. Mighty nice doings they were,--and profitable,
too,--as you 'll perceive when you look over it.”

“You have it, then,” cried Jack, eagerly.

“Here it is,” said he, producing the precious volume, and laying his
hand firmly on it. “Here it is now. I got it under a pledge to hand
it to himself, which I need n't tell you I never had the slightest
intention of performing. It's not every day in the week one has the good
luck to get a peep into the enemy's brief, and this is exactly what you
'll find here.”

Massingbred stretched out his hand to take the book, but Scanlan quietly
replaced it in his pocket, and, with a dry and very peculiar smile,
said,--“Have a little patience, sir. We must go regularly to work here.
You shall see this book--you shall examine it--and even retain it--but
it must be on conditions.” “Oh, you may confide in me, Scanlan. Even
if Mr. Merl were my friend,--which I assure you he is not,--I could not
venture to betray _you_.”

“That's not exactly what I 'm thinking of, Mr. Massingbred. I 'm certain
you 'd say nothing to Merl of what you saw here. My mind is easy enough
upon that score.”

“Well, then, in what direction do your suspicions point?”

“They 're not suspicions, sir,” was the dry response.

“Fears,--hesitations,--whatever you like to call them.”

“Are we on honor here, Mr. Massingbred?” said Scanlan, after a pause.

“For myself, I say decidedly so,” was the firm reply.

“That will do, sir. I ask only one pledge, and I 'm sure you 'll not
refuse it: if you should think, on reflection, that what I propose to
you this evening is neither practicable nor advisable,--that, in fact,
you could neither concur in it nor aid it,--that you'll never, so long
as you live, divulge it to any one,--man, woman, or child. Have I that
promise?”

“I think I may safely say that.”

“Ay, but do you say it?”

“I do; here is my promise.”

“That will do. I don't ask a word more. Now, Mr. Massingbred,” said he,
replacing the book on the table, “I 'll tell you in the fewest words I
can how the case stands,--and brevity is essential, for we have not an
hour to lose. Merl is gone to London about this business, and we
'll have to follow him. _He 'd_ be very glad to be rid of the affair
to-morrow, and he 'll not waste many days till he is so. Read that bit
there, sir,” said he, pointing to a few closely written lines in the
note-book.

“Good heavens!” cried Jack, “this is downright impossible. This is a
vile falsehood, devised for some infernal scheme of roguery. Who 'd
believe such a trumpery piece of imposition? Ah, Scanlan, you are not
the wily fellow I took you for. This same precious note-book was
dropped as a decoy, as I once knew a certain noble lord to have left his
betting-book behind him. An artful device, that can only succeed once,
however. And you really believed all this?”

“I did, and I do believe it,” said Scanlan, firmly.

“If you really say so, we must put the matter to the test. Captain
Martin is here,--we 'll send for him, and ask him the question; but I
must say I don't think your position will be a pleasant one after that
reply is given.”

“I must remind you of your promise already, it seems,” said Scanlan.
“You are pledged to say nothing of this, if you cannot persuade yourself
to act along with me in it.”

“Very true,” said Massingbred, slowly; “but I never pledged myself to
credit an impossibility.”

“I ask nothing of the kind. I only claim that you should adhere to what
you have said already. If this statement be untrue, all my speculations
about it fall to the ground at once. I am the dupe of a stale trick, and
there's an end of it.”

“Ay, so far all well, Master Scanlan; but _I_ have no fancy to be
associated in the deception. Can't you see that?”

“I can, sir, and I do. But perhaps there may be a readier way of
satisfying your doubts than calling for the Captain's evidence. There is
a little page in this same volume devoted to one Mr. Massingbred. _You_
surely may have some knowledge about _his_ affairs. Throw your eye over
that, sir, and say what you think of it.”

Massingbred took the book in his hand and perused the place pointed out
to him.

“By Jove! this _is_ very strange,” said he, after a pause. “Here is my
betting-book on the St. Hubert all transcribed in full,--however the Jew
boy got hold of it; and here 's mention of a blessed hundred-pound note,
which, in less than five years, has grown to upwards of a thousand!”

“And all true? All fact?”

“Perfectly true,--most lamentable fact, Master Scanlan!
How precise the scoundrel is in recording this loan as 'after supper at
Dubos'!' Ay, and here again is my unlucky wager about Martingale for
the 'Chester,' and the handicap with Armytage. Scanlan, I recant my
rash impression. This is a real work of its great author! _Aut Merl--aut
Diabolus_.”

“I could have sworn it,” said Scanlan.

“To be sure you could, man, and have done, ere this time o' day, fifty
other things on fainter evidence. But let me tell you it requires strong
testimony to make one believe that there should live such a consummate
fool in the world as would sell his whole reversionary right to a
splendid state of some twelve thousand--”

“Fifteen at the lowest,” broke in Scanlan.

“Worse again. Fifteen thousand a year for twenty-two thousand seven
hundred and sixty-four pounds sterling.”

“And he has done it.”

“No, no; the thing is utterly incredible, man. Any one must see that
if he did want to make away with his inheritance, that he could have
obtained ten, twenty times that sum amongst the tribe of Merl.”

“No doubt, if he were free to negotiate the transaction. But you 'll
see, on looking over these pages, in what a network of debt he was
involved,--how, as early as four years ago, at the Cape, he owed Merl
large sums, lost at play, and borrowed at heavy interest. So that,
at length, this same twenty-two thousand, assumed as paid for the
reversion, was in reality but the balance of an immense demand for money
lost, bills renewed, sums lent, debts discharged, and so on. But to
avoid the legal difficulty of an 'immoral obligation,' the bale of the
reversion is limited to this simple payment of twenty-two thousand--”

“Seven hundred and sixty-four pounds, sir. Don't let us diminish the
price by a fraction,” said Massingbred. “Wonderful people ye are, to be
sure; and whether in your talent for savings, or dislike for sausages,
alike admirable and praiseworthy! What a strange circle do events
observe, and how irrevocable is the law of the material, the stern rule
of the moral world, decay, decomposition, and regeneration following
on each other; and as great men's ashes beget grubs, so do illustrious
houses generate in their rottenness the race of Herman Merls.”

Scanlan tried to smile at the rhapsodical conceit, but for some private
reason of his own he did not relish nor enjoy it.

“So, then, according to the record,” said Massingbred, holding up the
book, “there is an end of the 'Martins of Cro' Martin'?”

“That's it, sir, in one word.”

“It is too shocking--too horrible to believe,” said Mas-singbred, with
more of sincerity than his manner usually displayed. “Eh, Scanlan,--is
it not so?” added he, as waiting in vain for some show of concurrence.

“I believe, however,” said the other, “it's the history of every great
family's downfall: small liabilities growing in secrecy to become heavy
charges, severe pressure exerted by those out of whose pockets came
eventually the loans to meet the difficulties,--shrewdness and rapacity
on one side, folly and wastefulness on the other.”

“Ay, ay; but who ever heard of a whole estate disposed of for less than
two years of its rental?”

“That's exactly the case, sir,” said he, in the same calm tone as
before; “and what makes matters worse, we have little time to look out
for expedients. Magennis will put us on our title at the new trial
next assizes. Merl will take fright at the insecurity of his claim, and
dispose of it,--Heaven knows to whom,--perhaps to that very league now
formed to raise litigation against all the old tenures.”

“Stop, stop, Scanlan! There is quite enough difficulty before us,
without conjuring up new complications,” cried Massingbred. “Have you
anything to suggest? What ought to be done here?”

Scanlan was silent, and leaning his head on his hand seemed lost in
thought.

“Come, Scanlan, you 've thought over all this ere now. Tell me, man,
what do you advise?”

Scanlan was silent.

“Out with it, Scanlan. I know, I feel that you have a resource in store
against all these perils! Out with it, man.”

“Have I any need to remind you of your promise, Mr. Massingbred?” asked
the other, stealthily.

“Not the slightest, Scanlan. I never forget a pledge.”

“Very well, sir; that's enough,” said Scanlan, speaking rapidly, and
like one anxious to overcome his confusion by an effort. “We have just
one thing to do. We must buy out Merl. Of course as reasonably as we
can, but buy him out we must. What between his own short experiences of
Ireland, and the exposure that any litigation is sure to bring with it,
he's not likely to be hard to deal with, particularly when we are in
possession, as I suppose we may be, through _your_ intimacy with the
Captain, of all the secret history of these transactions. I take it for
granted that he 'll be as glad of a settlement that keeps all 'snug,'
as ourselves. Less than the twenty-two thousand we can't expect he'll
take.”

“And how are we to raise that sum without Mr. Martin's concurrence?”

“I wish that was the only difficulty,” said Scanlan.

“What do you mean?”

“Just this: that in his present state no act of his would stand. Sure
his mind is gone. There isn't a servant about him could n't swear to his
fancies and imaginations. No, sir, the whole thing must be done amongst
ourselves. I have eight thousand some hundred pounds of my own available
at a moment; old Nelligan would readily--for an assignment of the
Brewery and the Market Square--advance us ten thousand more;--the money,
in short, could be had--more if we wanted it--the question--”

“As to the dealing with Merl?” broke in Jack.

“No, sir, not that, though of course it is a most important
consideration.”

“Well, what then?”

“As to the dealing with Maurice Scanlan, sir,” said he, making a great
effort. “There's the whole question in one word.”

“I don't see that there can be any grave obstacle against that. You know
the property.”

“Every acre of it.”

“You know how you'd like your advance to be secured to you--on what part
of the estate. The conditions, I am certain, might be fairly left in
your own hands; I feel assured you'd not ask nor expect anything beyond
what was equitable and just.”

“Mr. Massingbred, we might talk this way a twelvemonth, and never be a
bit nearer our object than when we began,” said Scanlan, resolutely. “I
want two things, and I won't take less than the two together. One is to
be secured in the agency of the estate, under nobody's control whatever
but the Martins themselves. No Mister Repton to say 'Do this, sign
that, seal the other.' I 'll have nobody over me but him that owns the
property.”

“Well, and the other condition?”

“The other--the other--” said Scanlan, growing very red--“the other, I
suppose, will be made the great difficulty--at least, on my Lady's side.
She 'll be bristling up about her uncle the Marquis, and her half-cousin
the Duke, and she'll be throwing in my teeth who I am, and what I was,
and all the rest of it, forgetting all the while where they 'll be if
they reject my terms, and how much the most noble Viceroy will do for
her when she has n't a roof over her head, and how many letters his
Grace will write when she has n't a place to address them to,--not to
say that the way they're treating the girl at this very moment shows
how much they think of her as one of themselves, living with old Catty
Broon, and cantering over the country without as much as a boy after
her. Sure, if they were n't Pride itself, it's glad they might be
that a--a--a respectable man, that is sure to be devoted to their own
interests forever, and one that knows the estate well, and, moreover
than that, that doesn't want to be going over to London,--no, nor even
to Dublin,--that doesn't care a brass farthing for the castle and the
lodge in the park,--that, in short, Mr. Massingbred, asks nothing for
anybody, but is willing to trust to his industry and what he knows of
life--There it is now,--there's my whole case,” said he, stammering,
and growing more and more embarrassed. “I haven't a word to add to it,
except this: that if they'd rather be ruined entirely, left without
stick or stone, roof or rafter in the world, than take my offer, they
've nothing to blame but themselves and their own infernal pride!” And
with this peroration, to deliver which cost him an effort like a small
apoplexy, Maurice Scanlan sat down at the table, and crossed his arms on
his breast like one prepared to await his verdict with a stout heart.

At last, and with the start of one who “suddenly bethought him of a
precaution that ought not to be neglected,” he said,--“Of course, this is
so far all between ourselves, for if I was to go up straight to my Lady,
and say, 'I want to marry your niece,' I think I know what the answer
would be.”

Although Massingbred had followed this rambling and incoherent effort
at explanation with considerable attention, it was only by the very
concluding words that he was quite certain of having comprehended
its meaning. If we acknowledge that he felt almost astounded by the
pretension, it is but fair to add that nothing in his manner or air
betokened this feeling. Nay, he even by a slight gesture of the head
invited the other to continue; and when the very abrupt conclusion did
ensue, he sat patiently, as it were revolving the question in his own
mind.

Had Scanlan been waiting for the few words which from a jury-box
determine a man's fate forever, he could not have suffered more acute
anxiety than he felt while contemplating the other's calm and unmoved
countenance. A bold, open rejection of his plan, a defiant repudiation
of his presumption, would not probably have pained him more, if as much
as the impassive quietness of Jack's demeanor.

“If you think that this is a piece of impudence on my part, Mr.
Massingbred,--if it's your opinion that in aspiring to be connected with
the Martins I'm forgetting my place and my station, just say so at once.
Tell it to me frankly, and I'll know how to bear it,” said he, at last,
when all further endurance had become impossible.

“Nothing of the kind, my dear Scanlan,” said Jack, smiling blandly.
“Whatever snobbery once used to prevail on these subjects, we have come
to live in a more generous age. The man of character, the man who unites
an untarnished reputation to very considerable abilities, with talent to
win any station, and virtues to adorn it, such a man wants no blazonry
to illustrate his name, and it is mainly by such accessions that our
English aristocracy, refreshed and invigorated as it is, preserves its
great acknowledged superiority.”

It would have required a more acute critic than Maurice Scanlan to have
detected the spirit in which this rhapsody was uttered. The apparent
earnestness of the manner did not exactly consort with a certain
pomposity of enunciation and an over-exactness in the tone of the
declamation. On the whole Maurice did not like it. It smacked to his
ears very like what he had often listened to in the Four Courts at the
close of a “junior's” address; and there was a Nisi Prius jingle in it
that sounded marvellously unlike conviction.

“If, then,” resumed Massingbred, “they who by the accidents of fortune,
or the meritorious services of their forefathers, represent rather in
their elevation the gratitude of their country than--”

“I 'm sorry to interrupt you, sir,--indeed, I'm ashamed of myself for
doing it,--for your remarks are beautiful, downright eloquent; but the
truth is, this is a case touches me too closely to make me care for
a grand speech about it. I 'd rather have just a few words--to the
evidence, as one might say,--or a simple answer to a plain question, Can
this thing be done?”

“There's where you beat us, Scanlan. There's where we cannot approach
you. You are practical. You reduce a matter at once to the simple
dimension of efficacy first, then possibility, and with these two
conditions before you you reject the fifty extraneous considerations,
outlying contingencies, that distract and embarrass such fellows as me.

“I have no pretension to abilities like yours, Mr. Massingbred,” said
Scanlan, with unassumed modesty.

“Ah, Scanlan, yours are the true gifts, take my word for it!--the
recognized currency by which a man obtains what he seeks for; and
there never was an era in which such qualities bore a higher value. Our
statesmen, our diplomatists, our essay-writers,--nay, our very poets,
addressing themselves as they do to the correction of social wrongs and
class inequalities,--they are all 'practical'! That is the type of our
time, and future historians will talk of this as the 'Age of Fact'!”

If one were to judge from Maurice Scanlan's face during the delivery of
this peroration, it might be possibly inferred that he scarcely accepted
the speech as an illustration in point, since anything less practical he
had never listened to.

“When I think,” resumed he, “what a different effect I should have
produced in the 'House' had I possessed this requisite! You, possibly,
may be under the impression that I achieved a great success?”

“Well, I did hear as much,” said Scanlan, half doggedly.

“Perhaps it was so. A first speech, you are aware, is always listened to
indulgently; not so a second, especially if a man rises soon after his
first effort. They begin to suspect they have got a talkative fellow,
eager and ready to speak on every question; they dread that, and even if
he be clever, they 'll vote him a bore!”

“Faith! I don't wonder at it!” said Maurice, with a hearty sincerity in
the tone.

“Yet, after all, Scanlan, let us be just! How in Heaven's name, are men
to become debaters, except by this same training? You require men not
alone to be strong upon the mass of questions that come up in debate,
but you expect them to be prompt with their explanations, always
prepared with their replies. Not ransacking history, or searching
through 'Hansard,' you want a man who, at the spur of the moment,
can rise to defend, to explain, to simplify, or mayhap to assail, to
denounce, to annihilate. Is n't that true?”

“I don't want any such thing, sir!” said Scanlan, with a sulky
determination that there was no misunderstanding.

“You don't. Well, what _do_ you ask for?”

“I'll tell you, sir, and in very few words, too, what I do _not_ ask
for! I don't ask to be humbugged, listening to this, that, and the
other, that I have nothing to say to; to hear how you failed or why you
succeeded; what you did or what you could n't do. I put a plain case to
you, and I wanted as plain an answer. And as to your flattering me about
being practical, or whatever you call it, it's a clean waste of time,
neither less nor more!”

“The agency and the niece!” said Massingbred, with a calm solemnity that
this speech had never disconcerted.

“Them 's the conditions!” said Scanlan, reddening over face and
forehead.

“You 're a plucky fellow, Scanlan, and by Jove I like you for it!” said
Massingbred. And for once there was a hearty sincerity in the way
he spoke. “If a man _is_ to have a fall, let it be at least over a
'rasper,' not be thrown over a furrow in a ploughed field! You fly
at high game, but I'm far from saying you'll not succeed.” And with a
jocular laugh he turned away and left him.



CHAPTER XXIV. A CONSULTATION

Jack Massingbred was one of those who, in questions of difficulty,
resort to the pen in preference to personal interference. It was a fancy
of his that he wrote better than he talked. Very probably he thought
so because the contrary was the fact. On the present occasion another
motive had also its influence. It was Lady Dorothea that he addressed,
and he had no especial desire to commit himself to a direct interview.

His object was to convey Mr. Scanlan's propositions,--to place them
fully and intelligibly before her Ladyship without a syllable of comment
on his own part, or one word which could be construed into advocacy or
reprobation of them. In truth, had he been called upon for an opinion,
it would have sorely puzzled him what to say. To rescue a large estate
from ruin was, to be sure, a very considerable service, but to accept
Maurice Scanlan as a near member of one's family seemed a very heavy
price even for that. Still, if the young lady liked him, singular as the
choice might appear, other objections need not be insurmountable. The
Martins were very unlikely ever to make Ireland their residence again,
they would see little or nothing of this same Scanlan connection, “and,
after all,” thought Jack, “if we can only keep the disagreeables of
this life away from daily intercourse, only knowing them through the
post-office and at rare intervals, the compact is not a bad one.”

Massingbred would have liked much to consult Miss Henderson upon the
question itself, and also upon his manner of treating it; but to touch
upon the point of a marriage of inequality with her, would have been
dangerous ground. It was scarcely possible he could introduce the topic
without dropping a word, or letting fall a remark she could not seize
hold of. It was the theme, of all others, in which her sensitiveness
was extreme; nor could he exactly say whether she sneered at a
_mésalliance,_ or at the insolent tone of society regarding it.

Again he bethought him of the ungraciousness of the task he had assumed,
if, as was most probable, Lady Dorothea should feel Mr. Scanlan's
pretensions an actual outrage. “She'll never forgive me for stating
them, that's certain,” said he; “but will she do so if I decline to
declare them, or worse still, leave them to the vulgar interpretation
Scanlan himself is sure to impart to them?” While he thus hesitated and
debated with himself, now altering a phrase here, now changing a word
there, Captain Martin entered the room, and threw himself into a chair
with a more than ordinary amount of weariness and exhaustion.

“The governor's worse to-day, Massingbred,” said he, with a sigh.

“No serious change, I hope?” said Jack.

“I suspect there is, though,” replied the other. “They sent for me from
Lescour's last night, where I was winning smartly. Just like _my_ luck
always, to be called away when I was 'in vein,' and when I got here,
I found Schubart, and a French fellow whom I don't know, had just bled
him. It must have been touch and go, for when I saw him he was very
ill--very ill indeed--and they call him better.”

“It was a distinct attack, then,--a seizure of some sort?” asked
Massingbred.

“Yes, I think they said so,” said he, lighting his cigar.

“But he has rallied, has n't he?”

“Well, I don't fancy he has. He lifts his eyes at times, and seems to
look about for some one, and moves his lips a little, but you could
scarcely say that he was conscious, though my mother insists he is.”

“What does Schubart think?”

“Who minds these fellows?” said he, impatiently. “They're only
speculating on what will be said of themselves, and so they go on: 'If
this does not occur, and the other does not happen, we shall see him
better this evening.'”

“This is all very bad,” said Massingbred, gloomily--“It's a deuced deal
worse than you know of, old fellow,” said Martin, bitterly.

“Perhaps not worse than I suspect,” said Massingbred.

“What do you mean by that?”

Massingbred did not reply, but sat deep in thought for some time. “Come,
Martin,” said he, at last, “let us be frank; in a few hours it may be,
perhaps, too late for frankness. Is this true?” And he handed to him
Merl's pocket-book, open at a particular page.

Martin took it, and as his eyes traced the lines a sickly paleness
covered his features, and in a voice scarcely stronger than an infant's,
he said, “It is so.”

“The whole reversionary right?”

“Every acre--every stick and stone of it--except,” added he, with a
sickly attempt at a smile, “a beggarly tract, near Kiltimmon, Mary has a
charge upon.”

“Read that, now,” said Jack, handing him his recently written letter.
“I was about to send it without showing it to you; but it is as well you
saw it.”

While Martin was reading, Massingbred never took his eyes from him. He
watched with all his own practised keenness the varying emotions the
letter cost; but he saw that, as he finished, selfishness had triumphed,
and that the prospect of safety had blunted every sentiment as to the
price.

“Well,” said Jack, “what say you to that?”

“I say it's a right good offer, and on no account to be refused. There
is some hitch or other--I can't say what, but it exists, I know--which
ties us up against selling. Old Repton and the governor, and I think
my mother, too, are in the secret; but I never was, so that Scanlan's
proposal is exactly what meets the difficulty.”

“But do you like his conditions?” asked Jack.

“I can't say I do. But what 's that to the purpose? One must play the
hand that is dealt to them; there 's no choice! I know that, as agent
over the property, he 'll make a deuced good thing of it for himself. It
will not be five nor ten per cent will satisfy Master Maurice.”

“Yes; but there is another condition, also,” said Jack, quietly.

“About Mary? Well, of course it's not the kind of thing one likes.
The fellow is the lowest of the low; but even that's better, in some
respects, than a species of half gentility, for he actually has n't
one in the world belonging to him. No one ever heard of his father or
mother, and he's not the fellow to go in search of them.”

“I confess that _is_ a consideration,” said Massingbred, with a tone
that might mean equally raillery or the reverse, “so that you see no
great objection on that score?”

“I won't say I 'd choose the connection; but 'with a bad book it's at
least a hedge,'--eh, Massy, is n't it?”

“Perhaps so,” said the other, dryly.

“It does n't strike me,” said Martin, as he glanced his eye again over
the letter, “that you have advocated Scanlan's plan. You have left it
without, apparently, one word of comment. Does that mean that you don't
approve of it?”

“I never promised him I would advocate it,” said Jack.

“I have no doubt, Massingbred, you think me a deuced selfish fellow for
treating the question in this fashion; but just reflect a little,
and see how innocently, as I may say, I was led into all these
embarrassments. I never suspected how deep I was getting. Merl used to
laugh at me if I asked him how we stood; he always induced me to regard
our dealings as trifles, to be arranged to-day, to-morrow, or ten years
hence.”

“I am not unversed in that sort of thing, unluckily,” said Massingbred,
interrupting him. “There is another consideration, however, in the
present case, to which I do not think you have given sufficient weight.”

“As to Mary, my dear fellow, the matter is simple enough. Our consent
is a mere form. If she liked Scanlan, she 'd marry him against all the
Martins that ever were born; and if she did n't, she 'd not swerve an
inch if the whole family were to go to the stake for it. She 's not one
for half measures, I promise you; and then, remember, that though she
is one 'of us,' and well born, she has never mingled with the society
of her equals; she has always lived that kind of life you saw
yourself,--taking a cast with the hounds one day, nursing some old hag
with the rheumatism the next. I 've seen her hearing a class in the
village school, and half an hour after, breaking in a young horse to
harness. And what between her habits and her tastes, she is really not
fit for what you and I would call the world.” As Massingbred made no
reply, Martin ascribed his silence to a part conviction, and went on:
“Mind, I 'm not going to say that she is not a deuced deal too good for
Maurice Scanlan, who is as vulgar a hound as walks on two legs; but, as
I said before, Massy, we haven't much choice.”

“Will Lady Dorothea be likely to view the matter in this light?” asked
Jack, calmly.

“That is a mere matter of chance. She 's equally likely to embrace the
proposal with ardor, or tell a footman to kick Scanlan out of the house
for his impertinence; and I own the latter is the more probable of the
two,--not, mark you, from any exaggerated regard for Mary, but out of
consideration to the insult offered to herself.”

“Will she not weigh well all the perils that menace the estate?”

“She'll take a short method with them,--she'll not believe them.”

“Egad! I must say the whole negotiation is in a very promising state!”
 exclaimed Jack, as he arose and walked the room. “There is only one
amongst us has much head for a case of difficulty.”

“You mean Kate Henderson?” broke in Martin.

“Yes.”

“Well, we 've lost _her_ just when we most needed her.”

“Lost her! How--what do you mean?”

“Why, that she is gone--gone home. She started this morning before
daybreak. She had a tiff with my mother last night. I will say the girl
was shamefully treated,--shamefully! My Lady completely forgot herself.
She was in one of those blessed paroxysms in which, had she been born a
Pasha, heads would have been rolling about like shot in a dockyard, and
she consequently said all manner of atrocities; and instead of giving
her time to make the _amende_, Kate beat a retreat at once, and by this
time she is some twenty miles on her journey.”

Massingbred walked to the window to hide the emotion these tidings
produced; for, with all his self-command, the suddenness of the
intelligence had unmanned him, and a cold and sickly feeling came over
him. There was far more of outraged and insulted pride than love in the
emotions which then moved him. The bitter thought of the moment was,
how indifferent she felt about _him_,--how little _he_ weighed in
any resolve she determined to follow. She had gone without a word of
farewell,--perhaps without a thought of him. “Be it so,” said he to
himself; “there has been more than enough of humiliation to me in our
intercourse. It is time to end it! The whole was a dream, from which the
awaking was sure to be painful. Better meet it at once, and have done
with it.” There was that much of passion in this resolve that proved how
far more it came from wounded pride than calm conviction; and so deeply
was his mind engrossed with this feeling, that Martin had twice spoken
to him ere he noticed his question.

“Do you mean, then, to show that letter to my mother?”

“Ay; I have written it with that object Scanlan asked me to be
his interpreter, and I have kept my pledge.--And did she go
alone,--unaccompanied?”

“I fancy so; but, in truth, I never asked. The doctors were here, and
all that fuss and confusion going on, so that I had really little head
for anything. After all, I suspect she's a girl might be able to take
care of herself,--should n't you say so?”

Massingbred was silent for a while, and then said: “You 'll have to be
on the alert about this business of yours, Martin; and if I can be of
service to you, command me. I mean to start for London immediately.”

“I 'll see my mother at once, then,” said he, taking up Massingbred's
letter.

“Shall I meet you in about an hour, in the Lichtenthal Avenue?”

“Agreed,” said he; and they parted.

We have no need, nor have we any right, to follow Massingbred as he
strolled out to walk alone in an alley of the wood. Irresolution is an
intense suffering to men of action; and such was the present condition
of his mind. Week after week, month after month, had he lingered on
in companionship with the Martins, till such had become the intimacy
between them that they scrupled not to discuss before him the most
confidential circumstances, and ask his counsel on the most private
concerns. He fancied that he was “of them;” he grew to think that he
was, somehow, part and parcel of the family, little suspecting the
while that Kate Henderson was the link that bound him to them, and that
without her presence they resolved themselves into three individuals for
whom he felt wonderfully little of interest or affection. “She is gone,
and what have I to stay for?” was the question he put to himself; and
for answer he could only repeat it.



CHAPTER XXV. A COMPROMISE

There are many who think that our law of primogeniture is a sad hardener
of the heart,--estranging the father from the son, widening petty
misunderstandings to the breadth of grievances, engendering suspicions
where there should be trustfulness, and opening two roads in life to
those who should rightfully have trod one path together. If one half of
this be the price we pay for our “great houses,” the bargain is a bad
one! But even taking a wide margin for exaggeration,--allowing much
for the prejudices of those who assail this institution,--there is that
which revolts against one's better nature, in the ever-present question
of money, between the father and his heir. The very fact that separate
rights suggest separate interests is a source of discord; while the
inevitable law of succession is a stern defiance to that sense of
protection on one side, and dependence on the other, that should mark
their relations to each other.

Captain Martin was not devoid of affection for his family. He had, it
is true, been very little at home, but he did not dislike it, beyond
the “boredom” of a rather monotonous kind of life. He was naturally of
a plastic temperament, however, and he lived amongst a set whose
good pleasure it is to criticise all who belong to them with the very
frankest of candor. One told how his governor, though rolling in wealth,
kept him on a most beggarly allowance, illustrating, with many an
amusing story, traits of avarice that set the table in a roar. Another
exhibited his as such a reckless spendthrift that the family estate
would never cover the debts. There was a species of rivalry on seeing
who should lay most open to public view details and incidents purely
belonging to a family. It was even a principle of this new school
to discuss, and suffer others to discuss before them, the class and
condition of life of their parents in a tone of mockery and derision,
whenever the occasion might admit it; and the son of the manufacturer
or the trader listened to allusions to his birth and parentage, and even
jested upon them himself, in a spirit more flattering to his philosophy
than to his pride.

Martin had lived amidst all this for years. He had been often
complimented upon the “jolly good thing he was to have one of these
days;” he had been bantered out of many a wise and prudent economy, by
being reminded of that “deuced fine property nobody could keep him out
of.” “What can it signify to _you_ old fellow, a few hundreds more or
less. You must have fifteen thousand a year yet. The governor can't live
forever, I take it.” Others, too, as self-invited guests, speculated on
all the pleasures of a visit to Cro' Martin; and if at first the young
man heard such projects with shame and repugnance, he learned at last to
listen to them with indifference, perhaps with something less!

Was it some self-accusing on this score that now overwhelmed him as he
sat alone in his room, trying to think, endeavoring to arouse himself to
action, but so overcome that he sat there only half conscious, and
but dimly discerning the course of events about him? At such moments
external objects mingle their influences with our thoughts, and the
sound of voices, the tread of footsteps, the mere shutting of a door,
seem to blend themselves with our reveries, and give somewhat of reality
to our dreamy fancies. A large clock upon the mantelpiece had thus fixed
his attention, and he watched the minute-hand as though its course was
meting out the last moments of existence. “Ere it reach that hour,”
 thought he, fixing his gaze upon the dial, “what a change may have come
over all my fortunes!” Years--long years--seemed to pass over as he
waited thus; scenes of childhood, of infancy itself, mingled with the
gay dissipations of his after-life; school days and nights at mess,
wild orgies of the play-table and sad wakings on the morrow, all moved
through his distracted brain, till at length it was only by an effort
that he could shake off these flitting fancies and remember where he
was.

He at once bethought him that there was much to be done. He had given
Massingbred's letter to his mother, entreating a prompt answer, but
two hours had now elapsed and she had not sent her reply. There was a
struggle between his better nature and his selfishness whether to seek
her. The thought of that sick-room, dark and silent, appalled him. “Is
it at such a time I dare ask her to address her mind to this? and yet
hours are now stealing over which may decide my whole fate in life.”
 While he thus hesitated, Lady Dorothea entered the room. Nights of
anxiety and watching, the workings of a spirit that fought inch by
inch with fortune, were deeply marked upon her features. Weariness
and fatigue had not brought depression on her, but rather imparted a
feverish lustre to her eyes, and an expression of haughty energy to her
face.

“Am I to take this for true,” said she, as, seating herself in front
of him, she held out Massingbred's letter,--“I mean, of course, what
relates to yourself?”

He nodded sorrowfully, but did not speak.

“All literally the fact?” said she, speaking slowly, and dwelling on
every word. “You have actually sold the reversion of the estate?”

“And am beggared!” said he, sternly.

Lady Dorothea tried to speak. She coughed, cleared her throat, made
another effort, but without succeeding; and then, in a slightly broken
voice, said, “Fetch me a glass of water. No, sit down; I don't want it.”
 The blood again mounted to her pale cheeks, and she was herself again.

“These are hard terms of Scanlan's,” said she, in a dry, stern tone. “He
has waited, too, till we have little choice remaining. Your father is
worse.”

“Worse than when I saw him this morning?”

“Weaker, and less able to bear treatment. He is irritable, too, at that
girl's absence. He asks for her constantly, and confuses her in his mind
with Mary.”

“And what does Schubart think?”

“I'll tell you what he _says_,” replied she, with a marked emphasis on
the last word. “He says the case is hopeless; he has seen such linger
for weeks, but even a day--a day--” She tried to go on; but her voice
faltered, her lip trembled, and she was silent.

“I had begun to believe it so,” muttered Martin, gloomily. “He scarcely
recognized me yesterday.”

“He is perfectly collected and sensible now,” said Lady Dorothea, in her
former calm tone. “He spoke of business matters clearly and well, and
wished to see Scanlan.”

“Which I trust you did not permit?” asked Martin, hurriedly.

“I told him he should see him this evening, but there is no necessity
for it. Scanlan may have left this before evening.”

“You suspect that Scanlan would say something,--would mention to him
something of this affair?”

“Discretion is not the quality of the low-born and the vulgar,”
 said she, haughtily; “self-importance alone would render him unsafe.
Besides,”--and this she said rapidly,--“there is nothing to detain the
man here, when he knows that we accept his conditions.”

“And are we to accept them?” said Martin, anxiously.

“Dare we refuse them? What is the alternative? I suppose what you have
done with your Jew friend has been executed legally--formally?”

“Trust _him_ for that; he has left no flaw there!” said Martin,
bitterly.

“I was certain of it,” said she, with a scarcely perceptible sneer.
“Everything, therefore, has been effected according to law?”

“Yes, I believe so,” replied he, doggedly.

“Then really there is nothing left to us but Scanlan. He objects to
Repton; so do I. I always deemed him obtrusive and familiar. In the
management of an Irish estate such qualities may be reckoned essential.
I know what we should think of them in England, and I know where we
should place their possessor.”

“I believe the main question that presses now is, are we to have an
estate at all?” said the Captain, bitterly.

“Yes, sir, you have really brought it to that,” rejoined she, with equal
asperity.

“Do you consent to his having the agency?” asked Martin, with an immense
effort to suppress passion.

“Yes.”

“And you agree, also, to his proposal for Mary?”

“It is matter of complete indifference to me who Miss Martin marries, if
she only continue to reside where she does at present. I 'm certain she
'd not consult _me_ on the subject; I'm sure I'd never control _her_. It
is a _mésalliance_, to be sure; but it would be equally so, if she,
with her rustic habits and uneducated mind, were to marry what would be
called her equal. In the present case, she 'll be a little better than
her station; in the other, she 'd be vastly beneath it!”

“Poor Molly!” said he, half aloud; and, for the first time, there was a
touch of his father's tone and manner in the words.

Lady Dorothea looked at him, and with a slight shrug of the shoulders
seemed to sneer at his low-priced compassion.

“Scoff away!” said he, sternly; “but if I thought that any consent we
gave to this scheme could take the shape of a coercion, I 'd send the
estate to the--”

“You have, sir; you have done all that already,” broke in Lady Dorothea.
“When the troubled breathing that we hear from yonder room ceases, there
is no longer a Martin of Cro' Martin!”

“Then what are we losing time for?” cried he, eagerly. “Are moments
so precious to be spent in attack and recrimination? There's Scanlan
sitting on a bench before the door. Call him up--tell him you accept
his terms--let him start for London, post haste. With every speed he can
master he 'll not be a minute too soon. Shall I call him? Shall I beckon
to him?”

“Send a servant for him,” said Lady Dorothea, calmly, while she folded
up the letter, and laid it on the table at her side.

Martin rang the bell and gave the order, and then, assuming an air of
composure he was very far from feeling, sat silently awaiting Scanlan's
entrance. That gentleman did not long detain them. He had been sitting,
watch in hand, for above an hour, looking occasionally up at the
windows, and wondering why he had not been summoned. It was, then, with
an almost abrupt haste that he at last presented himself.

“Read over that letter, sir,” said Lady Dorothea, “and please to inform
me if it rightly conveys your propositions.”

Scanlan perused Massingbred's letter carefully, and folding it up,
returned it. “Yes, my Lady,” said he, “I think it embraces the chief
points. Of course there is nothing specified as to the mode of carrying
them out,--I mean, as to the security I should naturally look for. I
believe your Ladyship does not comprehend me?”

“Not in the least, sir.”

“Well, if I must speak plainer, I want to be sure that your concurrence
is no mere barren concession, my Lady; that, in admitting my
pretensions, your Ladyship favors them. This is, of course,” said he, in
a tone of deference, “if your Ladyship condescends to accept the terms
at all; for, as yet, you have not said so.”

“If I had not been so minded, sir, this interview would not have taken
place.”

“Well, indeed, I thought as much myself,” said he; “and so I at once
entered upon what one might call the working details of the measure.”

“How long will it take you to reach London, sir?” asked she, coldly.

“Four days, my Lady, travelling night and day.”

“How soon after your arrival there can you make such arrangements as
will put this affair out of all danger, using every endeavor in your
power?”

“I hope I could answer for that within a week,--maybe, less.”

“You'll have to effect it in half that time, sir,” said she, solemnly.

“Well, I don't despair of that same, if I have only your Ladyship's
promise to all that is set down there. I 'll neither eat nor sleep till
the matter is in good train.”

“I repeat, sir, that if this settlement be not accomplished in less than
a week from the present moment, it may prove utterly valueless.”

“I can only say I'll do my best, my Lady. I'd be on the road this
minute, if your Ladyship would dismiss me.”

“Very well, sir,--you are free. I pledge myself to the full conditions
of this letter. Captain Martin binds himself equally to observe them.”

“I 'd like it in writing under your Ladyship's hand,” said Scanlan, in
a half whisper, as though afraid to speak such doubts aloud. “It is
not that I have the least suspicion or misgiving in life about your
Ladyship's word,--I'd take it for a million of money,--but when I come
to make my proposals in person to Miss Mary--”

“There, sir, that will do!” said she, with a disdainful look, as if to
repress an explanation so disagreeable. “You need not enter further upon
the question. If you address me by letter, I will reply to it.”

“There it is, my Lady,” said he, producing a sealed epistle, and placing
it on the table before her. “I had it ready, just not to be losing time.
My London address is inside; and if you'll write to me by to-morrow's
post,--or the day after,” added he, remarking a movement of impatience
in her face--“You shall have your bond, sir,--you shall have your bond,”
 broke she in, haughtily.

“That ought to be enough, I think,” said the Captain, with a degree of
irritation that bespoke a long internal conflict.

“I want nothing beyond what I shall earn, Captain Martin,” said Scanlan,
as a flash of angry meaning covered his features.

“And we have agreed to the terms, Mr. Scanlan,” said her Ladyship, with
a great effort to conciliate. “It only remains for us to say, a good
journey, and every success attend you.”

“Thank you, my Lady; I'm your most obedient. Captain, I wish you
good-bye, and hope soon to send you happy tidings. I trust, if Mr.
Martin asks after me, that you 'll give him my respectful duty; and
if--”

“We'll forget nothing, sir,” said Lady Dorothea, rising; and Scanlan,
after a moment's hesitation as to whether he should venture to offer
his hand,--a measure for which, happily, he could not muster the
courage,--bowed himself out of the room, and closed the door.

“Not a very cordial leave-taking for one that's to be her nephew,”
 muttered he, with a bitter laugh, as he descended the stairs. “And,
indeed, my first cousin, the Captain, is n't the model of family
affection. Never mind, Maurice, your day is coming!” And with this
assuring reflection he issued forth to give orders for his journey.

A weary sigh--the outpouring of an oppressed and jaded spirit--broke
from Lady Dorothea as the door closed after him. “Insufferable
creature!” muttered she to herself? and then, turning to the Captain,
said aloud, “Is that man capable of playing us false?--or, rather, has
he the power of doing so?”

“It is just what I have been turning over in my own mind,” replied he.
“I don't quite trust him; and, in fact, I'd follow him over to London,
if I were free at this moment.”

“Perhaps you ought to do so; it might be the wisest course,” said she,
hesitatingly.

“Do you think I could leave this with safety?” asked he. But she did
not seem to have heard the question. He repeated it, and she was still
silent. “If the doctors could be relied on, they should be able to tell
us.”

“To tell us what?” asked she, abruptly, almost sternly.

“I meant that they'd know--that they'd perhaps be in a position to
judge--that they at least could warn us--” Here he stopped, confused and
embarrassed, and quite unable to continue. That sense of embarrassment,
however, came less of his own reflections than of the cold, steady, and
searching look which his mother never ceased to bend on him. It was a
gaze that seemed to imply, “Say on, and let me hear how destitute of
all feeling you will avow yourself.” It was, indeed, the meaning of her
stare, and so he felt it, as the color came and went in his cheek, and a
sense of faintish sickness crept over him.

“The post has arrived, my Lady, and I have left your Ladyship's letters
on the dressing-table,” said a servant. And Lady Dorothea, who had been
impatiently awaiting the mall, hastened at once to her room.



CHAPTER XXVI. A LETTER THAT NEVER REACHES ITS ADDRESS

It was not without a very painful emotion that Lady Dorothea turned
over a mass of letters addressed to her husband. They came from various
quarters, written in all the moods of many minds. Some were the mere
gossip of clubs and dinnerparties,--some were kindly and affectionate
inquiries, gentle reproachings on his silence, and banterings about his
pretended low spirits. A somewhat favorite tone is that same raillery
towards those whose lot in life seems elevated above the casualties of
fortune, forgetting the while that the sunniest path has its shadows,
and they whom we deem exempt from the sore trials of the world have
their share of its sorrows. These read strangely now, as he to whom they
were addressed lay breathing the heavy and labored breath, and muttering
the low broken murmurs that prelude the one still deeper sleep!

With a tremulous hand, and a gesture of fretful impatience, she threw
them from her one after the other. The topics and the tone alike jarred
upon her nerves. They seemed so unfeeling, too, and so heartless at such
a moment. Oh, if we wanted to moralize over the uncertainty of life,
what a theme might we have in the simple fact that, quicker than the
lines we are writing fall from our pen, are oftentimes changing the
whole fate and fortune of him for whom we destine them! We are telling
of hope where despair has already entered,--we are speaking joy to a
house of mourning! But one letter alone remained unopened. It was in
Repton's hand, and she broke the seal, wondering how he, who of all men
hated writing, should have turned a correspondent.

The “strictly confidential” of the cover was repeated within; but the
hour had come when she could violate the caution, and she read on. The
first few lines were a half-jesting allusion to Martin's croakings about
his health; but even these had a forced, constrained air, and none of
the jocular ease of the old man's manner. “And yet,” continued he, “it
is exactly about your health I am most anxious. I want you to be strong
and stout, body and mind, ready for action, and resolute. I know the
tone and style that an absentee loves and even requires to be addressed
in. He wants to be told that, however he may be personally regretted,
matters go on wonderfully well in his absence, that rent is paid, farms
improved, good markets abound, and the county a pattern of quietness. I
could tell you all this, Martin, and not a syllable of it be true. The
rents are not paid, partly from a season of great pressure, but, more
still, from an expectancy on the side of the people that something--they
know not what--is coming. The Relief Bill only relieved those who wanted
to job in politics and make market of their opinions; the masses it has
scarcely touched. They are told they are emancipated, but I am at a loss
to know in what way they realize to their minds the new privilege. Their
leaders have seen this. Shrewd fellows as they are, they have guessed
what disappointment must inevitably ensue when the long-promised boon
can show nothing as its results but certain noisy mob-orators made
Parliament men; and so they have slyly hinted,--as yet it is only a
hint,--'this is but the first step--an instalment they call it--of a
large debt, every fraction of which must yet be paid!'

“Now there is not in all Europe a more cunning or a deeper fellow than
Paddy. He has an Italian's subtlety and a Celt's suspicion; but enlist
his self-love, his vanity, and his acquisitiveness in any scheme, and
all his shrewdness deserts him. The old hackney coach-horses never
followed the hay on the end of the pole more hopefully than will he
travel after some promised future of 'fine times,' with plenty to eat
and drink, and nothing to do for it! They have booked themselves now for
this journey, and the delusion must run its course. Meanwhile rents will
not be paid, farms not improved, bad prices and poverty will abound, and
the usual crop of discontent and its consequent crime. I 'm not going
to inflict you with my own opinions on this theme. You know well enough
already that I never regarded these 'Agrarian disturbances,' as they are
called, in the light of passing infractions of the peace, but traced in
them the continuous working of a long preconcerted plan,--the scheme of
very different heads from those who worked it,--by which the law should
ever be assailed and the right of property everlastingly put in dispute.
In plain words, the system was a standing protest against the sway of
the Saxons in Ireland! 'The agitators' understood thoroughly how to
profit by this, and they worked these alternate moods of outrage and
peace pretty much as the priests of old guided their auguries. They
brought the game to that perfection that a murder could shake a
ministry, or a blank calendar become the triumph of an Administration!

“Such is, at the moment I am writing, the actual condition of Ireland!
Come home, then, at once,--but come alone. Come back resolved to see and
act for yourself. There is a lingering spark of the old feudalism
yet left in the people. Try and kindle it up once more into the old
healthful glow of love to the landlord. Some would say it is too late
for all this; but I will not think so. Magennis has given us an open
defiance; we are to be put on our title. Now, you are well aware there
is a complication here, and I shall want to consult you personally;
besides, we must have a search through those registries that are locked
up in the strong-room. Mary tells me you carried away the key of it.
I tell you frankly, I wish we could hit upon some means of
stopping Magennis. The suit is a small war, that demands grand
preparation,--always a considerable evil! The fellow, I am told, is also
concocting another attack,--an action against your niece and others for
the forcible abduction of his wife. It would read fabulously enough,
such a charge, but as old Casey said, 'There never yet was anything you
could n't impute at law, if you only employed the word “conspiracy;”'
and I believe it! The woman certainly has deserted him, and her
whereabouts cannot be ascertained. The scandal of such a cause would of
course be very great; but if you were here we might chance upon some
mode of averting it,--at all events, your niece shouldn't be deserted at
such a moment. What a noble girl it is, Martin, and how gloriously she
comprehends her station! Give me a dozen like her, and I 'll bid
defiance to all the machinations of all the agitators; and they know it!

“If your estate has resisted longer than those of your neighbors the
demoralizing influences that are now at work here, you owe it to Mary.
If crime has not left its track of blood along your avenue or on your
door-sill, it is she who has saved you. If the midnight hour has not
been scared by the flame of your burning house or haggard, thank _her_
for it,--ay, Martin, _her_ courage, _her_ devotion, _her_ watchful
charity, _her_ unceasing benevolence, the glorious guarantee her daily
life gives, that _she_, at least, is with the people in all their
sufferings and their trials! You or I had abandoned with impatience the
cause that she had succored against every disappointment. Her woman's
nature has endowed her with a higher and a nobler energy than ever a man
possessed. She _will not_ be defeated.

“Henderson may bewail, and Maurice Scanlan deride, the shortcomings of
the people. But through evil and good report she is there to hear from
their own lips, to see with her own eyes, the story of their sorrows. Is
this nothing? Is there no lesson in the fact that she, nurtured in
every luxury, braves the wildest day of winter in her mission of
charity?--that the most squalid misery, the most pestilent disease never
deterred her? I saw her a few days back coming home at daybreak; she
had passed the night in a hovel where neither you nor I would have taken
shelter in a storm. The hectic flush of fatigue and anxiety was on her
cheek; her eyes, deep sunk, showed weariness; and her very voice, as
she spoke to me, was tremulous and weak; and of what, think you, was her
mind full? Of the noble calm, the glorious, patient endurance of
those she had just quitted. 'What lessons might we not learn,' said
she, 'beneath the wet thatch of poverty! There are three struck down with
fever in that cabin; she who remains to nurse them is a little girl of
scarcely thirteen. There is all that can render sickness wretched around
them. They are in pain and in want; cold winds and rain sweep across
their beds, if we could call them such. If they cherish the love of
life, it must be through some instinct above all reason; and there they
lie, uncomplaining. The little remnant of their strength exhausts itself
in a look of thankfulness,--a faint effort to say their gratitude. Oh,
if querulous hypochondriacism could but see them, what teaching it might
learn! Sufferings that call forth from us not alone peevishness and
impatience, but actually traits of rude and ungenerous meaning, develop
in them an almost refined courtesy, and a trustfulness that supplies all
that is most choice in words of gratitude.'

“And this is the girl whose life every day, every hour is
imperilling,--who encounters all the hazards of our treacherous climate,
and all the more fatal dangers of a season of pestilence, without
friends, without a home! Now, Martin, apart from all higher and better
considerations on the subject, this was not your compact,--such was not
the text of your bargain with poor Barry. The pledge you gave him at
your last parting was that she should be your daughter. That you made
her feel all the affection of one, none can tell more surely than
myself. That your own heart responds to her love I am as fully convinced
of. But this is not enough, my dear Martin. She has rights--actual
rights--that no special pleading on the score of intentions or good
wishes can satisfy. I should but unworthily discharge my office, as your
oldest friend in the world, if I did not place this before you broadly
and plainly. The country is dull and wearisome, devoid of society, and
without resources, and you leave it; but you leave behind you, to endure
all its monotony, all its weariness, one who possesses every charm and
every attention that are valued in the great world! There is fever and
plague abroad, insurrection threatens, and midnight disturbances are
rife, and she who is to confront these perils is a girl of twenty. The
spirit of an invading party threatens to break down all the prestige of
old family name and property,--a cunningly devised scheme menaces the
existence of an influence that has endured for centuries; and to oppose
its working, or fall victim to its onslaught, you leave a young lady,
whose very impulses of generous meaning may be made snares to entrap
her. In a word, you neglect duty, desert danger, shun the path of
honorable exertion, and retreat before the menace of an encounter, to
place, where you should stand yourself, the frail figure and gentle
nature of one who was a child, as it were, but yesterday. Neither
your health nor your happiness can be purchased at such a price,--your
conscience is too sound for that,--nor can your ease! No, Martin, your
thoughts will stray over here, and linger amongst these lonely glens
that she is treading. Your fancy will follow her through the dark nights
of winter, as alone she goes forth on her mission of mercy. You will
think of her, stooping to teach the young--bending over the sick-bed of
age. And then, tracing her footsteps homeward, you will see her sit down
by a solitary hearth,--none of her own around her,--not one to advise,
to counsel, to encourage her! I will say no more on this theme; your own
true heart has already anticipated all that _I_ could _speak_,--all that
_you_ should _do_.

“Now for one more question, and I shall have finished the most painful
letter I ever wrote in my life. There are rumors--I cannot trace them,
nor fully understand them, but they imply that Captain Martin has been
raising very considerable sums by reversionary bonds and post-obits.
Without being able to give even a guess, as to the truth of this, I
draw your attention to the bare possibility, as of a case full of very
serious complications. Speak to your son at once on the subject, and
learn the truth,--the whole truth. My own fears upon the matter have
been considerably strengthened by hearing of a person who has been
for several weeks back making inquiries on the estate. He has resided
usually at Kilkieran, and spends his time traversing the property in all
directions, investigating questions of rent, wages, and tenure of land.
They tell marvellous stories of his charity and so forth,--blinds,
doubtless, to cover his own immediate objects. Mary, however, I ought to
say, takes a very different view of his character, and is so anxious to
know him personally that I promised her to visit him, and bring him to
visit her at the cottage. And, by the way, Martin, why should she be
at the cottage,--why not at Cro' Martin? What miserable economy has
dictated a change that must reflect upon her influence, not to speak of
what is justly due to her own station? I could swear that you never
gave a willing consent to this arrangement. No, no, Martin, the plan was
never yours.

“I 'm not going to bore you with borough politics. To tell truth, I
can't comprehend them. They want to get rid of Massingbred, but they
don't see who is to succeed him. Young Nelligan ought to be the man, but
he will not. He despises his party,--or at least what would call
itself his party,--and is resolved never to concern himself with public
affairs. Meanwhile he is carrying all before him at the Bar, and is as
sure of the Bench as though he were on it.

“When he heard of Magennis's intention of bringing this action against
Mary, he came up to town to ask me to engage him on our side, 'since,'
said he, 'if they send me a brief I cannot refuse it, and if I accept
it, I promise you it shall be my last cause, for I have resolved to
abandon the Bar the day after.' This, of course, was in strictest
secrecy, and so you must regard it. He is a cold, calm fellow, and yet
on this occasion he seemed full of impulsive action.

“I had something to tell you about Henderson, but I actually forget what
it was. I can only remember it was disagreeable; and as this epistle has
its due share of bitters, my want of memory is perhaps a benefit; and so
to release you at once, I 'll write myself, as I have never ceased to be
for forty years,

“Your attached friend,

“Val. Repton.”


“I believe I was wrong about Henderson; at least the disagreeable went
no further than that he is supposed to be the channel through which Lady
Dorothea occasionally issues directions, not always in agreement with
Mary's notions. And as your niece never liked the man, the measures are
not more palatable when they come through his intervention.”

Lady Dorothea was still pondering over this letter, in which there were
so many things to consider, when a hurried message called her to the
sick-room. As she approached the room, she could hear Martin's voice
calling imperiously and angrily to the servants, and ordering them
to dress him. The difficulty of utterance seemed to increase his
irritation, and gave to his words a harsh, discordant tone, very unlike
his natural voice.

“So,” cried he, as she entered, “you have come at last. I am nigh
exhausted with telling them what I want. I must get up, Dora. They must
help me to dress.”

As he was thus speaking, the servants, at a gesture from her Ladyship,
quietly stole from the chamber, leaving her alone at his bedside.

“You are too weak for this exertion, Godfrey,” said she, calmly. “Any
effort like this is certain to injure you.”

“You think so?” asked he, with the tone of deference that he generally
used towards her. “Perhaps you are right, Dora; but how can it be
helped?--there is so much to do, such a long way to travel. What a
strange confusion is over me! Do you know, Dolly,”--here his voice fell
to a mere whisper,--“you'll scarcely credit it; but all the time I have
been fancying myself at Cro' Martin, and here we are in--in--what do you
call the place?”

“Baden.”

“Yes--yes--but the country?”

“Germany.”

“Ay, to be sure, Germany; hundreds of miles away from home!” Here
he raised himself on one arm, and cast a look of searching eagerness
through the room. “Is he gone?” whispered he, timidly.

“Of whom are you speaking?” said she.

“Hush, Dolly, hush!” whispered he, still lower. “I promised I 'd not
tell any one, even you, of his being here. But I must speak of it--I
must--or my brain will turn. He was here--he sat in that very chair--he
held my hand within both his own. Poor, poor fellow! how his eyes filled
when he saw me! He little knew how changed he himself was!--his hair
white as snow, and his eyes so dimmed!”

“This was a dream, Godfrey,--only a dream!”

“I thought you 'd say so,--I knew it,” said he, sorrowfully; “but _I_
know better. The dear old voice rang in my heart as I used to hear it
when a child, as he said, 'Do you remember me?' To be sure I remembered
him, and told him to go and fetch Molly; and his brow darkened when
I said this, and he drew back his hand and said, 'You have deserted
her,--she is not here!'”

“All this is mere fancy, Godfrey; you have been dreaming of home.”

“Ay,” muttered he, gloomily, “it was but too true; we did desert her,
and that was not our bargain, Dolly. It was all the poor fellow asked
at our hands,--his last, his only condition. What's that letter you have
there?” cried he, impatiently, as Lady Dorothea, in the agitation of the
moment, continued to crumple Repton's letter between her fingers.

“A letter I have been reading,” said she, sternly.

“From whom--from whom?” asked he, still more eagerly.

“A letter from Mr. Repton. You shall read it when you are better. You
are too weak for all this exertion, God-frey; you must submit--”

“Submit!” broke he in; “the very word he said. You submit yourself to
anything, if it only purchase your selfish ease. No, Dolly, no, I am
wrong. It was I that said so. I owned to him how unworthily I had acted.
Give me that letter, madam. Let me see it,” said he, imperiously.

“When you are more tranquil, Godfrey,--in a fitting state.”

“I tell you, madam,” cried he, fiercely, “this, is no time for trifling
or deception. Repton knows all our affairs. If he has written now, it is
because matters are imminent. My head is clear now. I can think--I can
speak. It is full time Harry should hear the truth. Let him come here.”

“Take a little rest, Godfrey, be it only half an hour, and you shall
have everything as you wish it.”

“Half an hour! you speak of half an hour to one whose years are minutes
now!” said he, in a broken voice. “This poor brain, Dora, is already
wandering. The strange things I have seen so lately--that poor fellow
come back after so many years--so changed, so sadly changed--but I knew
him through all the mist and vapor of this feverish state; I saw him
clearly, my own dear Barry!” The word, as it were the last barrier to
his emotion, brought forth a gush of tears; and burying his face within
the bedclothes, he sobbed himself to sleep. As he slept, however, he
continued to mutter about home and long passed years,--of boyish sports
with his brother; childish joys and sorrows were all mingled there, with
now and then some gloomier reveries of later days.

“He has been wandering in his mind!” whispered Lady Dorothea to her son,
as he joined her in the darkened room. “He woke up, believing that he
had seen his brother, and the effect was very painful.”

“Has he asked for _me?_” inquired the other.

“No; he rambled on about Mary, and having deserted her, and all that;
and just as ill-luck would have it, here is a letter from Repton,
exactly filled with the very same theme. He insists on seeing it; but of
course he will have forgotten it when he awakes.”

“You have written to Scanlan?” asked he.

“Yes; my letter has been sent off.”

“Minutes are precious now. If anything should occur here,”--his eyes
turned towards the sick-bed as he spoke,--“Merl will refuse to treat.
His people--I know they are his--are hovering about the hotel all the
morning. I heard the waiter whispering as I passed, and caught the
words, 'No better; worse, if anything.' The tidings would be in London
before the post.”

Lady Dorothea made no reply, and all was now silent, save the unequal
but heavy breathings of the sick man, and the faint, low mutterings of
his dream. “In the arras--between the window and the wall--there it is,
Barry,” cried he, in a clear, distinct voice. “Repton has a copy of it,
too, with Catty's signature,--old Catty Broon.”

“What is he dreaming of?” asked the young man.

But, instead of replying to the question, Lady Dorothea bent down her
head to catch the now muttered words of the sleeper.

“He says something of a key. What key does he mean?” asked he.

[Illustration: 297]

“Fetch me that writing-desk,” said Lady Dorothea, as she took several
keys from her pockets; and noiselessly unlocking the box, she began to
search amidst its contents. As she continued, her gestures grew more and
more hurried; she threw papers recklessly here and there, and at last
emptied the entire contents upon the table before her. “See, search if
there be a key here,” cried she, in a broken voice; “I saw it here three
days ago.”

“There is none here,” said he, wondering at her eagerness.

“Look carefully,--look well for it,” said she, her voice trembling at
every word.

“Is it of such consequence--”

“It is of such consequence,” broke she in, “that he into whose hands it
falls can leave you and me beggars on the world!” An effort at awaking
by the sick man here made her hastily restore the papers to the desk,
which she locked, and replaced upon the table.

“Was it the Henderson did this?” said she aloud, as if asking the
question of herself. “Could she have known this secret?”

“Did what? What secret?” asked he, anxiously.

A low, long sigh announced that the sick man was awaking; and in a
faint voice he said, “I feel better, Dora. I have had a sleep, and been
dreaming of home and long ago. To-morrow, or next day, perhaps, I may be
strong enough to leave this. I want to be back there again. Nay, don't
refuse me,” said he, timidly.

“When you are equal to the journey--”

“I have a still longer one before me, Dora, and even less preparation
for it. Harry, I have something to say to you, if I were strong enough
to say it,--this evening, perhaps.” Wearied by the efforts he had made,
he lay back again with a heavy sigh, and was silent.

“Is he worse--is he weaker?” asked his son.

A mournful nod of the head was her reply.

Young Martin arose and stole noiselessly from the room, he scarcely knew
whither; he indeed cared not which way he turned. The future threw its
darkest shadows before him. He had little to hope for, as little to
love. His servant gave him a letter which Massingbred had left on his
departure, but he never opened it; and in a listless vacuity he wandered
out into the wood.

It was evening as he turned homeward. His first glance was towards the
windows of his father's room. They were wont to be closely shuttered and
fastened; now one of them lay partly open, and a slight breeze stirred
the curtain within. A faint, sickly fear of he knew not what crept over
him. He walked on quicker; but as he drew nigh the door, his servant met
him. “Well!” cried he, as though expecting a message.

“Yes, sir, it is all over; he went off about an hour since.” The man
added something; but Martin heard no more, but hurried to his room, and
locked the door.



CHAPTER XXVII. A VERY BRIEF INTERVIEW.

When Jack Massingbred found himself once more “in town,” and saw that
the tide of the mighty world there rolled on the same full, boiling
flood he had remembered it of yore, he began to wonder where and how
he had latterly been spending his life. There were questions of
politics--mighty interests of which every one was talking--of which he
knew nothing; party changes and new social combinations had arisen of
which he was utterly ignorant. But what he still more acutely deplored
was that he himself had, so to say, dropped out of the memory of his
friends, who accosted him with that half-embarrassed air that says,
“Have you been ill?--or in India?--or how is it that we have n't met you
about?” It was last session he had made a flash speech,--an effort that
his own party extolled to the skies, and even the Opposition could only
criticise the hardihood and presumption of so very young a member of the
House,--and now already people had ceased to bear him in mind.

The least egotistical of men--and Massingbred did not enter into this
category--find it occasionally very hard to bear the cool “go-by” the
world gives them whenever a chance interval has withdrawn them from
public view. The stern truth of how little each atom of the social
scheme affects the working of the whole machinery is far from palatable
in its personal application. Massingbred was probably sensitive enough
on this score, but too consummate a tactician to let any one guess his
feelings; and so he lounged down to the “House,” and lolled at his Club,
and took his airings in the Park with all the seeming routine of one who
had never abdicated these enjoyments for a day.

He had promised, and really meant, to have looked after Martin's affairs
on his reaching London; but it was almost a week after his return that
he bethought him of his pledge, his attention being then called to
the subject by finding on his table the visiting-card of Mr. Maurice
Scanlan. Perhaps he was not sorry to have something to do; perhaps
he had some compunctions of conscience for his forgetfulness; at all
events, he sent his servant at once to Scanlan's hotel, with a request
that he would call upon him as early as might be. An answer was speedily
returned that Mr. Scanlan was about to start for Ireland that same
afternoon, but would wait upon him immediately. The message was scarcely
delivered when Scanlan himself appeared.

Dressed in deep mourning, but with an easy complacency of manner that
indicated very little of real grief, he threw himself into a chair,
saying, “I pledge you my word of honor, it is only to yourself I 'd
have come this morning, Mr. Massingbred, for I 'm actually killed with
business. No man would believe the letters I've had to read and
answer, the documents to examine, the deeds to compare, the papers to
investigate--”

“Is the business settled, then--or in train of settlement?” broke in
Jack.

“I suppose it _is_ settled,” replied Scanlan, with a slight laugh. “Of
course you know Mr. Martin is dead?”

“Dead! Good heavens! When did this occur?”

“We got the news--that is, Merl did--the day before yesterday. A friend
of his who had remained at Baden to watch events started the moment he
breathed his last, and reached town thirty hours before the mail; not,
indeed, that the Captain has yet written a line on the subject to any
one.”

“And what of the arrangement? Had you come to terms previously with
Merl?”

“No; he kept negotiating and fencing with us from day to day, now
asking for this, now insisting on that, till the evening of his friend's
arrival, when, by special appointment, I had called to confer with him.
Then, indeed, he showed no disposition for further delay, but frankly
told me the news, and said, 'The Conferences are over, Scanlan. I 'm the
Lord of Cro' Martin.'”

“And is this actually the case,--has he really established his claim in
such a manner as will stand the test of law and the courts?”

“He owns every acre of it; there's not a flaw in his title; he has
managed to make all Martin's debts assume the shape of advances in hard
cash. There is no trace of play transactions throughout the whole. I
must be off, Mr. Massing-bred; there 's the chaise now at the door.”

“Wait one moment, I entreat of you. Can nothing be done? Is it too late
to attempt any compromise?”

“To be sure it is. He has sent off instructions already to serve the
notice for ejectment. I 've got orders myself to warn the tenants not to
pay the last half-year, except into court.”

“Why, are _you_ in Mr. Merl's service, then?” asked Jack, with one of
his quiet laughs.

“I am, and I am not,” said Scanlan, reddening. “You know the compact I
made with Lady Dorothea at Baden. Well, of course there is no longer
any question about that. Still, if Miss Mary agrees to accept me, I 'll
stand by the old family! There 's no end of trouble and annoyance we
could n't give Merl before he got possession. I know the estate well,
and where the worst fellows on it are to be found! It's one thing to
have the parchments of a property, and it is another to be able to
go live on it, and draw the rents. But I can't stay another minute.
Good-bye, air. Any chance of seeing you in the West soon?”

“I 'm not sure I 'll not go over to-morrow,” said Jack, musing.

“I suppose you are going to blarney the constituency?” said Maurice,
laughing heartily at his coarse conceit. Then suddenly seeing that
Massingbred did not seem to relish the freedom, he hurriedly repeated
his leave-takings, and departed.



CHAPTER XXVIII. THE DARK SIDE OF A CHARACTER.

“Ye might ken the style of these epistles by this time, Dinah,” said Mr.
Henderson, as he walked leisurely up and down a long low-ceilinged room,
and addressed himself to a piece of very faded gentility, who sat at a
writing-table. “She wants to hear naething but what she likes, and, as
near as may be, in her ain words too.”

“I always feel as if I was copying out the same letter every time I
write,” whined out a weak, sickly voice.

“The safest thing ye could do,” replied he, gravely. “She never tires
o' reading that everybody on the estate is a fule or a scoundrel, and
ye canna be far wrang when ye say the worst o' them all. Hae ye told her
aboot the burnin' at Kyle-a-Noe?”

“Yes, I have said that you have little doubt it was malicious.”

“And hae ye said that there's not a sixpence to be had out of the whole
townland of Kiltimmon?”

“I have. I have told her that, except Miss Mary herself, nobody would
venture into the barony.”

“The greater fule yerself, then,” said he, angrily. “Couldna ye see that
she'll score this as a praise o' the young leddy's courage? Ye maun just
strike it out, ma'am, and say that the place is in open rebellion--”

“I thought you bade me say that Miss Mary had gone down there and spoken
to the people--”

“I bade ye say,” broke he angrily in, “that Miss Mary declared no rent
should be demanded o' them in their present distress; that she threw
the warrants into the fire, and vowed that if we called a sale o' their
chattels, she 'd do the same at the castle, and give the people the
proceeds.”

“You only said that she was in such a passion that she declared she 'd
be right in doing so.”

“I hae nae time for hair-splitting, ma'am. I suppose if she had a right
she 'd exercise it! Put down the words as I gie them to ye! Ye hae no
forgotten the conspeeracy?”

“I gave it exactly as you told me, and I copied out the two paragraphs
in the papers about it, beginning, 'Great scandal,' and 'If our landed
gentry expect--'”

“That's right; and ye hae added the private history of Joan? They 'll
make a fine thing o' that on the trial, showing the chosen associate
o' a young leddy to hae been naething better than--Ech! what are ye
blubberin' aboot,--is it yer feelin's agen? Ech! ma'am, ye are too
sentimental for a plain man like me!”

This rude speech was called up by a smothering effort to conceal
emotion, which would not be repressed, but burst forth in a violent fit
of sobbing.

“I know you didn't mean it. I know you were not thinking--”

“If ye canna keep your ain counsel, ye must just pay the cost o' it,”
 said he, savagely. “Finish the letter there, and let me send it to the
post. I wanted ye to say a' about the Nelligans comin' up to visit
Miss Mary, and she goin' ower the grounds wi' them, and sendin' them
pineapples and grapes, and how that the doctor's girls are a'ways wi'
her, and that she takes old Catty out to drive along wi' herself in
the pony phaeton, which is condescendin' in a way her Leddyship will no
approve o'. There was mony a thing beside I had in my head, but ye hae
driven them a' clean awa' wi' your feelin's!” And he gave the last word
with an almost savage severity.

“Bide a wee!” cried he, as she was folding up the letter. “Ye may add
that Mister Scanlan has taken to shootin' over the preserves we were
keepin' for the Captain, and if her Leddyship does not wish to banish
the woodcocks a'the-gither, she 'd better gie an order to stop him.
Young Nelli-gan had a special permission from Miss Mary hersel' and if
it was na that he canna hit a haystack at twenty yards, there 'd no be
a cock pheasant in the demesne! I think I 'm looking at her as she reads
this,” said he, with a malicious grin. “Ech, sirs, won't her great black
eyebrows meet on her forehead, and her mouth be drawn in till never a
bit of a red lip be seen! Is na that a chaise I see comin' up the road?”
 cried he, suddenly. “Look yonder!”

“I thought I saw something pass,” said she, trying to strain her eyes
through the tears that now rose to them.

“It's a post-chaise wi' twa trunks on the top. I wonder who's comin' in
it?” said Henderson, as he opened the sash-door, and stood awaiting the
arrival. The chaise swept rapidly round the beech copse, and drew up
before the door; the postilion, dismounting, lowered the steps, and
assisted a lady to alight. She threw back her veil as she stood on the
ground, and Kate Henderson, somewhat jaded-looking and pale from her
journey, was before her father. A slight flush--very slight--rose to
his face as he beheld her, and without uttering a word he turned and
re-entered the house.

“Ye are aboot to see a visitor, ma'am,” said he to his wife; and, taking
his hat, passed out of the room. Meanwhile Kate watched the postboy as
he untied the luggage and deposited it at her side.

“Did n't I rowl you along well, my Lady?--ten miles in little more than
an hour,” said he, pointing to his smoking cattle.

“More speed than we needed,” said she, with a melancholy smile, while
she placed some silver in his hand.

“What's this here, my Lady? It's like one of the owld tenpenny bits,”
 said he, turning over and over a coin as he spoke.

“It's French money,” said she, “and unfortunately I have got none other
left me.”

“Sure they'll give you what you want inside,” said he, pointing towards
the house.

“No, no; take this. It is a crown piece, and they'll surely change it
for you in the town.” And so saying, she turned towards the door.
When she made one step towards it, however, she stopped. A painful
irresolution seemed to possess her; but, recovering it, she turned the
handle and entered.

“We did not know you were coming; at least, he never told me,” said her
stepmother, in a weak, broken voice, as she arose from her seat.

“There was no time to apprise you,” said Kate, as she walked towards the
fire and leaned her arm on the chimney-piece.

“You came away suddenly, then? Had anything unpleasant--was there any
reason--”

“I had been desirous of leaving for some time back. Lady Dorothea only
gave her consent on Tuesday last,--I think it was Tuesday; but my head
is not very clear, for I am somewhat tired.” There was an indescribable
sadness in the way these simple words were uttered and in the sigh which
followed them.

“I 'm afraid he 'll not be pleased at it!” said the other, timidly.

Another sigh, but still weaker than the former, was Kate's only reply.

“And how did you leave Mr. Martin? They tell us here that his case is
hopeless,” said Mrs. Henderson.

“He is very ill, indeed; the doctors give no hope of saving him. Is Miss
Martin fully aware of his state?”

“Who can tell? We scarcely ever see her. You know that she never was
very partial to your father, and latterly there has been a greater
distance than ever between them. They differ about everything; and with
that independent way he has--”

A wide stare from Kate's full dark eyes, an expression of astonishment,
mingled with raillery, in her features, here arrested the speaker, who
blushed deeply in her embarrassment.

“Go on,” said Kate, gently. “Pray continue, and let me hear what it is
that his independence accomplishes.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed the other. “I see well you are not changed, Kate.
You have come back with your old haughty spirit, and sure you know well,
dear, that he 'll not bear it.”

“I 'll not impose any burden on his forbearance. A few days' shelter--a
week or two at furthest--will not be, perhaps, too much to ask.”

“So, then, you have a situation in view, Kate?” asked she, more eagerly.

“The world is a tolerably wide one, and I 'm sure there is room for me
somewhere, even without displacing another. But let us talk of anything
else. How are the Nelligans? and Joe, what is he doing?”

“The old people are just as you left them; but Mr. Joseph is a great
man now,--dines with the Lord-Lieutenant, and goes into all the grand
society of Dublin.”

“Is he spoiled by his elevation?”

“Your father thinks him haughtier than he used to be; but many say that
he is exactly what he always was. Mrs. Nelligan comes up frequently to
the cottage now, and dines with Miss Martin. I 'm sure I don't know how
my Lady would like to see her there.”

“She is not very likely,” said Kate, dryly.

“Why not?”

“I mean, that nothing is less probable than Lady Dorothea's return
here.”

“I suppose not!” half sighed Mrs. Henderson, for hers was one of those
sorrowful temperaments that extract only the bitter from the cup of
life. In reality, she had little reason to wish for Lady Dorothea's
presence, but still she could make a “very good grievance” out of her
absence, and find it a fitting theme for regret. “What reason do you
mean to give for your coming home, Kate, if he should ask you?” inquired
she, after a pause.

“That I felt dissatisfied with my place,” replied Kate, coldly.

“And we were always saying what a piece of good luck it was for you to
be there! Miss Mary told Mrs. Nelligan--it was only the other day--that
her uncle could n't live without you,--that you nursed him, and read to
him, and what not; and as to her Ladyship, that she never took a drive
in the carriage, or answered a note, without asking your advice first.”

“What a profound impression Miss Martin must have received of my talents
for intrigue!” said Kate, sneeringly.

“I believe not. I think she said something very kind and good-natured,
just as if it was only people who had really very great gifts that could
condescend to make themselves subservient without humiliation. I know
she said 'without humiliation,' because your father laughed when he
heard of it, and remarked, 'If it's Kate's humility they like, they are
assuredly thankful for small mercies!”

“I should like to go over and see Miss Martin. What distance is it from
this to the cottage?”

“It's full three miles; but it's all through the demesne.”

“I'm a good walker, and I'll go,” said she, rising. “But first, might I
ask for a little refreshment,--a cup of tea? Oh, I forgot,” added she,
smiling, “tea is one of the forbidden luxuries here.”

“No; but your father doesn't like to see it in the daytime. If you'd
take it in your own room--”

“Of course, and be most thankful. Am I to have the little room with the
green paper, where I used to be, long ago?”

“Well, indeed, I can scarcely tell. The bed was taken down last autumn;
and as we never thought of your coming home--”

“Home!” sighed Kate, involuntarily.

“But come into my room, and I 'll fetch you a cup of tea directly.”

“No, no; it is better not to risk offending him,” said Kate, calmly. “I
remember, now, that this was one of his antipathies. Give me anything
else, for I have not eaten to-day.”

While her stepmother went in search of something to offer her, Kate sat
down beside the fire, deep in thought. She had removed her bonnet, and
her long silky hair fell in rich masses over her neck and shoulders,
giving a more fixed expression to her features, which were of deathlike
paleness. And so she sat, gazing intently on the fire, as though
she were reading her very destiny in the red embers before her. Her
preoccupation of mind was such that she never noticed the opening of
the door, nor remarked that her father had entered. The noise of a chair
being moved suddenly startled her. She looked up, and there he stood,
his hat on his head and his arms closely folded on his breast, at the
opposite side of the fire.

“Well, lassie,” said he, after a long and steady stare at her, “ye hae
left your place, or been turned oot o' it,--whilk is the case?”

“I came away of my own accord,” said she, calmly.

“And against my Leddy's wish?”

“No, with her full consent.”

“And how did ye do it? for in her last letter to my sel', she says, 'I
desire ye, therefore, to bear in mind that any step she takes on this
head'--meaning about going away--'shall have been adopted in direct
opposition to my wishes.' What has ye done since that?”

“I have succeeded in convincing her Ladyship that I was right in leaving
her!” said Kate.

“Was it the force of your poleetical convictions that impelled ye to
this course?” said he, with a bitter grin, “for they tell me ye are a
rare champion o' the rights o' the people, and scruple not to denounce
the upper classes, while ye eat their bread.”

“I denounce no one; nor, so far as I know myself, is ingratitude amongst
my faults.”

“Maybe, if one were to tak' your ain narrative for it, ye hae nae faults
worse than mere failings! But this is na telling me why ye left my
Leddy.”

Kate made no answer, but sat steadily watching the fire.

“Ye wad rayther, mayhap, that I asked hersel' aboot it! Well, be it so.
And noo comes anither point. Do ye think that if your conduct has in
any way given displeasure to your mistress, or offended those in whose
service ye were,--do ye think, I say, that ye hae the right to involve
_me_ in your shame and disgrace?”

“Do you mean,” said she, calmly, “that I had no right to come here?”

“It 's just exactly what I mean; that if ye canna mak' friends for
yoursel', ye ought not to turn away those whilk befriend your family.”

“But what was I to have done, then?” said she, gently. “There were
circumstances that required--imperatively required me--to leave Lady
Dorothea--”

“Let me hear them,” said he, breaking in, “It would lead me to speak of
others than myself,--of events which are purely family matters,--were I
to enter upon this theme. Besides,” said she, rising, “I am not, so far
as I know, on my trial. There is not anything laid to my charge. I have
no apologies to render.”

At this moment her stepmother appeared with a tray at the door, and
seeing Henderson, endeavored to retire unobserved, but his quick eye
had already detected her, and he cried out, “Come here,--ye canna do
too much honor to a young leddy who has such a vara profound esteem
for hersel'! Cake and wine! my faith! No but ye 'll deem it vara vulgar
fare, after the dainties ye hae been used to! And yet, lassie, these are
nae the habits here!”

“She has eaten nothing to-day!” meekly observed her stepmother.

“My fayther wad hae askit her hoo much has she earned the day?” said
Henderson, severely.

“You are quite right, sir,” broke in Kate,--“I have earned nothing. Not
just yet,” added she, as her stepmother pressed a glass of wine on her
acceptance; “a little later, perhaps. I have no appetite now.”

“Are ye sae stupid, ma'am, that ye canna see ye are dealin' wi' a fine
leddy, wha is no obleeged to hae the same mind twa minutes thegither?
Ye 'll hae to train wee Janet to be a' ready for whate'er caprice is
uppermost. But mine me, lassie,”--here he turned a look of stern meaning
towards her,--“ye hae tried for mony a lang day to subdue _me_ to your
whims and fancies, as they tell me ye hae done wi' sae mony others, and
ye are just as far fra it noo as the first time ye tried it. Ye canna
cheat nor cajole _me! I_ know ye!” And with these words, uttered in a
tone of intense passion, he slowly walked out of the room.

“Had he been angry with you?--had anything occurred before I came in?”
 asked her stepmother.

“Very little,” sighed Kate, wearily. “He was asking me why I came here,
I believe. I could scarcely tell him; perhaps I don't very well know,
myself.”

“He can't get it out of his head,” said the other, in a low, stealthy
whisper, “that, if you should leave Lady Dorothea, he will be turned
away out of the stewardship. He is always saying it,--he repeats it even
in his dreams. But for that, he 'd not have met you so--so--unkindly.”

Kate pressed her hand affectionately, and smiled a thankful
acknowledgment of this speech. “And the cottage,” said she, rallying
suddenly, “is about three miles off?”

“Not more. But you could scarcely walk there and back again. Besides, it
is already growing late, and you have no chance of seeing Miss Mary if
you 're not there by breakfast-time, since, when she comes home of an
evening, she admits no one. She reads or studies, I believe, all the
evening.”

“I think she'd see me,” said Kate; “I should have so much to tell her
about her friends. I 'm sure she 'd see _me_,--at least, I'll try.”

“But you'll eat something,--you 'll at least drink a glass of wine
before you set out?”

“I do not like to refuse you,” said Kate, smiling good-naturedly, “but I
could n't swallow now. I have a choking feeling here in my throat, like
a heavy cold, that seems as though it would suffocate me. Good-bye, for
a while. I shall be quite well, once I 'm in the open air. Good-bye!”
 And, so saying, she wrapped her shawl around her, and motioning a
farewell with her hand, set out on her errand.



CHAPTER XXIX. THE COTTAGE.

It was one of those fresh and breezy days where brilliant flashes
of sunlight alternate with deep shadow, making of every landscape a
succession of pictures, that Kate Henderson set out on her way to the
cottage. Her path led through the demesne, but it was as wild as any
forest scene in Germany, now wending through dark woods, now issuing
forth over swelling lawns, from which the view extended many a mile
away,--at one moment displaying the great rugged mountains of Connemara,
and at another, the broad blue sea, heaving heavily, and thundering in
sullen roar against the rocks.

The fast-flitting clouds, the breezy grass, the wind-shaken foliage, and
the white-crested waves, all were emblems of life; there was motion and
sound and conflict! and yet to her heart, as she walked along, these
influences imparted no sense of pleasure or relief. For a few seconds,
perhaps, would she suddenly awake to the consciousness of the fair scene
before her, and murmur to herself, perchance, the lines of some favorite
poet; but in another moment her gloomy thoughtfulness was back again,
and with bent-down head was she again moving onward. At times she
walked rapidly forward, and then, relaxing her pace, she would stroll
listlessly along, as though no object engaged her. And so was it in
reality,--her main desire being to be free, in the open air; to be from
beneath that roof whose shadow seemed to darken her very heart! Could
that haughty spirit have humbled itself in sorrow, she might have found
relief; but her proud nature had no such resource, and in her full heart
injury and wrong had alone their place.

“And this,” burst she forth at length,--“and this is Home! this the
dreamland of those far away over the seas,--the cherished spot of all
affections,--the quiet nook wherein we breathe an atmosphere of love,
blending our lives with all dearest to us. Is it, then, that all is
hollow, false, and untrue; or is it that I alone have no part in the
happiness that is diffused around me? I know not which would be the
sadder!”

Thus, reasoning sadly, she went along, when suddenly, on the slope of a
gentle hill in front of her, gracefully encircled with a young wood
of larch and copper-beech, she caught sight of the cottage. It was a
tasteful imitation of those seen in the Oberland, and with its wild
background of lofty mountain, an appropriate ornament to the landscape.

A small stream running over a rocky, broken bed formed the boundary of
the little grounds, and over this a bridge of a single plank conducted
the way to the cottage. The whole was simple and unpretending; there
was none of that smart trimness which gives to such scenes the air of
an imitation. The lawn, it is true, was neatly shaven, and the
flower-plots, which broke its uniformity, clean from weeds; but the
flowers were of the simplest kind,--the crocus and the daffodil had to
stand no dangerous rivalry, and the hyacinth had nothing to vie with.

Kate loitered for some time here, now gazing at the wild, stern
landscape, now listening to the brawling rivulet, whose sounds were the
only ones in the stillness. As she drew nigh the cottage, she found
the windows of a little drawing-room open. She looked in: all was
comfortable and neat-looking, but of the strictest simplicity. She next
turned to the little porch, and pulled the bell; in a few seconds the
sounds of feet were heard approaching, and a very old woman, whose
appearance and dress were the perfection of neatness, appeared.

“Don't you know me, Mrs. Broon?” said Kate, gently.

“I do not, then, my Lady,” said she, respectfully, “for my eyes is
gettin' dimmer every day.”

“I 'm Kate Henderson, Mrs. Broon. Do you forget me?”

“Indeed I do not,” said Catty, gravely. “You were here with the master
and my Lady?”

“Yes. I went away with them to Germany; but I have come home for a
while, and wish to pay my respects to Miss Mary.”

“She isn't at home to-day,” was the dry response.

“But she will return soon, I conclude. She'll be back some time in the
evening, won't she?”

“If she plazes it, she will. There's nobody to control or make her do
but what she likes herself,” said Catty.

“I ask,” said Kate, “because I'm a little tired. I've come off a long
journey, and if you'd allow me to rest myself, and wait awhile in the
hope of seeing Miss Martin, I'd be very thankful.”

“Come in, then,” said Catty; but the faint sigh with which the words
were uttered, gave but a scant significance of welcome.

Kate followed her into the little drawing-room, and at a sign from the
old woman, took a seat.

“Miss Mary is quite well, I'm glad to hear,” said Kate, endeavoring to
introduce some conversation.

“Will they ever come back?” asked the old woman, in a stern, harsh
voice, while she paid no attention whatever to Kate's remark.

“It is very unlikely,” said Kate. “Your poor master had not long to live
when I came away. He was sinking rapidly.”

“So I heard,” muttered the other, dryly; “the last letter from Mr.
Repton said 'he was n't expected.'”

“I fear it will be a great shock to Miss Mary,” said Kate.

The old woman nodded her head slowly several times without speaking.

“And, perhaps, cause great changes here?” continued Kate.

“There's changes enough, and too many already,” muttered Catty. “I
remember the place upwards of eighty years. I was born in the little
house to the right of the road as you come up from Kelly's mills. There
was no mill there then, nor a school-house, no, nor a dispensary either!
Musha, but the people was better off, and happier, when they had none of
them.”

Kate smiled at the energy with which these words were uttered,
surmising, rightfully, that Catty's condemnation of progress had a
direct application to herself.

“Now it's all readin' and writin', teachin' honest people to be rogues,
and givin' them new contrivances to cheat their masters. When I knew
Cro' Martin first,” added she, almost fiercely, “there was n't a Scotch
steward on the estate; but there was nobody turned out of his houldin',
and there was n't a cabin unroofed to make the people seek shelter under
a ditch.”

“The world would then seem growing worse every day,” remarked Kate,
quietly.

“To be sure it is. Why would n't it? Money is in every one's heart.
Nobody cares for his own flesh and blood. 'T is all money! What will I
get if I take that farm over another man's head, or marry that girl that
likes somebody better than me? 'Tis to be rich they're all strivin',
and the devil never made people his own children so completely as by
teachin' them to love goold!”

“Your young mistress has but little of this spirit in her heart?” said
Kate.

“Signs on it! look at the life she leads: up before daybreak, and away
many times before I 'm awake. She makes a cup of coffee herself, and
saddles the pony, too, if Patsey is n't there to do it; and she 's off
to Glentocher, or Knock-mullen, twelve, fourteen miles down the coast,
with barley for one, and a bottle of wine for the other. Sometimes she
has a basket with her, just a load to carry, with tay and shugar; ay,
and--for she forgets nothing--toys for the children, too, and clothes,
and even books. And then to see herself, she 's not as well dressed
as her own maid used to be. There 's not a night she does n't sit up
patchin' and piecin' her clothes. 'T is Billy at the cross-roads made
her shoes last time for her, just because he was starvin' with nothing'
to do. She ordered them, and she wears them, too; it makes him so proud,
she says, to see them. And this is the niece of the Martins of
Cro' Martin! without one of her kith or kin to welcome her home at
nightfall,--without father or mother, brother or sister,--without a kind
voice to say 'God bless her,' as she falls off to sleep many a time in
that big chair there; and I take off her shoes without her knowin' it,
she does be so weary and tired; and in her dhrames it 's always talking
to the people, givin' them courage, and cheerin' them up, tellin' them
there 's good times for every one; and once, the other evenin', she
sang a bit of a song, thinkin' she was in Mat Leahy's cabin amusin' the
children, and she woke up laughin', and said, 'Catty, I 've had such a
pleasant dhrame. I thought I had little Nora, my godchild, on my knee,
and was teachin' her “Why are the daisies in the grass?” I can't tell
you how happy I felt!' There it was: the only thing like company to her
poor heart was a dhrame!”

“I do not wonder that you love her, Catty,” said Kate; and the words
fell tremulously from her lips.

“Love her! what's the use of such as me lovin' her?” cried the old
woman, querulously. “Sure, it's not one of my kind knows how good she
is! If you only seen her comin' in here, after dark, maybe, wet and
weary and footsore, half famished with cold and hunger,--out the whole
livelong day, over the mountains, where there was fever and shakin'
ague, and starvin' people, ravin' mad between disease and destitution;
and the first word out of her mouth will be, 'Oh, Catty, how grateful
you and I ought to be with our warm roof over us, and our snug fire to
sit at,' never thinkin' of who she is and what she has the right to, but
just makin' herself the same as _me_. And then she 'd tell me where she
was, and what she seen, and how well the people was bearin' up under
their trials,--all the things they said to her, for they 'd tell her
things they would n't tell the priest. 'Catty,' said she, t' other
night, 'it looks like heartlessness in me to be in such high spirits
in the midst of all this misery here; but I feel as if my courage was a
well that others were drinking out of; and when I go into a cabin, the
sick man, as he turns his head round, looks happier, and I feel as if
it was my spirit that was warmin' and cheerin' him; and when a poor
sick sufferin' child looks up at me and smiles, I 'm ready to drop on my
knees and thank God in gratitude.'”

Kate covered her face with her hands, and never spoke; and now the old
woman, warming with the theme she loved best, went on to tell various
incidents and events of Mary's life,--the perilous accidents which
befell her, the dangers she braved, the fatigues she encountered. Even
recounted by _her_, there was a strange adventurous character that ran
through these recitals, showing that Mary Martin, in all she thought and
said and acted, was buoyed and sustained by a sort of native chivalry
that made her actually court the incidents where she incurred the
greatest hazard. It was plain to see what charm such traits possessed
for her who recorded them, and how in her old Celtic blood ran the
strong current of delight in all that pertained to the adventurous and
the wild.

“'Tis her own father's nature is strong in her,” said Catty, with
enthusiasm. “Show him the horse that nobody could back, tell him of a
storm where no fisherman would launch his boat, point out a cliff that
no man could climb, and let me see who 'd hould him! She 's so like him,
that when there 's anything daring to be done you would n't know her
voice from his own. There, now, I hear her without,” cried the old
woman, as, rising suddenly, she approached the window. “Don't you hear
something?”

“Nothing but the wind through the trees,” said Kate.

“Ay, but _I_ did, and my ears are older than yours. She's riding through
the river now; I hear the water splashin'.”

Kate tried to catch the sounds, but could not; she walked out upon the
lawn to listen, but except the brawling of the stream among the rocks,
there was nothing to be heard.

“D' ye see her comin'?” asked Catty, eagerly.

“No. Your ears must have deceived you. There is no one coming.”

“I heard her voice, as I hear yours now. I heard her spake to the mare,
as she always does when she 's plungin' into the river. There, now,
don't you hear that?”

“I hear nothing, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Broon. It is your own
anxiety that is misleading you; but if you like, I 'll go down towards
the river and see.” And without waiting for a reply Kate hastened
down the slope. As she went, she could not help reflecting over the
superstition which attaches so much importance to these delusions,
giving them the character of actual warnings. It was doubtless from the
mind dwelling so forcibly on Miss Martin's perilous life that the old
woman's apprehensions had assumed this palpable form, and thus invented
the very images which should react upon her with terror.

“Just as I thought,” cried Kate, as she stood on the bank of the stream;
“all silent and deserted, no one within sight.” And slowly she retraced
her steps towards the cottage. The old woman stood at the door, pale and
trembling; an attempt to smile was on her features, but her heart denied
the courage of the effort.

“Where is she now?” cried Catty, wildly. “She rang the bell this minute,
and I heerd the mare trottin' round to the stable by herself, as she
always does. But where 's Miss Mary?”

“My dear Mrs. Broon,” said Kate, in her kindest accents, “it is just as
I told you. Your mind is anxious and uneasy about Miss Martin; you are
unhappy at her absence, and you think at every stir you hear her coming;
but I have been to the river-side, and there is no one there. I 'll go
round to the stables, if you wish it.”

“There 's no tracks of a hoof on the gravel,” muttered the old woman, in
a broken voice; “there was nobody here!”

“So I said,” replied Kate. “It was a mere delusion,--a fancy.”

“A delusion,--a fancy!” cried Catty, scornfully; “that's the way they
always spake of whatever they don't understand. It's easier to say that
than confess you don't see how to explain a thing; but I heerd the same
sounds before you came to-day; ay, and I went down to see why she was
n't comin', and at the pool there was bubbles and froth on the water,
just as if a baste had passed through, but no livin' thing to be seen.
Was n't that a delusion, too?”

“An accident, perchance. Only think, what lives of misery we should lead
were we ever tracing our own fears, and connecting them with all the
changes that go on around us!”

“It's two days she's away, now,” muttered the old woman, who only
heeded her own thoughts; “she was to be back last night, or early this
mornin'.”

“Where had she gone to?” asked Kate, who now saw that the other had
lapsed into confidence.

“She's gone to the islands!--to Innishmore, and maybe, on to Brannock!”

“That's a long way out to sea,” said Kate, thoughtfully; “but still, the
weather is fine, and the day favorable. Had she any other object than
pleasure in this excursion?”

“Pleasure is it?” croaked Catty. “'Tis much pleasure she does be given
herself! Her pleasure is to be where there 's fever and want,--in the
lonely cabin, where the sick is lyin'! It 's to find a poor crayture
that run away from home she 's gone now,--one Joan Landy. She's missin'
this two months, and nobody knows where she 's gone to! and Miss Mary
got so uneasy at last that she could n't sleep by night nor rest by
day,--always talkin' about her, and say in' as much as it was all her
fault; as if _she_ could know why she went, or where?”

“Did she go alone on this errand, then?”

“To be sure she did. Who could she have with her? She towld Loony she 'd
want the boat with four men in it, and maybe to stay out three days, for
she 'd go to all the islands before she came back.”

“Loony 's the best sailor on the coast, I 've heard; and with such
weather as this there is no cause for alarm.”

Catty did not seem to heed the remark; she felt that within her against
which the words of consolation availed but little, and she sat brooding
sorrowfully and in silence.

“The night will soon be fallin' now,” said she, at last. “I hope she's
not at sea!”

In spite of herself, Kate Henderson caught the contagion of the old
woman's terrors, and felt a dreamy, undefined dread of coming evil. As
she looked out, however, at the calm and fair landscape, which, as
day declined, grew each moment more still, she rallied from the gloomy
thoughts, and said,--“I wish I knew how to be of any service to you,
Mrs. Broon. If you could think of anything I could do--anywhere I could
go--” She stopped suddenly at a gesture from the old woman, who, lifting
her hand to impress silence, stood a perfect picture of eager anxiety
to hear. Bending down her head, old Catty stood for several seconds
motionless.

“Don't ye hear it now?” broke she in. “Listen! I thought I heerd
something like a wailin' sound far off, but it is the wind. See how the
tree-tops are bendin'!--That's three times I heerd it now,” said Catty.
“If ye live to be as old as me, you 'll not think light of a warnin'.
You think your hearin' better because you're younger; but I tell you
that there 's sounds that only reach ears that are goin' to where the
voices came from. When eyes grow dim to sights of this world, they are
strainin' to catch a glimpse of them that's beyond it.” Although no
tears rose to her eyes, the withered face trembled in her agony, and her
clasped hands shook in the suffering of her sorrow.

Against impressions of this sort, Kate knew well enough how little
reasoning availed, and she forbore to press arguments which she was
aware would be unsuccessful. She tried, however, to turn the current of
the old woman's thoughts, by leading her to speak of the condition of
the country and the state of the people. Catty gave short, abrupt, and
unwilling answers to all she asked, and Kate at length arose to take her
leave.

“You're goin' away, are ye?” said Catty, half angrily.

“I have only just remembered that I have a long way to walk, and it is
already growing late.”

“Ay, and ye 're impatient to be back again, at home, beside your own
fire, with your own people. But _she_ has no home, and her own has
deserted her!”

“Mine has not many charms for me!” muttered Kate to herself.

“It's happy for you that has father and mother,” went on the old woman.
“Them 's the only ones, after all!--the only ones that never loves the
less, the less we desarve it! I don't wonder ye came back again!” And in
a sort of envious bitterness Catty wished her a good-night.

If the distance she had to walk was not shortened by the tenor of her
thoughts, as little did she feel impatient to press onward. Dreary and
sad enough were her reveries. Of the wild visionary ambitions which once
had stirred her heart, there remained nothing but disappointments. She
had but passed the threshold of life to find all dreary and desolate;
but perhaps the most painful feeling of the moment was the fact that now
pressed conviction on her, and told that in the humble career of such a
one as Mary Martin there lay a nobler heroism and a higher devotion
than in the most soaring path of political ambition, and that all the
theorizing as to popular rights made but a sorry figure beside the
actual benefits conferred by one true-hearted lover of her kind. “She
is right, and I am wrong!” muttered she to herself. “In declining to
entertain questions of statecraft she showed herself above, and not
beneath, the proud position she had taken. The very lowliness of
this task is its glory. Oh, if I could but win her confidence and be
associated in such a labor! and yet my very birth denies me the prestige
that hers confers.” And then she thought of home, and all the coldness
of that cheerless greeting smote upon her heart.

The moon was up ere Kate arrived at her father's door. She tapped at
it gently, almost timidly. Her stepmother, as if expecting her, came
quickly, and in a low, cautious whisper told her that she would find her
supper ready in her bedroom.

“To-morrow, perhaps, he may be in better humor or better spirits.
Good-night.” And so Kate silently stole along to her room, her proud
heart swelling painfully, and her tearless eye burning with all the heat
of a burning brain.



CHAPTER XXX. “A TEA-PARTY” AT MRS. CRONAN'S

Once more, but for the last time, we are at Kilkieran. To a dreary day
of incessant rain succeeded an evening still drearier. Wild gusts swept
along the little shore, and shook the frail windows and ill-fitting
doors of the cottages, while foam and sea-drift were wafted over the
roofs, settling like snow-flakes on the tall cliffs above them. And yet
it was midsummer! By the almanac the time was vouched to be the opening
of the season; a fact amply corroborated by the fashionable assemblage
then enjoying the hospitalities of Mrs. Cronan's tea-table. There they
were, with a single exception, the same goodly company already presented
to the reader in an early chapter of our story. We have already
mentioned the great changes which time had worked in the appearance
of the little watering-place. The fostering care of proprietorship
withdrawn, the ornamental villa of the Martins converted into a
miserable village inn, the works of the pier and harbor suspended, and
presenting in their unfinished aspect the dreary semblance of ruin and
decay,--all conspired with the falling fortunes of the people to make
the scene a sad one. Little evidence of this decline, however, could be
traced in the aspect of that pleasant gathering, animated with all its
ancient taste for whist, scandal, and shrimps; their appetite for such
luxuries seeming rather to have increased than diminished by years.
Not that we presume to say they could claim any immunity against the
irrevocable decrees of age. Unhappily, the confession may be deemed not
exactly in accordance with gallantry; but it is strictly true, time
had no more forgotten the living than the inanimate accessories of
the picture. Miss Busk, of the Emporium, had grown more sour and more
stately. The vinegar of her temperament was verging upon verjuice, and
the ill opinion of mankind experience enforced had written itself
very legibly on her features. The world had not improved upon her by
acquaintance. Not so Captain Bodkin; fatter and more wheezy than ever,
he seemed to relish life rather more than when younger. He had given up,
too, that long struggle with himself about bathing, and making up his
mind to suffer no “sea-change;” he was, therefore, more cheerful than
before.

As for Mrs. Cronan, “the little comforts she was used to” had sorely
diminished by the pressure of the times, and, in consequence, she
drew unlimited drafts upon the past to fill up the deficiencies of the
present. Strange enough is it, that the faults and follies of society
are just as adhesive ingredients as its higher qualities! These
people had grown so used to each other in all their eccentric ways
and oddities, that they had become fond of them; like a pilot long
accustomed to rocks and sandbanks, they could only steer their course
where there was something to avoid!

The remainder of the goodly company had grown stouter or thinner,
jollier or more peevish, as temperament inclined; for it is with human
nature as with wine: if the liquor does not get racier with years, it
degenerates sadly.

The first act of the whist and backgammon playing was over, and the
party now sat, stood, crouched, lounged, or lay, as chance and the state
of the furniture permitted, at supper. At the grand table, of course,
were the higher dignitaries, such as Father Maher, the Captain, Miss
Busk, and Mrs. Clinch; but cockles were eaten, and punch discussed in
various very odd quarters; bursts of joyous laughter, too, came from
dark pantries, and sounds of merriment mingled with the jangling crash
of kitchen utensils. Reputations were roasted and pancakes fried,
characters and chickens alike mangled, and all the hubbub of a festival
prevailed in a scene where the efforts of the fair hostess were directed
to produce an air of unblemished elegance and gentility.

Poor Clinch, the revenue officer, who invariably eat what he called “his
bit” in some obscure quarter, alone and companionless, was twice “had
up” before the authorities for the row and uproar that prevailed, and
underwent a severe cross-examination, “as to where he was when Miss
Cullenane was making the salad,” and, indeed, cut a very sorry figure
at the conclusion of the inquiry. All the gayeties and gravities of
the scene, however, gradually toned down as the serious debate of the
evening came on; which was no other than the lamentable condition of
the prospects of Kilkieran, and the unanimous opinion of the ruinous
consequences that must ensue from the absence of the proprietor.

“We 've little chance of getting up the news-room now,” said the
Captain. “The Martins won't give a sixpence for anything.”

“It is something to give trade an impulse we want, sir,” broke in
Miss Busk,--“balls and assemblies; evening reunions of the _élite_ of
society, where the elegance of the toilet should rival the _distingué_
air of the company.”

“That's word for word out of the 'Intelligence,'” cried the Captain.
“It's unparliamentary to quote the newspapers.”

“I detest the newspapers,” broke in Miss Busk, angrily; “after
advertising the Emporium for two seasons in the 'Galway Celt,' they gave
me a leading article beginning, 'As the hot weather is now commencing,
and the season for fashion approaches, we cannot better serve the
interests of our readers than by directing attention to the elegant
“Symposium!”' 'Symposium!'--I give you my word of honor that's what they
put it.”

“On my conscience! it might have been worse,” chuckled out the Captain.

“It was young Nelligan explained to me what it was,” resumed Miss Busk;
“and Scanlan said, 'I'd have an action against them for damages.'”

“Keep out of law, my dear!--keep out of law!” sighed Mrs. Cronan. “See
to what it has reduced me! I, that used to go out in my own coach, with
two men in green and gold; that had my house in town, and my house in
the country; that had gems and ornaments such as a queen might wear! And
there's all that's left me now!” And she pointed to a brooch about the
size of a cheese-plate, where a melancholy gentleman in uniform was
represented, with a border of mock pearls around him. “The last pledge
of affection!” sobbed she.

“Of course you wouldn't pledge it, my dear,” muttered the deaf old Mrs.
Few; “and they'd give you next to nothing on it, besides.”

[Illustration: 324]

“We 'll have law enough here soon, it seems,” said Mrs. Cronan, angrily;
for the laugh this blunder excited was by no means flattering and
pleasant. “There 's Magennis's action first for trial at the Assizes.”

“That will be worth hearing,” said Mrs. Clinch. “They 'll have the first
lawyers from Dublin on each side.”

“Did you hear the trick they played off on Joe Nelligan about it?” asked
the Captain. “It was cleverly done. Magennis found out, some way or
other, that Joe wanted to be engaged against him; and so what does he
do but gets a servant dressed up in the Martin livery, and sends him to
Joe's house on the box of a coach, inside of which was a gentleman
that begged a word with the Counsellor. 'You 're not engaged, I hope,
Counsellor Nelligan,' says he, 'in Magennis against Martin?' 'No,' says
Joe, for he caught a glimpse of the livery. 'You're quite free?' says
the other. 'Quite free,' says he. 'That's all I want, then,' says he;
'here's your brief, and here's your retainer;' and he put both down on
the table, and when Joe looked down he saw he was booked for Magennis.
You may imagine how he felt; but he never uttered a word, for there was
no help for it.”

“And do you mean to tell me,” cried Mrs. Clinch, “that the lawyers can't
help themselves, but must just talk and rant and swear for any one that
asks them first?”

“It's exactly what I mean, ma'am,” responded the Captain. “They 've no
more choice in the matter than the hangman has as to who be 'll hang.”

“Then I'd as soon be a gauger!” exclaimed the lady, with a contemptuous
glance at poor Clinch, who winced under the observation.

“But I don't see what they wanted young Nelligan for,” said Miss Busk;
“what experience or knowledge has _he?_”

“He's just the first man of the day,” said Bodkin. “They tell me that
whether it be to crook out a flaw in the enemy's case, to pick a hole in
a statement, to crush a witness, or cajole the jury, old Repton himself
is n't his equal.”

“I suppose, from the airs he gives himself, he must be something
wonderful,” said Mrs. Cronan.

“Well, now, I differ from you there, ma'am,” replied Bodkin. “I think
Joe is just what he always was. He was cold, silent, and distant as a
boy, and he 's the same as a man. Look at him when he comes down here at
the Assizes, down to the town where his father is selling glue and hides
and tenpenny-nails, and he 's just as easy and unconstrained as if the
old man was Lord of Cro' Martin Castle.”

“That's the height of impertinence,” broke in Miss Busk; “it's only
real blood has any right to rise above the depreciating accidents of
condition. I know it by myself.”

“Well, I wonder what he 'll make of this case, anyhow,” said feodkin, to
escape a controversy he had no fancy for. “They tell me that no action
can lie on it. It's not abduction--”

“For shame, Captain; you forget there are ladies here,” said Mrs.
Clinch.

“Indeed I don't,” sighed he, with a half-comic melancholy in his look.

“I'll tell you how they do it, sir,” chimed in Father Maher. “Whenever
there 's anything in law that never was foreseen or provided for,
against which there is neither act nor statute, they 've one grand and
unfailing resource,--they charge it as a conspiracy. I 've a brother an
attorney, and he tells me that there is n't a man, woman, or child in
the kingdom but could be indicted for doing something by a conspiracy.”

“It's a great comfort to know that,” said Bodkin, gravely.

“And what can they do to her if she's found guilty?” asked Mrs. Cronan.

“Make her smart for the damages, ma'am; leave her something less to
expend on perversion and interference with the people,” said the priest.
“The parish isn't the same since she began visiting this one and reading
to that. Instead of respect and confidence in their spiritual guides,
the people are running after a young girl with a head full of wild
schemes and contrivances. We all know by this time how these things end,
and the best receipt to make a Protestant begins, 'First starve your
Papist.'”

“I rise to order,” called out Bodkin. “We agreed we'd have no polemics
nor party discussions.”

“Why am I appealed to, then, for explanations that involve them?”
 cried the priest, angrily. “I'm supported, too, in my observations by a
witness none will dispute,--that Scotchman, Henderson--”

“By the way, isn't his daughter come home to him?” asked Bodkin, eager
for a diversion.

“Indeed she is, sir; and a pretty story there is about it, too. Miss
Busk knows it all,” said Mrs. Cronan.

“I have it in confidence, ma'am, from Jemima Davis,--Lady Dorothea's
second maid; but I don't think it a fit subject for public
conversation.”

“And ain't we in committee here?” chimed in Bodkin; “have we any secrets
from each other?” The racy laugh of the old fellow, as he threw a
knowing glance around the table, rather disconcerted the company. “Let's
hear about Henderson's daughter.”

“The story is soon told, sir. Lady Dorothea detected her endeavoring to
draw young Martin into a private marriage. The artful creature, by
some means or other, had obtained such an insight into the young man's
difficulties that she actually terrorized over his weak mind.
She discovered, too, it is suspected, something rather more than
indiscretions on his part.”

A long low whistle from the priest seemed to impart a kind of gratified
surprise at this announcement.

“He had got into a habit of signing his name, they say; and whether he
signed it to something he had no right to, or signed another name by
mistake--”

“Oh, for shame,” broke in Bodkin; “that wouldn't be one bit like a
Martin.”

“Perhaps you are acquainted with all the circumstances better than
myself, sir?” said Miss Busk, bristling up with anger. “Maybe you 've
heard how the Henderson girl was turned away out of the French duke's
family,--how she was found in correspondence with the leaders of the mob
in Paris? Maybe, sir, you are aware that she has some mysterious hold
over her father, and he dares not gainsay one word she says?”

“I don't know one word of it; and if it wasn't thought rude, I'd say I
don't believe it, either,” said Bodkin, stoutly.

“I believe the worst that could be said of her,” said Mrs. Clinch.

“Well, well, make her as bad as you like; but how does that prove
anything against young Martin? and if you can find nothing heavier to
say of him than that he wanted to marry a very handsome girl--”

“A low creature!” broke in Miss Busk.

“The lowest of the low!” chimed in Mrs. Cronan.

“An impudent, upsetting minx!” added Mrs. Clinch. “Nothing would serve
her but a post-chaise the morning she arrived by the mail for Dublin;
and, signs on it, when she got home she had n't money to pay for it.”

“It was n't that she left her place empty-handed, then,” said Miss Busk.
“Jemima tells me that she managed the whole house,--paid for everything;
and we all know what comes of that.”

Miss Busk, in delivering this sentiment, was seated with her back to
the door, towards which suddenly every eye was now turned in mingled
astonishment and confusion; she moved round to see the cause, and there
beheld the very object of her commentary standing close behind her
chair. Closely wrapped in a large cloak, the hood of which she wore
over her head, her tall figure looked taller and more imposing in its
motionless attitude.

“I have to ask pardon for this intrusion, ladies,” said she, calmly;
“but you will forgive me when I tell the reason of it. I have just
received very sad tidings, which ought to be conveyed to Miss Martin;
she is at the islands, and I have no means of following her, unless Mr.
Clinch will kindly lend me the revenue boat--”

“And accompany you, I hope,” broke in Mrs. Clinch, with a sneer.

Kate did not notice the taunting remark, but went on, “You will be
grieved to hear that Mr. Martin is no more.”

“Martin dead!” muttered the Captain.

“Dead! When did he die?” “Where did it happen?” “How?” “Of what
malady?” “Are his remains coming home?” were asked in quick succession
by several voices.

“This letter will tell you all that I know myself,” said she, laying it
on the table. “May I venture to hope Mr. Clinch will so far oblige me?
The fishermen say the sea is too rough for their craft.”

“It's not exactly on the King's service, I opine, ma'am,” broke in Mrs.
Clinch; “but of course he is too gallant to oppose your wishes.”

“Faith! if you wanted any one with you, and would accept of myself,”
 broke in Bodkin, “I'm ready this minute; not that exactly salt water is
my element.”

“The young lady is accustomed to travel alone, or she is much belied,”
 said Miss Busk, with a sneer.

“I suppose you'd better let her have the boat, Clinch,” said his wife,
in a whisper. “There's no knowing what might come of it if you refused.”

“I 'll go down and muster the crew for you, Miss Henderson,” said
Clinch, not sorry to escape, although the exchange was from a warm cabin
to the beating rain without.

“Poor Martin!” sighed Bodkin; “he was the first of the family for many a
long year that did n't breathe his last under his own roof. I 'm sure it
weighed heavily on him.”

“I trust his son will follow his example, nevertheless,” said the
priest. “I don't want to see one of the name amongst us.”

“You might have worse, Father Maher,” said Bodkin, angrily.

And now a lively discussion ensued as to the merits of him they
had lost, for the most part with more of charity than many of their
dissertations; from this they branched off into speculations about the
future. Would the “present man” reside at home? would her Ladyship come
back? what would be Mary's position? how would Scanlan fare? what of
Henderson, too? In fact, casualties of every kind were debated,
and difficulties started, that they might be as readily reconciled.
Meanwhile Kate was hastening down to the shore, followed, rather than
escorted, by little Clinch, who even in the darkness felt that the
conjugal eye was upon him.



CHAPTER XXXI. THE BRANNOCK ISLANDS

A little to the northwest of the island of Innishmore are scattered a
number of small islets, some scarcely more than barren rocks, called
the Brannocks. One of these alone was inhabited, and that by a single
family. No isolation could be more complete than that of these poor
people, who thus dwelt amid the wide waste of waters, never seeing the
face of a stranger, and only at long intervals visiting the mainland.
Indeed the only intercourse they could be said to maintain with their
fellow-men was when by chance they fell in with some homeward-bound ship
at sea, and sold the little produce of their nets; for they lived by
fishing, and had no other subsistence.

The largest of these islands was called “Brannock-buoy,” or the Yellow
Brannock, from the flower of a kind of crocus which grew profusely over
it. It was a wild, desolate spot, scarcely rising above the waves around
it, save in one quarter, where a massive column of rock rose to the
height of several hundred feet, and formed the only shelter against the
swooping wind, which came without break or hindrance from the far-away
shores of Labrador. At the foot of this strong barrier--so small and
insignificant as to escape notice from the sea--stood the little cabin
of Owen Joyce. Built in a circular form, the chimney in the middle, the
rude structure resembled some wigwam of the prairies rather than the
home of civilized beings.

Certain low partitions within subdivided the space into different
chambers, making the centre the common apartment of the family, where
they cooked and ate and chatted; for, with all their poverty and
privation, theirs was a life not devoid of its own happiness, nor did
they believe that their lot was one to repine at.

Seasons of unprofitable labor, years of more or less pressure, they had
indeed experienced, but actual want had never visited them; sickness,
too, was almost as rare. Owen Joyce was, at the time we speak of,
upwards of eighty; and although his hair was white as snow, his cheek
was ruddy, his white teeth were perfect, and his eye--like that of
Moses--“was not dim.” Surrounded by his children and grandchildren, the
old man lived happy and contented, his daily teaching being to impress
upon them the blessings they derived from a life so sheltered from all
the accidents of fortune; to have, as he called the island, “the little
craft all their own.”

The traits of race and family, the limited range of their intercourse
with the world, served to make them all wonderfully alike, not only in
feature but expression; so that even the youngest child had something of
the calm, steadfast look which characterized the old man. The jet-black
hair and eyes and the swarthy skin seemed to indicate a Spanish origin,
and gave them a type perfectly distinctive and peculiar.

In the midst of them moved one who, though dressed in the light-blue
woollen kirtle, the favorite costume of the islands, bore in her fresh
bright features the traces of a different blood; her deep blue eye, soft
and almost sleepy, her full, well-curved lips, were strong contrasts to
the traits around her. The most passing glance would have detected
that she was not “one of them,” nor had she been long an inmate of this
dwelling.

It chanced that some short time before, one of Joyce's sons, in boarding
an outward-bound American ship, had heard of a young countrywoman
who, having taken her passage for New York, no sooner found herself at
sea--parted, as she deemed it, forever from home and country--than she
gave way to the most violent grief; so poignant, indeed, was her sorrow
that the captain compassionately offered to relinquish her passage-money
if Joyce would take charge of her, and re-land her on the shores of
Ireland. The offer was accepted, and the same evening saw her safely
deposited on the rocky island of Brannock. Partly in gratitude to her
deliverer, partly in the indulgence of a secret wish, she asked leave
to remain with them and be their servant; the compact was agreed to, and
thus was she there.

Theirs was not a life to engender the suspicions and distrusts which
are current in the busier walks of men. None asked her a reason for her
self-banishment, none inquired whether the cause of her exile was
crime or misfortune. They had grown to feel attachment to her for the
qualities of her gentle, quiet nature, a mild submissive temper, and a
disposition to oblige, that forgot nothing save herself. Her habits had
taught her resources and ways which their isolated existence had denied
them, and she made herself useful by various arts, which, simple as they
were, seemed marvellous to the apprehension of her hosts; and thus, day
by day, gaining on their love and esteem, they came at length to regard
her with an affection mingled with a sort of homage.

Poor Joan Landy--for we have not to explain that it was she--was
happy,--happier than ever she had been before. The one great sorrow of
her life was, it is true, treasured in her heart; her lost home,
her blighted hope, her severed affection--for she actually loved
Magennis--were griefs over which she wept many an hour in secret;
but there was a sense of duty, a conscious feeling of rectitude,
that supported her in her sacrifice, and as she thought of her old
grandfather's death-bed, she could say to her heart, “I have been true
to my word with him.”

The unbroken quiet, the unchanging character of the life she led,--its
very duties following a routine that nothing ever disturbed,--gave her
ample time for thought; and thought, though tinged with melancholy, has
its own store of consolation; and if poor Joan sorrowed, she sorrowed
like one who rather deplored the past than desired to re-live it! As
time wore on, a dreamy indistinctness seemed to spread itself over the
memory of her former life: it appeared little other than a mind-drawn
picture. Nothing actual or tangible remained to convince her of its
reality. It was only at rare intervals, and in the very clearest
weather, the outline of the mountains of the mainland could be seen; and
when she did behold them, they brought only some vague recollection to
her; and so, too, the memories of her once home came through the haze of
distance, dim and indistinct.

It was at the close of a day in June that the Joyces sat in front of
the little cabin, repairing their nets, and getting their tackle in
readiness for the sea. For some time previous the weather had been
broken and unfavorable. Strong west winds and heavy seas--far from
infrequent in these regions, even in midsummer--had rendered fishing
impracticable; but now the aspect of a new moon, rising full an hour
before sunset, gave promise of better, and old Joyce had got the launch
drawn up on shore to refit, and sails were spread out upon the rocks to
dry, and coils of rope, and anchors, and loose spars littered the little
space before the door. The scene was a busy and not an unpicturesque
one. There was every age, from the oldest to very infancy, all active,
all employed. Some were calking the seams of the boat, others overhauled
sails and cordage; some were preparing the nets, attaching cork floats
or sinkers; and two chubby urchins, mere infants, laughing, fed the
fire that blazed beneath a large pitch-pot, the light blue smoke rising
calmly into the air, and telling those far away that the lone rock
was not without inhabitants. To all seeming, these signs of life and
habitation bad attracted notice; for a small boat which had quitted
Innishmore for the mainland some time before, now altered her course,
and was seen slowly bearing up towards the Brannocks. Though the sea was
calm and waveless, the wind was only sufficient to waft her along at the
slowest rate; a twinkling flash of the sea at intervals showed, however,
that her crew were rowing, and at length the measured beat of the oars
could be distinctly heard.

Many were the speculations of those who watched her course. They knew
she was not a fishing-craft; her light spars and white sails were
sufficient to refute that opinion. Neither was she one of the
revenue-boats. What could she be, then, since no large ship was in sight
to which she could have belonged? It is only to those who have at some
one period or other of life sojourned in some lone spot of earth, away
from human intercourse, that the anxiety of these poor people could be
intelligible. If, good reader,--for to you we now appeal,--it has not
been your lot to have once on a time lived remote from the world and
its ways, you cannot imagine how intensely interesting can become the
commonest of those incidents which mark ordinary existence. They assume,
indeed, very different proportions from the real, and come charged with
innumerable imaginings about that wondrous life, far, far away, where
there are thoughts and passions and deeds and events which never enter
into the dreamland of exile! It was a little after sunset that the boat
glided into the small creek which formed the only harbor of the island;
and the moment after, a young girl sprang on the shore, and hastened
towards them.

[Illustration: 334]

Before the Joyces had recovered from their first surprise, they saw Joan
burst from the spot, and, rushing down the slope, throw herself at the
stranger's feet.

“And have I found you at last, dear Joan?” cried a soft, low voice,
while the speaker raised her tenderly from the ground, and took her hand
kindly within both her own.

“Oh, Miss Mary, to think you 'd come after me this far! over the say!”
 burst out Joan, sobbing through her joy; for joy it was that now lit
up her features, and made her eyes sparkle even through the fresh tears
that filled them.

“They told me you had sailed from Galway,” resumed Mary, “and I wrote
to the ship-agent and found it was correct: your name was in the list of
passengers, and the date of the day you sailed; but, I know not how it
was, Joan, I still clung to the notion that you had contrived this plan
to escape being discovered, and that you were concealed somewhere along
the coast or in the islands. I believe I used to dream of this at first,
but at last I thought of it all day long.”

“Thought of _me_ all day long?” broke in Joan, sobbing.

“And why not, poor child? Was I not the cause of your leaving your
home? Was it not my persuasion that induced you to leave the roof that
sheltered you? I have often wondered whether I had right and reason on
my side. I know at the time I believed I had such. At all events, but
for me you had never quitted that home; but see, Joan, how what we are
led to do with an honest purpose, if it fail to effect what we had in
view, often leads to better and happier ends than we ever dreamed of.
I only thought of conveying to you the last message of your poor
grandfather. I little imagined how so simple an act could influence
all your future fortune in life; and such it has done. Mr. Magennis,
suspecting or discovering what share I had in your flight, has begun a
law proceeding against me, and to give him a rightful claim for redress,
has declared you to be--all that you wish, dear Joan--his lawful, wedded
wife.”

It was some time before the poor girl could stifle the sobbing which
burst from her very heart. She kissed Mary's hands over and over with
rapture, and cried out at length, in broken, faltering accents, “Did
n't they say well that called you a saint from heaven? Didn't they tell
truth that said, God gave you as a blessing to us?”

“My poor Joan, you are grateful to me for what I have no share in. I am
nothing but the bearer of good tidings. But tell me, how have you fared
since we parted? Let me hear all that has happened to you.”

Joan told her simple story in a few words, never deviating from the
narrative, save to speak her heartfelt gratitude to the poor people who
had sheltered and befriended her.

“There they are!” cried she, pointing to the group, who, with a delicacy
of sentiment that might have graced the most refined class, sat
apart, never venturing by a look to obtrude upon the confidence of the
others,--“there they are; and if the world was like them, life would n't
have many crosses!”

Mary rose, and drew nigh the old man, who stood up respectfully to
receive her.

“He does n't know much English, Miss Mary,” whispered Joan in her ear.

“Nor am I well skilled in Irish,” said Mary, smiling; “but I 'll do my
best to thank him.”

However imperfectly she spoke the native tongue, the words seemed to
act like a charm on those who heard them; and as, young and old, they
gathered around her, their eager looks and delighted faces beamed with a
triumphant joy. They had learned from the boatmen that it was the young
princess--as in the language of the people she was called--was before
them, and their pride and happiness knew no bounds.

Oh, if courtiers could feel one tithe of the personal devotion to the
sovereign that did these poor peasants to her they regarded as their
chief, what an atmosphere of chivalry would breathe within the palace
of royalty! There was nothing they would not have done or dared at her
bidding; and as she crossed their threshold, and sat down beside their
hearth, the tears of joy that rose to every eye showed that this was an
event to be treasured till memory could retain no more!

If Mary did not speak the native dialect fluently, there was a grace and
a charm about the turn of the expressions she used that never failed to
delight those who heard her. That imaginative thread that runs through
the woof of Irish nature in every rank and condition of life--more
conspicuous, probably, in the very humblest--imparted an intense
pleasure to hearing and listening to her; and she, on her side, roused
and stimulated by the adventurous character of the incident, the strange
wild spot, the simple people, their isolation and their innocence, spoke
with a warmth and an enthusiasm that were perfectly captivating.

She had seen much of the peasantry,--known them in the most unfrequented
tracts, remote from all their fellow-men,--in far-away glens, by dreary
mountains, where no footpaths led; but anything so purely simple and
unsophisticated as these poor people she had never met with. The sons
had been--and that rarely, too--on the mainland, but the children and
their mothers had never left the Brannocks; they had never beheld a
tree, nor even a flower, save the wild crocus on their native rock. With
what eager delight, then, did they hear Mary describe the gardens of the
castle,--pictures that glowed with all the gorgeous colors of a fairy
tale. “You shall all come and see me, some of these days. I'll send you
a messenger, to say the time,” said Mary; “and I'll promise that what
you 'll witness will be far above my description of it!”

It was a sad moment when Mary arose to say good-bye. Joan, too, was to
accompany her, and the grief at parting with her was extreme. Again and
again the children clung round her, entreating her not to leave them;
and she herself half faltered in her resolution. That lonely rock, that
rude cabin, had been her refuge in the darkest hour of her life, and she
felt the superstitious terror of her class at now deserting them.

“Come, come, dear Joan, remember that you have a home now that you
can rightfully return to,” whispered Mary. “It is not in shame, but in
honor, that you go back to it.”

It was already dark ere they left the Brannocks: a long, heavy swell,
too, the signs of a storm, coming from the westward, made the boatmen
eager to hasten their departure. As yet, however, the air was calm and
still, but it was with that oppressive stillness that forebodes change.
They hoisted their sail, but soon saw that they must, for a while at
least, trust to their oars. The unbroken stillness, save by the measured
stroke of the rowers, the dense dark atmosphere, and the reaction, after
a day of toil and an event of a most moving kind, so overcame Mary that,
leaning on Joan's shoulder, she fell off fast asleep. For a while Joan,
proud of the burden she supported, devoted all her care to watch
and protect her from the night air; but at last weariness stole over
herself, and she dropped off to slumber.

Meanwhile the sea was rising; heavy waves struck the boat, and washed
over her in sheets of spray, although no wind was stirring.

“We 'll have rain, or a gale of wind before long,” said one of the men.

“There 's some heavy drops falling now,” muttered another.

“Throw that sail over Miss Mary, for it will soon come down heavily.”

A loud clap of thunder burst forth, and as suddenly, like a torrent, the
rain poured down, hissing over the dark sea, and filling the air with a
dull, discordant noise. Still they slept on, nor heard nor felt aught of
that gathering storm.

“There now, sure enough, it 's coming,” cried a boatman, as the sail
shook tremulously; and two great waves, in quick succession, broke over
the bow.

“We'll have to run for Innishmore,” said another, “and lucky if we get
there before it comes on worse.”

“You ought to wake her up, Loony, and ask her what we are to do.”

“I 'll make straight for the harbor of Kilkieran,” replied the helmsman.
“The wind is with us, and she's a good sea-boat. Take in the jib,
Maurice, and we'll shorten all sail on her, and--”

The rest of his speech was drowned in the uproar of a tremendous sea,
which struck the boat on her quarter and nearly overset her. Not another
word was now uttered, as, with the instinct of their calling, they
set about to prepare for the coming conflict. The mainsail was quickly
lowered and reefed, the oars and loose spars secured, and then, seating
themselves in the bottom of the boat, they waited in silence. By this
time the rain had passed over, and a strong wind swept over the sea.

“She's going fast through the water, anyway!” said one of the men. But
though the speech was meant to cheer, none felt or acknowledged the
encouragement.

“I 'd rather than own Cro' Martin Castle Miss Mary was safe at home!”
 said Loony, as he drew the rough sleeve of his coat across his eyes,
“for it's thicker it's getting over yonder!”

“It would be a black day that anything happened her!” muttered another.

“Musha! we've wives and childer,” said a third, “but she's worth a
thousand of us!”

And thus, in broken whispers, they spoke; not a thought save of her, not
a care save for her safety. They prayed, too, fervently, and her name
was in all their supplications.

“She's singing to herself in her sleep,” whispered Loony. And the rough
sailors hushed to hear her.

Louder and louder, however, grew the storm, sheets of spray and drift
falling over the boat in showers, and all her timbers quivering as she
labored in the stormy sea. A sailor whispered something in Loony's ear,
and he grumbled out in reply,--“Why would I wake her up?”

“But I _am_ awake, Loony,” said Mary, in a low, calm voice, “and I see
all our danger; but I see, too, that you are meeting it like brave men,
and, better still, like good ones.”

“The men was thinking we ought to bear up for Innish-more, Miss Mary,”
 said Loony, as though ashamed of offering on his own part such counsel.

“You'll do what you think best and safest for us all, Loony.”

“But you were always the captain, miss, when you were aboord!” replied
he, with an effort to smile.

“And so I should be now, Loony, but that my heart is too full to be as
calm and resolute as I ought to be. This poor thing had not been here
now, but for _me_.” And she wrapped her shawl around Joan as she spoke.
“Maybe it's anxiety, perhaps fatigue, but I have not my old courage
to-night!”

“Faix! it will never be fear that will distress you!” said he.

“If you mean for myself and my own safety, Loony, you are right. It is
not for me to repine at the hour that calls me away, but I cannot
bear to think how you and others, with so many dear to you, should be
perilled just to serve _me!_ And poor Joan, too, at the moment when life
was about to brighten for her!” She held down her head for a minute or
two, and then suddenly, as it were, rallying, she cried out, “The boat
is laboring too much for'ard, Loony; set the jib on her!”

“To be sure, if you ordher it, Miss Mary; but she has more sail now than
she can carry.”

“Set the jib, Loony. I know the craft well; she 'll ride the waves all
the lighter for it. If it were but daylight, I almost think I 'd enjoy
this. We 've been out in as bad before.”

Loony shook his head as he went forward to bend the additional sail.

“You see she won't bear it, miss,” cried he, as the boat plunged
fearfully into the trough of the sea.

“Let us try,” said she, calmly. “Stand by, ready to slack off, if I
give the word.” And so saying, she took the tiller from the sailor, and
seated herself on the weather-gunwale. “There, see how she does it now!
Ah, Loony, confess, I am the true pilot. I knew my nerve would come back
when I took my old post here. I was always a coward in a carriage, if I
was n't on the box and the reins in my hands; and the same at sea.
Sit up to windward, men, and don't move; never mind baling, only keep
quiet.”

“Miss Mary was right,” muttered one of the men; “the head-sail is
drawing her high out of the water!”

“Is that dark mass before us cloud, or the land?” cried she.

“It's the mountains, miss. There to the left, where you see the dip in
the ridge, that's Kilkieran. I think I see the lights on shore now.”

“I see them now myself,” cried Mary. “Oh, how the sight of land gives
love of life! They called earth truly who named her mother!” said she to
herself. “What was that which swept past us, Loony?”

“A boat, miss; and they're hailing us now,” cried he, peeping over the
gunwale. “They've put her about, and are following our course. They came
out after us.”

“It was gallantly done, on such a night as this! I was just thinking to
myself that poor old Mat Landy would have been out, were he living. You
must take the tiller now, Loony, for I don't understand the lights on
shore.”

“Because they're shifting every minute, miss. It's torches they have,
and they 're moving from place to place; but we 'll soon be safe now.”

“Let us not forget this night, men,” said Mary, in a fervent voice. And
then, burying her face within her hands, she spoke no more.

It was already daybreak when they gained the little harbor, well-nigh
exhausted, and worn out with fatigue and anxiety. As for Mary, wet
through and cold, she could not rise from her seat without assistance,
and almost fainted as she put her foot on shore. She turned one glance
seaward to where the other boat was seen following them, and then,
holding Joan's hand, she slowly toiled up the rocky ascent to the
village. To the crowd of every age that surrounded her she could only
give a faint, sickly smile of recognition, and they, in deep reverence,
stood without speaking, gazing on her wan features and the dripping
garments which clung to her.

“No, not to the inn, Loony,” said she, to a question from him. “The
first cabin we meet will shelter us, and then--home!” There was
something of intense sorrow in the thought that passed then through her
mind, for her eyes suddenly filled up, and heavy tears rolled along her
cheeks. “Have they got in yet?” said she, looking towards the sea.

“Yes, miss; they're close alongside now. It's the revenue boat that went
after us.”

“Wirra, wirra! but that's bad news for her now,” muttered a boatman, in
conversation with an old woman at his side.

“What's the bad news, Patsey?” said Mary, overhearing him.

But the man did not dare to answer; and though he looked around on every
side, none would speak for him.

“You used to be more frank with me,” said Mary, calmly. “Tell me what
has happened.”

Still not a word was uttered, a mournful silence brooded over the crowd,
and each seemed to shun the task of breaking it.

“You will make me fear worse than the reality, perhaps,” said she,
tremulously. “Is the calamity near home? No. Is it then my uncle?” A
low faint cry burst from her, and she dropped down on her knees; but
scarcely had she joined her hands to pray, than she fell back, fainting,
to the ground.

They carried her, still insensible as she was, into a fisherman's cabin,
till they went in search of a conveyance to take her to the cottage.



CHAPTER XXXII. LETTER FROM MASSINGBRED.

“Martin Arms, Oughterard.

“In spite of all your reasonings, all your cautions, and all your
warnings, here I am once more, Harry, denizen of the little dreary
parlor whence I first looked out at Dan Nelligan's shop something
more than a year since. What changes of fortune has that brief space
accomplished I what changes has it effected even in my own nature! I
feel this in nothing more than in my altered relations with others. If
the first evidence of amendment in a man be shame and sorrow for the
past, I may probably be on the right road now, since I heartily grieve
over the worthless, purposeless life I have led hitherto.

“I am well aware that you would not accept the reason I gave you for
coming here. You said that, as to taking leave of my constituents, a
letter was the ordinary and the sufficient course. You also hinted that
our intercourse had not been of that close and friendly nature which
requires a personal farewell, and then you suggested that other and less
defensible motives had probably their share in this step. Well, you
are right, perfectly right; I wanted to see the spot which has so far
exerted an immense influence over me; I wanted--if you will have the
confession--to see _her_ too,--to see her in the humble station she
belongs to, in the lowly garb of the steward's daughter. I was curious
to ascertain what change her bearing would undergo in the change of
position; would she conform to the lowlier condition at once and
without struggle, or would her haughty nature chafe and fret against the
obstacles of a small and mean existence? If you were right in guessing
this, you are equally wrong in the motive you ascribe to me. Not,
indeed, that you palpably express, but only hint at it; still I cannot
endure even the shadow of such a surmise without a flat and full denial.
Perhaps, after all, I have mistaken your meaning,--would it were so! I
do indeed wish that you should not ascribe to me motives so unworthy
and so mean. A revenge for her refusal of me! a reprisal for the proud
rejection of my hand and fortune! No, my dear Harry, I feel, as I write
the words, that they never were yours. You say, however, that I am
curious to know if I should think her as lovable and attractive in the
humble dress and humble station that pertain to her, as when I saw her
moving more than equal amongst the proudest and haughtiest of Europe.
To have any doubt on this score would be to distrust her sincerity of
character. She must be what I have ever seen her, or she is an actress.
Difference of condition, different associates, different duties will
exact different discipline, but she herself must be the same, or she is
a falsehood,--a deception.

“And then you add, it is perhaps as well that I should 'submit to the
rude test of a disenchantment.' Well, I accept the challenge, and I am
here.

“These thoughts of self would obtrude in the very beginning of a letter
I had destined for other objects. You ask me for a narrative of my
journey and its accidents, and you shall have it. On my way over here
in the packet, I made acquaintance with an elderly man, who seemed
thoroughly acquainted with all the circumstances of the Martins and
their misfortunes. From him I ascertained that all Scanlan had told me
was perfectly correct. The reversion of the estate has been sold for a
sum incredibly small in proportion to its value, and in great part
the proceeds of gambling transactions. Martin is, therefore, utterly,
irretrievably ruined. Merl has taken every step with all the security
of the best advice, and in a few months, weeks perhaps, will be declared
owner of Cro' Martin. Even in the 'fast times' we live in, such rapid
ruin as this stands alone! You tell me that of your own college and mess
associates not more than one in five or six have survived the wreck
of fortune the first few years of extravagance accomplish, and
that Manheim, Brussels, and Munich can show the white-seamed,
mock-smartened-up gentilities which once were the glories of Bond
Street and the Park; but for poor Martin, I suspect, even these last
sanctuaries do not remain,--as I hear it, he is totally gone.

“From the very inn where I am staying Merls agents are issuing notices
of all kinds to the tenants and 'others' to desist and refrain from
cutting timber, quarrying marbles, and what not, on certain unspeakable
localities, with threats in case of non-compliance. Great placards cover
the walls of the town, headed 'Caution to all Tenants on the Estate
of Cro' Martin.' The excitement in the neighborhood is intense,
overwhelming. Whatever differences of political opinion existed between
the Martins and the people of the borough, whatever jealousies grew out
of disparity of station, seemed suddenly merged in sympathy for this
great misfortune. They are, of course, ignorant of the cause of this
sudden calamity, and ask each other how, when, and where such a fortune
because engulfed.

“But to proceed regularly. On my reaching Dublin, after a hurried visit
to my father, I drove off to Mr. Repton's house. You may remember his
name as that of the old lawyer, some of whose bar stories amused you
so highly. I found him in a spacious mansion of an old neglected
street,--Henrietta Street,--once the great aristocratic quarter of
Ancient Dublin, and even to this day showing traces of real splendor.
The old man received me in a room of immense proportions, furnished as
it was when Flood was the proprietor. He was at luncheon when I entered;
and for company had the very same stranger with whom I made acquaintance
in the packet.

“Repton started as we recognized each other, but at a sign or a word,
I'm not certain which, from the other, merely said, 'My friend was just
speaking of his having met you, Mr. Massingbred.' This somewhat informal
presentation over, I joined them, and we fell a chatting over the story
of Cro' Martin.

“They were both eager to hear something about Merl, his character,
pursuits, and position; and you would have been amazed to see how
surprised they were at my account of a man whose type we are all so
familiar with.

“You would scarcely credit the unfeigned astonishment manifested by
these two shrewd and crafty men at the sketch I gave them of our Hebrew
friend. One thing is quite clear,--it was not the habit, some forty or
fifty years ago, to admit the Merls of the world to terms of intimacy,
far less of friendship.

“'As I said, Repton,' broke in the stranger, sternly, 'it all comes of
that degenerate tone which has crept in of late, making society like a
tavern, where he who can pay his bill cannot be denied entrance. Such
fellows as this Merl had no footing in our day. The man who associated
with such would have forfeited his own place in the world.'

“'Very true,' said Repton, 'though we borrowed their money we never
bowed to them.'

“'And we did wisely, sir,' retorted the other. 'The corruption of their
manners was fifty times worse than all their usury! The gallant Hussar
Captain, as we see here, never scrupled about admitting to his closest
intimacy a fellow not fit company for his valet. Can't you perceive that
when a man will descend to such baseness to obtain money, there is no
measuring the depth he will go to when pressed to pay it?'

“'I am intimate with Martin,' said I, interrupting, 'and I can honestly
assure you that it was rather to an easy, careless, uncalculating
disposition he owes his misfortunes, than to anything like a spendthrift
habit.'

“'Mere hair-splitting this, sir,' replied he, almost rudely. 'He who
spends what is not his own, I have but one name for. It matters little
in my estimation whether he extorts the supply by a bill or a bullet.'

“I own to you, Harry, I burned to retort to a speech the tone and manner
of which were both more offensive than the words; but the stranger's
age, his venerable appearance, and something like deep and recent sorrow
about him, restrained me, and I caught, by a look from Repton, that he
was grateful for my forbearance.

“'Come, sir,' said he, addressing me, 'you say you know Captain Martin;
now let me ask you one question: Is there any one trait or feature of
his character to which, if his present misfortunes were to pass
away, you could attach a hope of amendment? Has not this life of
bill-renewing, these eternal straits for cash--with all the humiliations
that accompany them,--made him a mere creature of schemes and plots,--a
usurer in spirit, though a pauper in fact?'

“'When I say, sir, that you are addressing this demand to one whom
Captain Martin deems his friend, you will see the impropriety you have
fallen into.'

“'My young friend is right,' broke in Repton. 'The Court rules against
the question; nor would it be evidence even if answered.'

“I was angry at this interference of Repton's. I wanted to reply to this
man myself; but still, as I looked at his sorrow-struck features, and
saw what I fancied the marks of a proud suffering spirit, I was well
satisfied at not having given way to temper; still more so did I feel as
he turned towards me, and, with a manner of ineffable gentleness, said,
'I entreat you to pardon me, sir, for an outburst of which I am already
ashamed. A rude life and some bitter experiences have made me hard
of heart and coarse in speech; still, it is only in moments of
forgetfulness that I cease to remember what indulgence he owes to others
who has such need of forgiveness himself.'

“I grasped his hand at once, and felt that his pressed mine like a
friend's.

“'You spoke of going down to the West,' said he, after a brief pause.
'I start for that country to-night; you would do me a great favor should
you accompany me.'

“I acceded at once, and he went on. 'Repton was to have been of the
party, but business delays him a few days in town.'

“'I 'll join you before the end of the week,' said Repton; 'by that time
Mr. Massingbred will have expended all his borough blandishments and be
free to give us his society.'

“Though the old lawyer now tried, and tried cleverly, to lead us away
to lighter, pleasanter themes, the attempt was a failure; each felt, I
suspect, some oppressive weight on his spirits that indisposed him to
less serious talk; and again we came back to the Martins, the stranger
evidently seeking to learn all he could of the disposition and temper of
the young man.

“'It is as I thought,' said he, at last. 'It is the weak, sickly tone
of the day has brought all this corruption upon us! Once upon a time
the vices and follies of young men took their rise in their several
natures,--this one gambled, the other drank, and so on,--the mass,
however, was wonderfully sound and healthy; the present school, however,
is to ape a uniformity, so that each may show himself in the livery of
his fellows, thus imbibing wickedness he has no taste for, and none be
less depraved and heartless than those around him. Let the women but
follow the fashion, and there 's an end of us, as the great people we
boasted to be!'

“I give you, so well as I can trust my memory, his words, Harry, but I
cannot give you a certain sardonic bitterness,--a tone of mingled scorn
and sorrow, such as I never before witnessed. He gave me the impression
of being one who, originally frank, generous, and trustful, had, by
intercourse with the world and commerce with mankind, grown to suspect
every one and disbelieve in honesty, and yet could not bring his heart
to acknowledge what his head had determined. In this wise, at least, I
read his character from the opportunities I had of conversing with him
on our journey. It was easy to see that he was a gentleman,--taking the
word in the widest of its acceptations,--but from things that dropped
from him, I could gather that his life had been that of an adventurer.
He had been in the sea and land services of many of those new states
of Southern America, had even risen to political importance in some of
them; had possessed mines and vast tracts of territory one day, and
the next saw himself 'without a piastre.' He had conducted operations
against the Indians, and made treaties with them, and latterly had lived
as the elected chief of a tribe in the west of the Rocky Mountains. But
he knew civilized as well as savage life, had visited Spain in the rank
of an envoy, and was familiar with all the great society of Rome, and
the intrigues of its prince-bishops. The only theme, however, on which
he really warmed was sport. The prairies brought out all his enthusiasm,
and then he spoke like one carried away by glorious recollections of
a time when, as he said himself, 'heart and hand and eye never failed
him.'

“When he spoke of family ties or home affections, it was in a spirit of
almost mockery, which puzzled me. His reasoning was that the attachments
we form are only emanations of our own selfishness. We love, simply to
be loved again. Whereas, were we single-hearted, we should be satisfied
to know that those dear to us were well and happy, and only seek to
serve them without demonstration or display.

“Am I wearying you, Harry, by dwelling on the traits of a man who, for
the brief space I have known him, has made the most profound impression
upon me? Even where I dissent--as is often the case--from his views,
I have to own to myself that were I _he_, I should think and reason
precisely as he does. I fancied at first that, like many men who had
quitted civilized life for the rude ways of the 'bush,' he would have
contrasted the man of refinement unfavorably with the savage, but he was
too keen and acute for such a sweeping fallacy; he saw the good and evil
in both, and sensibly remarked how independent of all education were
the really strong characteristics of human nature. 'There is not a great
quality of our first men,' said he, 'that I have not found to exist
among the wild tribes of the Far West, nor is there an excellence
of savage nature I have not witnessed amidst the polished and the
pampered.'

“From what I can collect, he is only here passingly; some family matter
has brought him over to this country; but he is already impatient to be
back to his old haunts and associates, and his home beside the Orinoco.
He has even asked me to come and visit him there; and from all I can see
I should be as likely to attain distinction among the Chaymas as in
the House of Commons, and should find the soft turf of the Savannahs as
pleasant as the Opposition benches. In fact, Harry, I have half
promised to accept his invitation; and if he renew it with anything like
earnestness, I am resolved to go.

“I am just setting out for the Hendersons', and while the horses are
being harnessed I have re-read your letter. Of course I have 'counted
the cost,'--I have weighed the question to a pennyweight! I could
already write down the list of those who will not know me at all, those
who will know me a little, and the still fewer who will know my wife!
Can you not see, my dear friend, that where one drags the anchor so
easily, the mooring-ground was never good? The society to which you
belong by such slender attachments gives no wound by separation from it.

“My anxiety now is on a very different score: it is that she will still
refuse me. The hope I cling to is that she will see in my persistence a
proof of sincerity. I would not, if I could, bring any family influence
to my aid, and yet, short of this, there is nothing I would not do to
insure success.

“I wish I had never re-opened your letter; that vein of sarcastic
coolness which runs through it will never turn me from my purpose. You
seem to forget, besides, that you are talking to a man of the world,
just as hackneyed, just as 'used up' as yourself. I should like to see
you assume this indolent dalliance before La Henderson! Take my word for
it, Harry, you 'd be safer with the impertinence amongst some of your
duchesses in Pall Mall. You say that great beauty in a woman, like
genius in a man, is a kind of brevet nobility, and yet you add that
the envy of the world will never weary of putting the possessor 'on his
title.' How gladly would I accept this challenge! Ay, Harry, I tell you,
in all defiance, that your proudest could not vie with her!

“If I wanted a proof of the vassalage of the social state we live in, I
have it before me in the fact that a man like yourself, wellborn, young,
rich, and high-hearted, should place the judgments and prejudices of
half a dozen old tabbies of either sex above all the promptings of a
noble ambition--all the sentiments of a generous devotion. Your
starling cry of 'the Steward's daughter,' then, does not deter, it only
determines the purpose

“Of yours faithfully,

“Jack Massingbred.”


“You 'll see by the papers that I have accepted the Chiltern Hundreds.
This is the first step.--now for the second!”



CHAPTER XXXIII. A DINNER AT “THE LODGE”

While the “Morning Post” of a certain day, some twenty years ago,
was chronicling the illustrious guests who partook of his Majesty's
hospitalities at Windsor, the “Dublin Evening Mail,” under the less
pretentious heading of “Viceregal Court,” gave a list of those who had
dined with his Excellency at the Lodge.

There was not anything very striking or very new in the announcement.
Our _dramatis personæ,_ in this wise, are limited; and after the
accustomed names of the Lord Chancellor and Mrs. Dobbs, the Master of
the Rolls and Mrs. Wiggins, Colonel Somebody of the 105th, Sir Felix
and Miss Slasher, you invariably find the catalogue close with an
un-der-secretary, a king-at-arms, and the inevitable Captain Lawrence
Belcour, the aide-de-camp in waiting!--these latter recorded somewhat in
the same spirit that the manager of a provincial theatre swells the roll
of his company, by the names of the machinist, the scene-painter, and
the leader of the band! We have no peculiar concern, however, with this
fact, save that on the day in question our old friend Joseph Nelligan
figured as a vice-regal guest. It was the first time he had been so
honored, and, although not of a stamp to attach any great prize to the
distinction, he was well aware that the recognition was intended as an
honor; the more, when an aide-de-camp signified to him that his place at
table was on one side of his Excellency.

When this veracious history first displayed young Nelligan at a
dinner-party, his manner was shy and constrained; his secluded,
student-like habits had given him none of that hardihood so essential in
society. If he knew little of passing topics, he knew less of the tone
men used in discussing them; and now, although more conversant with
the world and its ways, daily brought into contact with the business of
life, his social manner remained pretty nearly the same cold, awkward,
and diffident thing it had been at first. Enlist him in a great subject,
or call upon him on a great occasion, and he could rise above it; place
him in a position to escape notice, and you never heard more of him.

The dinner company on this day contained nothing very formidable, either
on the score of station or ability,--a few bar celebrities with their
wives, an eccentric dean with a daughter, a garrison colonel or two,
three country squires, and a doctor from Merrion Square. It was that
interregnal period between the time when the castle parties included
the first gentry of the land, and that later era when the priest and
the agitator became the favored guests of vice-royalty. It is scarce
necessary to say it was, as regards agreeability, inferior to either.
There was not the courtly urbanity and polished pleasantry of a very
accomplished class; nor was there the shrewd and coarse but racy
intelligence of Mr. O'Connell's followers.

The Marquis of Reckington had come over to Ireland to “inaugurate,” as
the newspapers called it, a new policy; that is, he was to give to the
working of the relief bill an extension and a significance which few
either of its supporters or opposers in Parliament ever contemplated.
The inequality of the Romanist before the law he might have borne;
social depreciation was a heavier evil, and one quite intolerable. Now,
as the change to the new system required considerable tact and address,
they intrusted the task to a most accomplished and well-bred gentleman;
and were Ireland only to be won by dinner-parties, Lord Reckington must
have been its victor.

To very high rank and great personal advantages he united a manner of
the most perfect kind. Dignified enough always to mark his station and
his own consciousness of it, it was cordial without effort, frank
and easy without display. If he could speak with all the weight of
authority, he knew how to listen with actual deference; and there
was that amount of change and “play” in his demeanor that made his
companion, whoever for the moment he might be, believe that his views
and arguments had made a deep impression on the Viceroy. To those
unacquainted with such men, and the school to which they belong, there
might have appeared something unreal, almost dramatic, in the elegant
gracefulness of his bow, the gentle affability of his smile, the
undeviating courtesy which he bestowed on all around him; but they were
all of the man himself,--his very instincts,--his nature.

It had apparently been amongst his Excellency's instructions from his
government to seek out such rising men of the Roman Catholic party as
might be elevated and promoted on the just claims of their individual
merits,--men, in fact, whose conduct and bearing would be certain to
justify their selection for high office. It could not be supposed that
a party long proscribed, long estranged from all participation in power,
could be rich in such qualifications. At the bar, the ablest men usually
threw themselves into the career of politics, and of course by strong
partisanship more or less prejudiced their claims to office. It was
rare indeed to find one who, with the highest order of abilities, was
satisfied to follow a profession whose best rewards were denied him.
Such was Joseph Nelligan when he was first “called,” and such he
continued to the very hour we now see him. Great as had been his
college successes, his triumphs at the bar overtopped them all. They who
remembered his shy and reserved manner wondered whence he came by his
dignity; they who knew his youth could not imagine how he came by his
“law.”

Mr. M'Casky, the castle law-adviser, an old recruiting-serjeant of
capacities, who had “tipped the shilling” to men of every party, had
whispered his name to the Under-Secretary, who had again repeated it to
the Viceroy. He was, as M'Casky said, “the man they wanted, with talent
enough to confront the best of the opposite party, and wealthy enough to
want nothing that can figure in a budget.” Hence was he, then, there a
favored guest, and seated on his Excellency's left hand.

For the magic influence of that manner which we have mentioned as
pertaining to the Viceroy, we ask for no better evidence than the sense
of perfect ease which Joe Nelligan now enjoyed. The _suave_ dignity
of the Marquis was blended with a something like personal regard, a
mysterious intimation that seemed to say, “This is the sort of man I
have long been looking for; how gratifying that I should have found him
at last!” They concurred in so many points, too, not merely in opinions,
but actually in the very expressions by which they characterized them;
and when at last his Excellency, having occasion to quote something he
had said, called him “Nelligan,” the spell was complete.

Oh dear! when we torture our brains to legislate for apothecaries,
endeavoring in some way or other to restrict the sale of those subtle
ingredients on every grain or drop of which a human life may hang,
why do we never think of those far more subtle elements of which great
people are the dispensers,--flatteries more soothing than chloroform,
smiles more lulling than poppy-juice! Imagine poor Nelligan under a
course of this treatment, dear reader; fancy the delicious poison as
it insinuates itself through his veins, and if you have ever been so
drugged yourself, picture to your mind all the enjoyment he experienced.

By one of those adroit turns your social magician is master of, the
Viceroy had drawn the conversation towards Nelligan's county and his
native town.

“I was to have paid a visit to poor Martin there,” said he, “and I
certainly should have looked in upon _you_.”

Nelligan's cheek was in a flame; pride and shame were both there,
warring for the mastery.

“Poor fellow!” said his Excellency, who saw the necessity of a
diversion, “I fear that he has left that immense estate greatly
embarrassed. Some one mentioned to me, the other day, that the heir will
not succeed to even a fourth of the old property.”

“I have heard even worse, my Lord,” said Nelligan. “There is a rumor
that he is left without a shilling.”

“How very shocking! They are connections of my own!” said the Viceroy;
as though what he said made the misery attain its climax.

“I am aware, my Lord, that Lady Dorothea is related to your Excellency,
and I am surprised you have not heard the stories I allude to.”

“But perhaps I am incorrect,” said the Marquis. “It may be that I _have_
heard them; so many things pass through one's ears every day. But here
is Colonel Mas-singbred; he 's sure to know it. Massingbred, we want
some news of the Martins--the Martins of--what is it called?”

“Cro' Martin, my Lord,” said Nelligan, reddening.

“I hold the very latest news of that county in my hand, my Lord,”
 replied the Secretary. “It is an express from my son, who writes from
Oughterard.”

Nelligan stood, scarcely breathing, with impatience to hear the tidings.

Colonel Massingbred ran his eyes over the first page of the letter,
murmuring to himself the words; then turning over, he said: “Yes, here
it is,--'While I write this, the whole town is in a state of intense
excitement; the magistrates have sent in for an increased force of
police, and even soldiery, to repress some very serious disturbances on
the Martin property. It would appear that Merl--the man who assumes
to claim the property, as having purchased the reversion from young
Martin--was set upon by a large mob, and pursued, himself and his
friends, for several miles across the country. They escaped with their
lives, but have arrived here in a lamentable plight. There is really no
understanding these people. It was but the other day, and there was no
surer road to their favor than to abuse and vilify these same Martins,
and now they are quite ready to murder any one who aspires to take
their place. If one was to credit the stories afloat, they have already
wreaked a fatal vengeance on some fellows employed by Merl to serve
notices on the tenantry; but I believe that the outrages have really
gone no further than such maltreatment as Irishmen like to give, and are
accustomed to take.'”

Here his Excellency laughed heartily, and Joe Nelligan looked grave.

Massingbred read on: “'Without being myself a witness to it, I never
could have credited the almost feudal attachment of these people to
an “Old House.” The Radical party in the borough are, for the moment,
proscribed, and dare not show themselves in the streets; and even
Magennis, who so lately figured as an enemy to the Martins, passed
through the town this morning with his wife, with a great banner flying
over his jaunting-car, inscribed “The Martins for Ever!” This burst of
sentiment on his part, I ought to mention, was owing to a most devoted
piece of heroism performed by Miss Martin, who sought out the lost one
and brought her safely back, through a night of such storm and hurricane
as few ever remember. Such an act, amidst such a people, is sure of its
reward. The peasantry would, to a man, lay down their lives for her; and
coming critically, as the incident did, just when a new proprietor
was about to enforce his claim, you can fancy the added bitterness
it imparted to their spirit of resistance. I sincerely trust that the
magistrates will not accede to the demand for an increased force. A
terrible collision is sure to be the result, and I know enough of
these people to be aware of what can be done by a little diplomacy,
particularly when the right negotiator is employed. I mean, therefore,
to go over and speak to Mr. Nelligan, who is the only man of brains
amongst the magistrates here.'”

“A relative, I presume,” said his Excellency.

“My father, my Lord,” replied Joe, blushing.

“Oh! here is the result of his interview,” said Massing-bred, turning to
the foot of the page. “'Nelligan quite agreed in the view I had taken,
and said the people would assuredly disarm and perhaps destroy any force
we could send against them. He is greatly puzzled what course to adopt;
and when I suggested the propriety of invoking Miss Martin's aid, told
me that this is out of the question, since she is on a sick-bed. While
we were speaking, a Dublin physician passed through on his way to visit
her. This really does add to the complication, for she is, perhaps, the
only one who could exert a great influence over the excited populace. In
any other country it might read strangely, that it was to a young lady
men should have recourse in a moment of such peril; but this is like no
other country, the people like no other people, the young lady herself,
perhaps, like no other young lady!'”

By a scarcely perceptible movement of his head, and a very slight change
of voice, Colonel Massingbred intimated to the Viceroy that there was
something for his private ear, and Lord Reckington stepped back to hear
it. Nelligan, too deeply occupied in his own thoughts to remark the
circumstance, stood in the same place, silent and motionless.

“It is to this passage,” whispered the Secretary, “I want to direct your
Excellency's attention: 'All that I see here,' my son writes,--'all that
I see here is a type of what is going on, at large, over the island. Old
families uprooted, old ties severed; the people, with no other instinct
than lawlessness, hesitating which side to take. Their old leaders, only
bent upon the political, have forgotten the social struggle, and
thus the masses are left without guidance or direction. It is my firm
conviction that the Church of Rome will seize the happy moment to usurp
an authority thus unclaimed, and the priest step in between the landlord
and the demagogue; and it is equally my belief that you can only retard,
not prevent, this consummation. If you should be of _my_ opinion, and
be able to induce his Excellency to think with us, act promptly and
decisively. Enlist the Roman Catholic laity in your cause before you
be driven to the harder compact of having to deal with the clergy. And
first of all, make--for fortunately you have the vacancy,--make young
Nelligan your solicitor-general.'”

The Viceroy gave a slight start, and smiled. He had not, as yet,
accustomed his mind to such bold exercise of his patronage. He lived,
however, to get over this sensation.

“My son,” resumed Massingbred, “argues this at some length. If you
permit, I 'll leave the letter in your Excellency's hands. In fact, I
read it very hurriedly, and came over here the moment I glanced my eyes
over this passage.”

His Excellency took the letter, and turned to address a word to Joe
Nelligan, but he had left the spot.

“Belcour,” said the Viceroy, “tell Mr. Nelligan I wish to speak to
him. I shall be in the small drawing-room. I 'll talk with him alone.
Massingbred, be ready to come when I shall send for you.”

The Viceroy sat alone by the fire, pondering over all he had heard.
There was, indeed, that to ponder over, even in the brief, vague
description of the writer. “The difficulties of Ireland,” as it was the
fashion of the day to call them, were not such as government commissions
discover, or blue books describe; they lay deeper than the legislative
lead-line ever reaches,--many a fathom down below statutes and Acts
of Parliament. They were in the instincts, the natures, the blood of a
people who had never acknowledged themselves a conquered nation. Perhaps
his Excellency lost himself in speculations, mazy and confused enough to
addle deeper heads. Perhaps he was puzzled to think how he could bring
the Cabinet to see these things, or the importance that pertained to
them; who knows? At all events, time glided on, and still he was alone.
At length the aide-de-camp appeared, and with an air of some confusion,
said,--“It would appear, my Lord, that Mr. Nelligan has gone away.”

“Why, he never said good-night; he did n't take leave of me!” said the
Viceroy, smiling.

The aide-de-camp slightly elevated his brows, as though to imply his
sense of what it might not have become him to characterize in words.

“Very strange, indeed!” repeated his Excellency; “is n't it, Belcour?”

“Very strange, indeed, your Excellency,” said the other, bowing.

“There could have been no disrespect in it,” said his Lordship,
good-humoredly; “of _that_ I'm quite certain. Send Colonel Massingbred
here.”

“He's gone off, Massingbred,” said the Viceroy, as the other appeared.

“So I have just learned, my Lord. I conclude he was not aware--that he
was unacquainted with--”

“Oh, of course, Massingbred,” broke in the Viceroy, laughing, “the fault
is all with my predecessors in office; they never invited these men
as they ought to have done. Have you sounded M'Casky as to the
appointment?”

“Yes, my Lord; he thinks 'we might do worse.'”

“A qualified approval, certainly. Perhaps he meant we might select
himself!”

“I rather opine, my Lord, that he regards Nelligan's promotion as likely
to give offence to Mr. O'Connell, unless that he be himself consulted
upon it.”

“Then comes the question, Who is it governs this country, Colonel
Massingbred?” said the Marquis; and for the first time a flash of
angry meaning darkened his cheeks. “If I be here,”--he stopped and
hesitated,--“if you and I be here only to ratify appointments made by
irresponsible individuals,--if we hold the reins of power only to
be told where we 're to drive to,--I must own the office is not very
dignified, nor am I patient enough to think it endurable.”

“M'Casky only suggested that it might be advisable to see O'Connell
on the subject, not, as it were, to pass him over in conferring the
appointment.”

“I cannot at all concur in this view, Massingbred,” said the Marquis,
proudly; “there could be no such humiliation in the world as a patronage
administered in this wise. Write to Nelligan; write to him to-night. Say
that his abrupt departure alone prevented my making to him personally
the offer of the solicitorship; add that you have my directions to place
the office in his hands, and express a strong wish, on your own part,
that he may not decline it.”

Massingbred bowed in acquiescence, and after a pause his Excellency went
on:--

“There would be no objection to your adding something to the effect that
my selection of him was prompted by motives in which party has no share;
that his acknowledged eminence at the bar,--a character to which even
political opponents bear honorable testimony,--in fact, Massingbred,”
 added he, impatiently, “if the appointment should come to be questioned
in the House, let us have it on record that we made it solely on motives
directed to the public service. You understand me?”

“I think so, my Lord,” said Massingbred, and withdrew.

If it were not that other cares and other interests call us away,
we would gladly linger a little longer to speculate on the Viceroy's
thoughts as he reseated himself by the fire. His brow was overcast and
his features clouded. Was it that he felt he had entered the lists, and
thrown down the glove to a strong and resolute opponent? Had he before
him a vista of the terrible conflict between expediency and honor that
was soon to be his fate? Had he his doubts as to the support his own
Cabinet would afford him? Was his pride the ruling sentiment of the
moment, or did there enter into his calculations the subtle hope of all
the eager expectancy this appointment would create, all the disposable
venality it would lay at his discretion? Who can answer these questions?
who solve these doubts? Is it not very possible that his mind wandered
amidst them all? Is it not more than likely that they passed in review
before him? for when he rejoined his company his manner was more absent,
his courtesy less easy than usual.

At length Mr. M'Casky came forward to say goodnight.

“Colonel Massingbred has told you of those disturbances in the West, has
he not?” asked the Viceroy.

“Yes, my Lord,” replied the other.

“And what opinion--what advice did you give?”

“To let matters alone, my Lord; to be always a little behind time,
particularly in sending a force. 'Never despatch the police to quell
a riot,' said John Toler, 'unless one of the factions be completely
beaten, otherwise you 'll have them both on your back;' and I assure
your Excellency, Ireland has been very successfully governed under that
maxim for years past.”

“Thank you, M'Casky; thank you for the advice,” said his Excellency,
laughing, and wished him good-night.



CHAPTER XXXIV. AN HONORED GUEST

It was a time of unusual stir and bustle at the Martin Arms; the house
was crammed with company. Messengers--some mounted, others on foot--came
and went at every moment; horses stood ready saddled and harnessed in
the stables, in waiting for any emergency; in fact, there was a degree
of movement and animation only second to that of a contested election.
In the midst of this confusion a chaise with four smoking posters drew
up at the door, and a sharp, clear voice called out,--“Morrissy, are my
rooms ready?”

“No, indeed, Mr. Repton,” stammered out the abashed landlord; “the house
is full; there's not a spot in it to put a child in.”

“You got my letter, I suppose?” said Repton, angrily.

“I did, sir, but it was too late; the whole house was engaged by
Mr. Scanlan, and the same evening the company arrived in two
coaches-and-four.”

“And who is the precious company you speak of?”

“Mr. Merl, sir,” said the other, dropping his voice to a whisper, “the
new owner of Cro' Martin; he's here, with two or three great lawyers and
one or two of his friends. They came down to serve the notices and give
warning--”

“Well, what is to be done? where can I be accommodated?” broke in
Repton, hastily. “Isn't Mr. Massing-bred in the house?”

“No, sir, he had to move out, too; but, sure enough, he left a bit of a
note for you in the bar.” And he hastened off at once to fetch it.

Repton broke open the seal impatiently, and read:--

“My dear Mr. Repton,--I regret that you 'll find the inn full on your
arrival; they turned me out yesterday to make room for Mr. Merl and his
followers. Happily, Mr. Nelligan heard of my destitution, and offered me
a quarter at his house. He also desires me to say that he will deem it
a very great favor if you will accept the shelter of his roof, and in
hopeful anticipation of your consenting, he will wait dinner for your
arrival. From my own knowledge, I can safely assure you that the offer
is made in a spirit of true hospitality, and I sincerely wish that you
may accept it.

“Yours very faithfully,

“J. Massingbred.”


“Where does Mr. Nelligan live?” asked Repton, as he refolded the letter.

“Just across the street, sir. There it is.”

“Set me down there, then,” said Repton. And the next moment he was at
Nelligan's door.

“This is a very great honor, sir,” said old Dan, as he appeared in a
suit of decorous black. “It is, indeed, a proud day that gives me the
pleasure of seeing you here.”

“My dear sir, if you had no other distinction than being the father of
Joseph Nelligan, the honor and the pride lie all in the opposite scale.
I am sincerely glad to be your guest, and to know you where every true
Irishman is seen to the greatest advantage,--at the head of his own
board.”

While Nelligan conducted his guest to his room, he mentioned that
Massingbred had ridden over to Cro' Martin early in the morning, but
would be certainly back for dinner.

“And what 's the news of Miss Martin? Is she better?”

“They say not, sir. The last accounts are far from favorable.”

“Sir Henry Laurie saw her, did n't he?”

“Yes, sir; he passed all Sunday here, and only returned to town
yesterday. He spoke doubtfully,--I might even say, gloomily. He said,
however, that we cannot know anything for certain before Friday or,
perhaps, Saturday.”

“It is fever, then?”

“Yes, he told my wife, the worst character of typhus.”

“Brought on, as I've been told, by exposure to wet and cold on that
night at sea. Is n't that the case?”

“I believe so. Mrs. Nelligan went over the next morning to the cottage.
She had heard of poor Mr. Martin's death, and thought she might be
of some use to Miss Mary; but when she arrived, it was to find her in
fever, talking wildly, and insisting that she must be up and away to
Kyle-a-Noe to look after a poor sick family there.”

“Has Mrs. Nelligan seen her since that?”

“She never left her,--never quitted her. She relieves Henderson's
daughter in watching beside her bed; for the old housekeeper is quite
too infirm to bear the fatigue.”

“What a sad change has come over this little spot, and in so brief
a space too! It seems just like yesterday that I was a guest at Cro'
Martin,--poor Martin himself so happy and light-hearted; his dear girl,
as he called her, full of life and spirits. Your son was there the night
I speak of. I remember it well, for the madcap girls would make a fool
of me, and insisted on my singing them a song; and I shall not readily
forget the shame my compliance inflicted on my learned brother's face.”

“Joe told me of it afterwards.”

“Ah, he told you, did he? He doubtless remarked with asperity on the
little sense of my own dignity I possessed?”

“On the contrary, sir, he said, 'Great as are Mr. Rep-ton's gifts, and
brilliant as are his acquirements, I envy him more the happy buoyancy of
his nature than all his other qualities.'”

“He's a fine fellow, and it was a generous speech; not but I will be
vain enough to say he was right,--ay, sir, perfectly right. Of all the
blessings that pertain to temperament, there is not one to compare with
the spirit that renews in an old man the racy enjoyment of youth, keeps
his heart fresh and his mind hopeful. With these, age brings no terrors.
I shall be seventy-five, sir, if I live to the second of next month, and
I have not lived long enough to dull the enjoyment life affords me, nor
diminish the pleasure my heart derives upon hearing of a noble action or
a generous sentiment.”

Nelligan gazed at the speaker in mingled astonishment and admiration.
Somehow, it was not altogether the man he had expected; but he was far
from being disappointed at the difference. The Valentine Repton of his
imagination was a crafty pleader, a subtle cross-examiner, an ingenious
flatterer of juries; but he was not a man whose nature was assailable by
anything “not found in the books.”

Now, though Nelligan was himself essentially a worldly man, he was
touched by these traits of one whom he had regarded as a hardened old
lawyer, distrustful and suspicious.

“Ay, sir,” said Repton, as, leaning on the other's arm, he entered the
drawing-room, “a wiser man than either of us has left it on record, that
after a long life and much experience of the world, he met far more of
good and noble qualities in mankind than of their opposite. Take my word
for it, whenever we are inclined to the contrary opinion, the fault lies
with ourselves.”

While they sat awaiting Massingbred's return, a servant entered with a
note, which Nelligan, having read, handed over to Repton. It was very
brief, and ran thus:--

“My dear Mr. Nelligan,--Forgive my not appearing at dinner, and make my
excuses to Mr. Repton, if he be with you, for I have just fallen in
with Magennis, who insists on carrying me off to Barnagheela. You can
understand, I 'm sure, that there are reasons why I could not well
decline this invitation. Meanwhile, till to-morrow, at breakfast,

“I am yours,

“Jack Massingbred.”


If there was a little constraint on Nelligan's part at finding himself
alone to do the honors to his distinguished guest, the feeling soon wore
away, and a frank, hearty confidence was soon established between these
two men, who up to the present moment had been following very different
roads in life. Apart from a lurking soreness, the remnants of long-past
bitterness, Nelligan's political opinions were fair and moderate, and
agreed with Repton's now to a great extent. His views as to the people,
their habits and their natures, were also strikingly just and true. He
was not over-hopeful, nor was he despondent; too acute an observer to
refer their faults to any single source, he regarded their complex,
intricate characters as the consequence of many causes, the issue of
many struggles. There was about all he said the calm judgment of a man
desirous of truth; and yet, when he came to speak of the higher classes,
the great country gentry, he displayed prejudices and mistakes
quite incredible in one of his discernment. The old grudge of social
disqualification had eaten deep into his heart, and, as Repton saw, it
would take at least two generations of men, well-to-do and successful,
to eradicate the sentiment.

Nelligan was quick enough to see that these opinions of his were not
shared by his guest, and said, “I cannot expect, Mr. Repton, that you
will join me in these views; you have seen these people always as an
equal, if not their superior; they met _you_ with their best faces and
sweetest flatteries. Not so with us. They draw a line, as though to say,
go on: make your fortunes; purchase estates; educate your children;
send them to the universities with our own; teach them our ways, our
instincts, our manners, and yet, at the end of all, you shall remain
exactly where you began. You shall never be 'of us.'”

“I am happy to say that I disagree with you,” said Repton; “I am a much
older man than you, and I can draw, therefore, on a longer experience.
Now the change that I myself have seen come over the tone and temper of
the world since I was a boy is far more marvellous to me than all the
new-fangled discoveries around us in steam and electricity. Why, sir,
the man who now addresses you, born of an ancient stock, as good blood
as any untitled gentleman of the land, was treated once as Jack Cade
might be in a London drawing-room. The repute of liberal notions or
politics at that day stamped you as a democrat and atheist If you sided
with a popular measure, you were deemed capable of all the crimes of a
'Danton.'

“Do I not remember it!--Ay, as a student, young, ardent, and
high-hearted, when I was summoned before the visitors of the university,
and sternly asked by the dark-browed Lord Chancellor if I belonged to
a society called the 'Friends of Ireland,' and on my acknowledging the
fact, without inquiry, without examination, deprived of my scholarship,
and sent back to my chambers, admonished to be more cautious, and
menaced with expulsion. I had very little to live on in those days;
my family had suffered great losses in fortune, and I disliked to be a
burden to them. I took pupils, therefore, to assist me in my support.
The Vice-Provost stepped in, however, and interdicted this. 'Young men,'
he said, 'ran a greater chance of coming out of my hands followers of
Paine than disciples of Newton.' I starved on till I was called to the
bar. There fresh insults and mortifications met me. My name on a brief
seemed a signal for a field-day against Jacobinism and infidelity. The
very bench forgot its dignity in its zeal. I remember well one day,
when, stung and maddened by these outrages, I so far forgot myself as
to reply, and the Court of King's Bench was closed against me for
twelve long years,--ay, till I came back to it as the first man in my
profession. It was a trumpery cause,--I forget what; a suit about some
petty bill of exchange. I disputed the evidence, and sought to show its
invalidity. The Chief Justice stopped me, and said, 'The Court is aware
of the point on which you rely; we have known evidence of this nature
admitted in cases of trial for treason,--cases with which Mr. Repton, we
know, is very familiar. I stopped; my blood boiled with indignation,
my temples throbbed to bursting, to be thus singled out amongst my
brethren--before the public--as a mark of scorn and reprobation. 'It is
true, my Lord,' said I, with a slow, measured utterance, 'I am familiar
with such cases. Who is there in this unhappy land that is not? I am
aware, too, that if I stood in that dock arraigned on such a charge,
your Lordship would rule that this evidence was admissible; you would
charge against me, sentence, and hang me; but the present is an action
for eleven pounds ten, and, therefore, I trust to your Lordship's lenity
and mercy to reject it.'

“That reply, sir, cost me twelve years of exile from the court wherein I
uttered it. Those were times when the brow-beating judge could crush
the bar; nor were the jury always safe in the sanctuary of the jury-box.
Now, such abuses are no longer in existence; and if we have made no
other stride in progress, even that is considerable.”

“In all that regards the law and its administration, I am sure you are
correct, sir,” said Nelligan, submissively.

“At the period I speak of,” resumed Repton, who now was only following
out his own thoughts and reminiscences, “the judges were little else
than prefects, administering the country through the channel of the
penal code, and the jury a set of vulgar partisans, who wielded the
power of a verdict with all the caprice of a faction; and as to their
ignorance, why, sir, Crookshank, who afterwards sat on the bench, used
to tell of a trial for murder at Kells, where the 'murdered man' was two
hours under cross-examination on the table! Yes, but that is not all;
the jury retired to deliberate, and came out at length with a verdict of
'manslaughter,' as the prisoner was 'a bad fellow, and had once stolen a
saddle from the foreman.' You talk of law and civilization; why, I tell
you, sir, that the barbaric code of the red man is a higher agent
of enlightenment than the boasted institutions of England, when thus
perverted and degraded. No, no, Mr. Nelligan, it may be a fine theme
for declamation, there may be grand descriptive capabilities about the
Ireland of sixty or seventy years ago, but be assured, it was a social
chaos of the worst kind; and as a maxim, sir, remember, that the
inhabitants of a country are never so much to be pitied as when the
aspect of their social condition is picturesque!”

Repton fell into a musing fit when he had finished these observations,
and Nelligan felt too much deference for his guest to disturb him,
and they sat thus silent for some time, when the old lawyer suddenly
arousing himself, said,--“What's all this I hear about disturbances, and
attacks on the police, down here?”

“There's nothing political in it,” rejoined Nelligan. “It was resistance
offered by the people to the service of certain notices on the part of
this London Jew--Merl, I think they call him.”

“Yes, that's the name,” quickly responded Repton. “You are aware of the
circumstances under which he claims the estate?”

“I had it from Brierley, who was told by Scanlan, that he purchased, or
rather won at play, the entire and sole reversion.”

Repton nodded.

“And such is a legal compact, I presume?” said Nelligan.

“If the immoral obligation be well concealed in the negotiation, I don't
see how it is to be broken. The law, sir,” added he, solemnly, “never
undertakes the charge of fools till a commission be taken out in their
behalf! This young fellow's pleasure it was to squander his succession
to a princely estate, and he chanced to meet with one who could
appreciate his intentions.”

“Massingbred told me, however, that some arrangement, some compromise
was in contemplation; that Merl, knowing that to enforce his claim would
subject him to a trial and all its disclosures, had shown a disposition
to treat; in fact, Massingbred has already had an interview with him,
and but for Scanlan, who desires to push matters to extremity, the
affair might possibly be accommodated.”

“The Jew possibly sees, too, that an Irish succession is not a bloodless
triumph. He has been frightened, I have no doubt.”

“I believe so; they say he took to his bed the day he got back here, and
has never quitted it since. The people hunted them for four miles across
the country, and as Merl couldn't leap his horse over the walls, they
were several times nearly caught by the delay in making gaps for him.”

“I'd have given fifty pounds to be in at it,” broke out Repton.
Then suddenly remembering that the aspiration did not sound as very
dignified, he hemmed and corrected himself, saying, “It must, indeed,
have been a strange spectacle!”

“They started at Kyle's Wood, and ran them over the low grounds beside
Kelly's Mills, and then doubling, brought them along the foot of
Barnagheela Mountain, where, it seems, Magennis joined the chase; he was
fast closing with them when his gun burst, and rather damaged his hand.”

“He fired, then?”

[Illustration: 368]

“Yes, he put a heavy charge of slugs into Merl's horse as he was getting
through the mill-race, and the beast flung up and threw his rider into
the stream. Scanlan dismounted and gathered him up, discharging his
pistol at some country fellow who was rushing forward; they say the man
has lost an eye. They got off, however, and, gaining the shelter of the
Cro' Martin wood, they managed to escape at last, and reached this
about six o'clock, their clothes in tatters, their horses lamed, and
themselves lamentable objects of fatigue and exhaustion. Since that,
no one but the doctor has seen Merl, and Scanlan only goes out with an
escort of police.”

“All this sounds very like 'sixty years ago,'” said Repton, laughing.

“I'm afraid it does, and I half dread what the English newspapers may
say under the heading of 'Galway Barbarities.'”

“By Jove! I must say I like it; that is,” said Repton, hesitating and
confused, “I can see some palliation for the people in such an outburst
of generous but misdirected feeling. The old name has still its
spell for their hearts; and even superstitions, sir, are better than
incredulity!”

“But of what avail is all this? The law must and will be vindicated. It
may cost some lives, on the road, but Mr. Merl must reach his journey's
end, at last.”

“He may deem the sport, as I have known some men do tiger-hunting, not
worth the danger,” said Repton. “You and I, Mr. Nelligan, acclimated, as
I may say, to such incidents, would probably not decline the title to
an estate, whose first step in possession should be enforced by the
blunderbuss; but make the scene Africa, and say what extent of territory
would you accept of, on the compact of enforcing your claim against
the natives? Now, for all the purposes of argument, to this cockney's
appreciation, these countrymen of ours are Africans.”

“I can well understand his terror,” said Nelligan, thoughtfully. “I 'm
sure the yell that followed him through the gap of Kyle-a-Noe will ring
in his heart for many a day. It was there the pursuit was hottest. As
they came out, a stranger, who had been here during the winter,--a Mr.
Barry--”

“What of _him?_ What did _he_ do?” broke in Repton, with great
eagerness.

“He stood upon an old wall, and hurrahed the people on, calling out,
'Five gold guineas to the man who will hurl that fellow into the lake.'”

“He said that?” cried Repton.

“Yes, and waved his hat in encouragement to the mob! This was deposed in
evidence before the bench; and Scanlan's affidavit went on to say, that
when the temper of the people seemed to relent, and the ardor of
their pursuit to relax, this man's presence invariably rallied all the
energies of mischief, and excited the wildest passions of the populace.”

“Who or what is he supposed to be?” asked the lawyer.

“Some say, a returned convict,--a banker that was transported thirty
years ago for forgery; others, that he is Con O'Hara, that killed Major
Stackpoole in the famous duel at Bunratty Castle. Magennis swears that
he remembers the face well; at all events, there is a mystery about him,
and when he came into the shop below stairs--”

“Oh, then, you have seen him yourself?”

“Yes; he came in on Monday last, and asked for some glazed gunpowder,
and if we had bullets of a large mould to fit his pistols. They were
curiosities in their way; they were made in America, and had a bore
large as your thumb.”

“You had some conversation with him?”

“A few words about the country and the crops. He said he thought we had
good prospects for the wheat, and, if we should have a fine harvest,
a good winter was like to follow. Meaning that, with enough to eat, we
should have fewer outrages in the dark nights, and by that I knew he
was one acquainted with the country. I said as much, and then he turned
fiercely on me, and remarked, 'I never questioned you, sir, about your
hides and tallow and ten-penny nails, for they were _your_ affairs;
please, then, to pay the same deference to _me_ and _mine_.' And before
I could reply he was gone.”

“It was a rude speech,” said Repton, thoughtfully; “but many men are
morose from circumstances whose natures are full of kindliness and
gentleness.”

“It was precisely the impression this stranger made upon me. There was
that in his manner which implied a hard lot in life,--no small share of
the shadiest side of fortune; and even when his somewhat coarse rebuke
was uttered, I was more disposed to be angry with myself for being the
cause than with him who made it.”

“Where is he stopping just now?”

“At Kilkieran, I have heard; but he has been repeatedly back and forward
in the town here during the week, though for the last few days I have
not seen him. Perhaps he has heard of Scanlan's intention to summons
him for aiding and abetting an assault, and has kept out of the way in
consequence.”

“_He_ keep out of the way!” cried Repton; “you never mistook a man more
in your life!”

“You are acquainted with him, then?” said Nelligan, in amazement.

“That am I, sir. No one knows him better, and on my knowledge of the man
it was that I apologized for his incivility to yourself. If I cannot
say more, Mr. Nelligan, it is not because I have any mistrust in your
confidence, but that my friend's secret is, in his own charge, and only
to be revealed at his own pleasure.”

“I wish you would tell him that I never meant to play the spy upon
him,--that my remark was a merely chance observation--”

“I promise you to do so,” broke in Repton. “I promise you still more,
that before he leaves this you shall have an apology from his own lips
for his accidental rudeness; nay, two men that would know how to respect
each other should never part under even a passing misunderstanding. It
is an old theory of mine, Mr. Nelligan, that good men's good opinions of
us form the pleasantest store of our reminiscences, and I 'd willingly
go a hundred miles to remove a misconception that might bring me back to
the esteem of an honorable heart, though I never were to set eyes again
on him who possessed it.”

“I like your theory well, sir,” said Nelligan, cordially.

“You 'll find the practice will reward you,” said Repton.

“I confess this stranger has inspired me with great curiosity.”

“I can well understand the feeling,” said Repton, musing. “It is with
men as with certain spots in landscape, there are chance glimpses which
suggest to us the fair scenes that lie beyond our view! Poor fellow!
poor fellow!” muttered he once or twice to himself; and then starting
abruptly, said, “You have made me so cordially welcome here that I
am going to profit by every privilege of a guest. I 'm going to say
good-night, for I have much before me on the morrow.”



CHAPTER XXXV. HOW DIPLOMACY FAILED

Repton was up at daybreak, and at his desk. Immense folios littered the
table, and even the floor around him, and the old lawyer sat amidst a
chaos that it was difficult to believe was only the growth of an hour or
two. All the intentness of his occupation, however, did not prevent him
hearing a well-known voice in the little stable-yard beneath his window,
and opening the sash he called out, “Mas-singbred, is that you?”

“Ah, Mr. Repton, are you stirring so early? I had not expected to see
you for at least two hours to come. May I join you?”

“By all means; at once,” was the answer. And the next moment they were
together. “Where's Barry? When did you see him last?” was Repton's first
question.

“For a moment, on Tuesday last; he came up here to learn if you had
arrived, or when you might be expected. He seemed disappointed when I
said not before the latter end of the week, and muttered something about
being too late. He seemed flurried and excited. I heard afterwards
that he had been somehow mixed up with that tumultuous assemblage that
resisted the police, and I offered to go back with him to Kilkieran, but
he stopped me short, saying, 'I am not at Kilkieran;' and so abruptly as
to show that my proposal was not acceptable. He then sat down and wrote
a short letter, which he desired me to give you on arriving; but to
deliver it with my own hand, as, if any reply were necessary, I should
be ready to carry it to him. This is the letter.”

Repton read it rapidly, and then, walking to the window, stood pondering
over the contents.

“You know this man Merl, don't you, Massingbred?” asked Repton.

“Yes, thoroughly.”

“The object of this letter is to try one last chance for an arrangement.
Barry suspects that the Jew's ambition for Irish proprietorship may have
been somewhat dashed by the experience of the last few days; that he
will be likely enough to weigh the advantages and disadvantages with a
juster appreciation than if he had never come here, and, if such be the
case, we are ready to meet with a fair and equitable offer. We'll repay
him all that he advanced in cash to young Martin, and all that he won
from him at play, if he surrender his reversionary claim. We'll ask no
questions as to how this loan was made, or how that debt incurred. It
shall be the briefest of all transactions,--a sum in simple addition,
and a check for the total.”

“He'll refuse,--flatly refuse it,” said Massingbred. “The very offer
will restore any confidence the last few days may have shaken; he'll
judge the matter like the shares of a stock that are quoted higher in
the market.”

“You think so?”

“I'm sure of it. I'm ashamed to say, Mr. Repton, that my knowledge of
the Herman Merl class may be greater than yours. It is the one solitary
point in the realm of information wherein I am probably your superior.”

“There are others, and of a very different order, in which I would
own you the master,” said Repton. “But to our case. Suppose,--a mere
supposition, if you like,--but suppose that it could be demonstrated to
Mr. Merl that his claim will be not only resisted, but defeated; that
the right on which he relies is valueless,--the deed not worth the
stamps it bears; that this offer is made to avoid a publicity and
exposure far more injurious to him than to those who now shrink from it.
What think you then?”

“Simply that he'd not believe it! He'd say, and many others would say,
'If the right lay so incontestably with these others, they 'd not give
some twenty thousand pounds to compromise what they could enforce for
the mere cost of a trial.'”

“Mr. Massingbred, too, would perhaps take the same view of the
transaction,” said Repton, half tartly.

“Not if Mr. Repton assured me that he backed the opposite opinion,” said
Jack, politely.

“I thank you heartily for that speech,” said the old man, as he grasped
the other's hand cordially; “you deserve, and shall have my fullest
confidence.”

“May I ask,” said Jack, “if this offer to buy off Merl be made in the
interest of the Martins, for otherwise I really see no great object, so
far as they are concerned, in the change of mastery?”

“You'll have to take _my_ word for that,” said Repton, “or rather, to
take the part I assume in this transaction as the evidence of it; and
now, as I see that you are satisfied, will you accept of the duty of
this negotiation? Will you see and speak with Merl? Urge upon him all
the arguments your own ingenuity will furnish, and when you come, if
you should be so driven, to the coercive category, and that you want
the siege artillery, then send for _me_. Depend upon it, it will be no
_brutum fulmen_ that I 'll bring up; nor will I, as Pelham said, fire
with 'government powder.' My cannon shall be inscribed, like those of
the old volunteers, independence or--”

At any other moment Jack might have smiled at the haughty air and
martial stride of the old man, as, stimulated by his words, he paced the
room; but there was a sincerity and a resolution about him that offered
no scope for ridicule. His very features wore a look of intrepidity that
bespoke the courage that animated him.

“Now, Massingbred,” said he, laying his hand on the young man's arm, “it
is only because I am not free to tell another man's secret that I do
not at once place you fully in possession of all I myself know of this
transaction; but rely on it, you shall be informed on every point, and
immediately after the issue of this negotiation with Merl, whatever be
the result, you shall stand on the same footing with myself.”

“You cannot suppose that I exact this confidence?” began Jack.

“I only know it is your due, sir,” said Repton. “Go now,--it is not too
early; see this man, and let the meeting be of the briefest, for if I
were to tell you my own mind, I'd say I'd rather he should reject our
offer.”

“You are, I own, a little incomprehensible this morning,” said
Massingbred, “but I am determined to yield you a blind obedience; and so
I'm off.”

“I 'll wait breakfast for you,” said Repton, as he reseated himself to
his work.

Repton requested Mr. Nelligan's permission to have his breakfast
served in his own room, and sat for a long time impatiently awaiting
Massingbred's return. He was at one time aroused by a noise below
stairs, but it was not the announcement of him he looked for; and he
walked anxiously to and fro in his chamber, each moment adding to the
uneasiness that he felt.

“Who was it that arrived half an hour ago?” asked he of the servant.

“Mr. Joe, sir, the counsellor, has just come from Dublin, and is at
breakfast with the master.”

“Ah! he 's come, is he? So much the better,” muttered Repton, “we may
want his calm, clear head to assist us here; not that we shall have to
fear a contest,--there is no enemy in the field,--and if there were,
Val Repton is ready to meet him!” And the old man crossed his arms, and
stood erect in all the consciousness of his undiminished vigor. “Here
he comes at last,--I know his step on the stair.” And he flung open the
door for Massingbred.

“I read failure in your flushed cheek, Massingbred; failure and anger
both, eh?”

Massingbred tried to smile. If there was any quality on which he
especially prided himself, it was the bland semblance of equanimity he
could assume in circumstances of difficulty and irritation. It was
his boast to be able to hide his most intense emotions at moments
of passion, and there was a period in which, indeed, he wielded this
acquirement. Of later times, however, he had grown more natural
and impulsive; he had not yet lost the sense of pain this yielding
occasioned, and it was with evident irritation that he found Repton had
read his thoughts.

“You perceive, then, that I am unsuccessful?” said he, with a faint
smile. “So much the better if my face betrays me; it will save a world
of explanation!”

“Make your report, sir, and I'll make the tea,” said Repton, as he
proceeded to that office.

“The fellow was in bed,--he refused to see me, and it was only by some
insistence that I succeeded in gaining admittance. He has had leeches
to his temples. He was bruised, it seems, when he fell, but far more
frightened than hurt. He looks the very picture of terror, and lies
with a perfect armory of pistols beside his bed. Scanlan was there,
and thought to remain during our interview; but I insisted on his
withdrawing, and he went. The amiable attorney, somehow, has a kind of
respect for me that is rather amusing. As for Merl, he broke out into a
vulgar tirade of passion, abused the country and the people, cursed the
hour he came amongst them, and said, if he only knew the nature of the
property before he made his investment, he 'd rather have purchased
Guatemala bonds, or Santa Fé securities.

“'Then I have come fortunately,' said I, 'for I bring you an offer to
reimburse all your outlay, and to rid you of a charge so little to your
inclination.'

“'Oh! you do, do you?' said he, with one of his cunningest leers.
'You may not be able, perhaps, to effect that bargain, though. It's one
thing to pay down a smart sum of money and wait your time for recovering
it, and it's another to surrender your compact when the hour of
acquisition has arrived. I bought this reversion--at least, I paid the
first instalment of the price--four years ago, when the late man's life
was worth twenty years' purchase. Well, he 's gone now, and do you think
that I 'm going to give up my claim for what it cost me?'

“I gently insinuated that the investigation of the claim might lead to
unpleasant revelations. There were various incidents of the play-table,
feasible and successful enough after a supper with champagne, and in the
short hours before day, which came off with an ill-grace on the table of
a court of justice, with three barons of the exchequer to witness them.
That I myself might prove an awkward evidence, if unhappily cited to
appear; that of my own knowledge I could mention three young fellows of
good fortune who had been drained to their last shilling in his company.
In fact, we were both remarkably candid with each other, and while _I_
reminded _him_ of some dark passages at _écarté, he_ brought to _my_
memory certain protested bills and dishonored notes that 'non jucundum
esset meminisse.' I must say, for both of us, we did the thing well, and
in good breeding; we told and listened to our several shortcomings with
a temper that might have graced a better cause, and I defy the world to
produce two men who could have exchanged the epithets of swindler and
scamp with more thorough calm and good manners. Unhappily, however, high
as one rises in his own esteem by such contests, he scarcely makes the
same ascent in that of his neighbor, and so we came, in our overflowing
frankness, to admit to each other more of our respective opinions than
amounts to flattery. I believe, and, indeed, I hope, I should have
maintained my temper to the end, had not the fellow pretty broadly
insinuated that some motive of personal advantage had prompted my
interference, and actually pushed his insolence so far as to insinuate
that 'I should make a better thing' by adhering to his fortunes.”

Repton started at these words, and Massingbred resumed: “True, upon my
honor; I exaggerate nothing. It was a gross outrage, and very difficult
to put up with; so I just expressed my sincere regret that instead of
being in bed he was not up and stirring, inasmuch as I should have tried
what change of air might have done for him, by pitching him out of the
window. He tugged violently at the bell-rope, as though I were about to
execute my menace, and so I left him. My diplomacy has, therefore, been
a sad failure. I only hope that I may not have increased the difficulty
of the case by my treatment of it.”

“You never thought of _me_ at all, then?” asked Repton.

“Never, till I was once more in the street; then I remembered something
of what you said about coercive means, but of what avail a mere menace?
This fellow is not new to such transactions,--he has gone through all
the phases of 'bulleydom.' Besides, there is a dash of Shylock in every
Jew that ever breathed. They will 'have their bond,' unless it can be
distinctly proved to them that the thing is impossible.”

“Now then for our breaching battery,” said Repton, rising and pacing
the room. “This attempt at a compromise never had any favor in my eyes;
Barry wished it, and I yielded. Now for a very different course. Can
you find a saddle-horse here? Well, then, be ready to set out in half an
hour, and search out Barry for me. He'll be found at Kilkieran, or the
neighborhood; say we must meet at once; arrange time and place for the
conference, and come back to me.”

Repton issued his directions with an air of command, and Massingbred
prepared as implicitly to obey them.

“Mr. Nelligan has lent me his own pad,” said Massingbred, entering soon
after, “and his son will accompany me, so that I am at your orders at
once.”

“There are your despatches,” said Repton, giving him a sealed packet.
“Let me see you here as soon as may be.”



CHAPTER XXXVI. A GREAT DISCOVERY

About an hour after Massingbred's departure for Kilkieran, Mr. Repton
set out for Cro' Martin Castle. The inn had furnished him its best
chaise and four of its primest horses; and had the old lawyer been
disposed to enjoy the pleasure which a great moralist has rated so
highly, of rapid motion through the air, he might have been gratified on
that occasion. Unhappily, however, he was not so minded. Many and very
serious cares pressed upon him. He was travelling a road, too, which he
had so often journeyed in high spirits, fancying to himself the pleasant
welcome before him, and even rehearsing to his own mind the stores of
agreeability he was to display,--and now it was to a deserted mansion,
lonely and desolate, he was turning! Death and ruin both had done their
work on that ancient family, whose very name in the land seemed already
hastening to oblivion!

Few men could resist the influence of depression better than Repton. It
was not alone that his temperament was still buoyant and energetic,
but the habits of his profession had taught him the necessity of being
prepared for emergencies, and he would have felt it a dereliction of
duty were his sentiments to overmaster his power of action.

Still, as he went along, the well-known features of the spot would
recall memories of the past. There lay a dense wood, of which he
remembered the very day, the very hour, poor Martin had commenced the
planting. There was the little trout-stream, where, under pretence
of fishing, he had lounged along the summer day, with Horace for his
companion; that, the school-house Mary had sketched, and built out of
her own pocket-money. And now the great massive gates slowly opened, and
they were within the demesne,--all silent and noiseless. As they came in
sight of the castle, Repton covered his face with his hands, and sat for
some minutes thus. Then, as if mastering his emotion, he raised his head
and folded his arms on his chest.

“You are true to time, I perceive, Dr. Leslie,” said he, as the chaise
stopped at the door and the venerable clergyman came forward to greet
him.

“I got your note last night, sir, but I determined not to keep you
waiting, for I perceive you say that time is precious now.”

“I thank you heartily,” said Repton, as he shook the other's hand. “I am
grateful to you also for being here to meet me, for I begin to feel my
courage fail me as to crossing that threshold again!”

“Age has its penalties as well as its blessings, sir,” said Leslie,
“and amongst these is to outlive those dear to us!” There was a painful
significance to his own desolate condition that made these words doubly
impressive.

Repton made no reply, but pulled the bell strongly; and the loud, deep
sounds rung out clearly through the silent house. After a brief interval
a small window above the door was opened, and a man with a blunderbuss
in his hand sternly demanded their business.

“Oh, I ax pardon, sir,” said he, as suddenly correcting himself. “I
thought it was that man that 's come to take the place,--'the Jew,'
they call him,--and Mr. Magennis said I was n't to let him in, or one
belonging to him.”

“No, Barney, we are not his friends,” said Dr. Leslie; “this is Mr.
Repton.”

“Sure I know the Counsellor well, sir,” said Barney. “I 'll be down in a
minute and open the door.”

“I must go to work at once,” said Repton, in a low and somewhat broken
voice, “or this place will be too much for me. Every step I go is
calling up old times and old scenes. I had thought my heart was
of sterner stuff. Isn't this the way to the library? No, not that
way,--that was poor Martin's own breakfast-room!” He spoke hurriedly,
like one who wished to suppress emotion by very activity of thought.


While the man who conducted them opened the window-shutters and the
windows, Repton and his companion sat down without speaking. At last he
withdrew, and Repton, rising, said,--“Some of the happiest hours of my
life were passed in this same room. I used to come up here after the
fatigues of circuit, and, throwing myself into one of those easy-chairs,
dream away for a day or two, gazing out on that bold mountain yonder,
above the trees, and wondering how those fellows who never relaxed, in
this wise, could sustain the wear and tear of life; for that junketing
to Harrow-gate, that rattling, noisy steamboating up the Rhine, that
Cockney heroism of Swiss travel, is my aversion. The calm forenoon
for thought, the pleasant dinner-table for genial enjoyment
afterwards,--these are true recreations. And what evenings we have had
here! But I must not dwell on these.” And now he threw upon the table a
mass of papers and letters, amongst which he sought out one, from which
he took a small key. “Dr. Leslie,” said he, “you might have been assured
that I have not called upon you to meet me to-day without a sufficient
reason. I know that, from certain causes, of which I am not well
informed, you were not on terms of much intimacy with my poor friend
here. This is not a time to think of these things; _you_, I am well
assured, will never remember them.”

Leslie made a motion of assent; and the other went on, his voice
gradually gaining in strength and fulness, and his whole manner by
degrees assuming the characteristic of the lawyer.

“To the few questions to which I will ask your answers, now, I have to
request all your attention. They are of great importance; they may, very
probably, be re-asked of you under more solemn circumstances; and I have
to bespeak, not alone all your accuracy for the replies, but that you
may be able, if asked, to state the manner and even the words in which
I now address you.--You have been the incumbent of this parish for a
length of time,--what number of years?”

“Sixty-three. I was appointed to the vicarage on my ordination, and
never held any other charge.”

“You knew the late Darcy Martin, father of the last proprietor of this
estate?”

“Intimately.”

“You baptized his two children, born at the same birth. State what you
remember of the circumstance.”

“I was sent for to the castle to give a private baptism to the two
infants, and requested that I would bring the vestry-book along with
me for the registration. I did so. The children were accordingly
christened, and their births duly registered and witnessed.”

“Can you remember the names by which they were called?”

“Not from the incident in question, though I know the names from
subsequent knowledge of them, as they grew up to manhood.”

“What means, if any, were adopted at the time to distinguish the
priority of birth?”

“The eldest was first baptized, and his birth specially entered in
the vestry-book as such; all the witnesses who signed the entry
corroborating the fact by special mention of it under their signature.
We also heard that the child wore a gold bracelet on one arm; but I did
not remark it.”

“You have this vestry-book in your keeping?”

“No; Mr. Martin retained it, with some object of more formal
registration. I repeatedly asked for it, but never could obtain it. At
length some coolness grew up between us, and I could not, or did not
wish to press my demand; and at last it lapsed entirely from my memory,
so that from that day I never saw it.”

“You could, however, recognize it, and be able to verify your
signature?”

“Certainly.”

“Was there, so far as you could see, any marked distinction made between
the children while yet young?”

“I can remember that at the age of three or four the eldest boy wore a
piece of red or blue ribbon on his sleeve; but any other mark I never
observed. They were treated, so far as I could perceive, precisely
alike; and their resemblance to each other was then so striking, it
would have been a matter of great nicety to distinguish them. Even
at school, I am told, mistakes constantly occurred, and one boy once
received the punishment incurred by the other.”

“As they grew up, you came to recognize the eldest by his name?”

“Yes. Old Mr. Darcy Martin used to take the elder boy more about with
him. He was then a child of ten or eleven years old. He was particular
in calling attention to him, saying, 'This fellow is to be my heir;
he 'll be the Martin of Cro' Martin yet'”

“And what name did the boy bear?”

“Godfrey,--Godfrey Martin. The second boy's name was Barry.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Quite sure. I have dined a number of times at the castle, when Godfrey
was called in after dinner, and the other boy was generally in disgrace;
and I could remark that his father spoke of him in a tone of irritation
and bitterness, which he did not employ towards the other.”

“Mr. Martin died before his sons came of age?”

“Yes; they were only nineteen at his death.”

“He made a will, I believe, to which you were a witness?”

“I was; but somehow the will was lost or mislaid, and it was only by
a letter to the Honorable Colonel Forbes, of Lisvally, that Martin's
intentions about appointing him guardian to his elder boy were
ascertained. I myself was named guardian to the second son, an office
of which he soon relieved me by going abroad, and never returned for a
number of years.”

“Godfrey Martin then succeeded to the estate in due course?”

“Yes, and we were very intimate for a time, till after his marriage,
when estrangement grew up between us, and at last we ceased to visit at
all.”

“Were the brothers supposed to be on good terms with each other?”

“I have heard two opposite versions on that subject. My own impression
was that Lady Dorothea disliked Barry Martin, who had made a marriage
that was considered beneath him; and then his brother was, from easiness
of disposition, gradually weaned of his old affection for him. Many
thought Barry, with all his faults, the better-hearted of the two.”

“Can you tell what ultimately became of this Barry Martin?”

“I only know, from common report, that after the death of his wife,
having given his infant child, a girl, in charge to his brother, he
engaged in the service of some of the Southern American Republics,
and is supposed yet to be living there,--some say in great affluence;
others, that he is utterly ruined by a failure in a mining speculation.
The last time I ever heard Godfrey speak of him was in terms of sincere
affection, adding the words, 'Poor Barry will befriend every one but
himself.'”

“So that he never returned?”

“I believe not; at least I never heard of it.”

“I have written down these questions and your answers to them,” said
Repton; “will you read them over, and if you find them correct, append
your signature. I am expecting Mr. Nelligan here, and I 'll go and see
if there be any sign of his arrival.”

Repton just reached the door as Mr. Nelligan drove up to it.

“All goes on well and promptly to-day,” said the old lawyer. “I have got
through a good deal of business already, and I expect to do as much more
ere evening sets in. I have asked you to be present, as a magistrate,
while I examine the contents of a certain closet in this house. I am led
to believe that very important documents are deposited there, and it is
in your presence, and that of Mr. Leslie, I purpose to make the inquiry.
Before I do so, however, I will entreat your attention to a number of
questions, and the answers to them, which will be read out to you. You
will then be in a better position to judge of any discovery which the
present investigation may reveal. All this sounds enigmatically enough,
Mr. Nelligan; but you will extend your patience to me for a short while,
and I hope to repay it.”

Nelligan bowed in silence, and followed him into the house.

“There,” said Mr. Leslie, “I have written my name to that paper; it is,
so far as I can see, perfectly correct.”

“Now, let me read it for Mr. Nelligan,” said Repton; and, without
further preface, recited aloud the contents of the document. “I
conclude, sir,” said he, as he finished, “that there is nothing in what
you have just heard very new or very strange to your ears. You knew
before that Darcy Martin had two sons; that they were twins; and that
one of them, Godfrey, inherited the estate. You may also have heard
something of the brother's history; more, perhaps, than is here alluded
to.”

“I have always heard him spoken of as a wild, reckless fellow, and that
it was a piece of special good fortune he was not born to the property,
or he had squandered every shilling of it,” said Nelligan.

“Yes,” said Leslie, “such was the character he bore.”

“That will do,” said Repton, rising. “Now, gentlemen, I'm about to
unlock this cabinet, and, if I be correctly informed, we shall find
the vestry-book with the entries spoken of by Mr. Leslie, and the long
missing will of Darcy Martin. Such, I repeat, are the objects I expect
to discover; and it is in your presence I proceed to this examination.”

In some astonishment at his words, the others followed him to the corner
of the room, where, half concealed in the wainscot, a small door was
at length discovered, unlocking which, Repton and the others entered a
little chamber, lighted by a narrow, loopholed window. Not stopping to
examine the shelves loaded with old documents and account-books, Repton
walked straight to a small ebony cabinet, on a bracket, opening which,
he drew forth a square vellum-bound book, with massive clasps.

“The old vestry-book. I know it well,” said Leslie.

“Here are the documents in parchment,” continued Repton, “and a sealed
paper. What are the lines in the corner, Mr. Nelligan,--your eyes are
better than mine?”

“'Agreement between Godfrey and Barry Martin. To be opened by whichever
shall survive the other.' The initials of each are underneath.”

“With this we have no concern,” said Repton; “our business lies with
these.” And he pointed to the vestry-book. “Let us look for the entry
you spoke of.”

“It is easily found,” said Leslie. “It was the last ever made in that
book. Here it is.” And he read aloud: “'February 8th, 1772. Privately
baptized, at Cro' Martin Castle, by me, Henry Leslie, Incumbent and
Vicar of the said parish, Barry and Godfrey, sons of Darcy Martin and
Eleanor his wife, both born on the fourth day of the aforesaid month;
and, for the better discrimination of their priority in age, it is
hereby added that Barry Martin is the elder, and Godfrey the second
son, to which fact the following are attesting witnesses: Michael Keirn,
house-steward; George Dorcas, butler; and Catharine Broon, maid of
still-room.'”

“Is that in your handwriting, sir?” asked Repton.

“Yes, every word of it, except the superscription of the witnesses.”

“Why, then it would appear that the eldest son never enjoyed his
rights,” cried Nelligan. “Is that possible?”

“It is the strict truth, sir,” said Repton. “The whole history of the
case adds one to the thousand instances of the miserable failures men
make who seek by the indulgence of their own caprices to obstruct the
decrees of Providence. Darcy Martin died in the belief that he had
so succeeded; and here, now, after more than half a century, are the
evidences which reverse his whole policy, and subvert all his plans.”

“But what could have been the object here?” asked Nelligan.

“Simply his preference for the younger-born. No sooner had the children
arrived at that time of life when dispositions display themselves, than
he singled out Godfrey as his favorite. He distinguished him in every
way, and as markedly showed that he felt little affection for the other.
Whether this favoritism, so openly expressed, had its influence on the
rest of the household, or that really they grew to believe that the
boy thus selected for peculiar honor was the heir, it would be very
difficult now to say. Each cause may have contributed its share; all we
know is, that when sent to Dr. Harley's school, at Oughterard, Godfrey
was called the elder, and distinguished as such by a bit of red ribbon
in his button-hole. And thus they grew up to youth and manhood,--the
one flattered, indulged, and caressed; the other equally depreciated and
undervalued. Men are, in a great measure, what others make them.
Godfrey became proud, indolent, and overbearing; Barry, reckless and a
spendthrift Darcy Martin died, and Godfrey succeeded him as matter of
course; while Barry, disposing of the small property bequeathed to him,
set out to seek adventures in the Spanish Main.

“I am not able to tell, had you even the patience to hear, of what
befell him there; the very strangest, wildest incidents are recorded
of his life, but they have no bearing on what we are now engaged in. He
came back, however, with a wife, to find his brother also married. This
is a period of his life of which little is known. The brothers did not
live well together. There were serious differences between them; and
Lady Dorothea's conduct towards her sister-in-law, needlessly cruel and
offensive, as I have heard, imbittered the relations between them.
At last Barry's wife died, it was said, of a broken heart, and Barry
arrived at Cro' Martin to deposit his infant child with his brother, and
take leave of home and country forever.

“Some incident of more than usual importance, and with circumstances
of no common pain, must now have occurred; for one night Barry left the
castle, vowing nevermore to enter it. Godfrey followed, and tried to
detain him. A scene ensued of entreaty on one side, and passionate
vehemence on the other, which brought some of the servants to the spot.
Godfrey imperiously ordered them away; they all obeyed but Catty. Catty
Broon followed Barry, and never quitted him that night, which he spent
walking up and down the long avenue of the demesne, watching and waiting
for daybreak. We can only conjecture what, in the violence of her grief
and indignation, this old attached follower of the house might have
revealed. Barry had always been her favorite of the two boys; she knew
his rights; she had never forgotten them. She could not tell by what
subtleties of law they had been transferred to another, but she felt in
her heart assured that in the sight of God they were sacred. How far,
then, she revealed this to him, or only hinted it, we have no means of
knowing. We can only say that, armed with a certain fact, Barry demanded
the next day a formal meeting with his brother and his sister-in-law. Of
what passed then and there, no record remains, save, possibly, in
that sealed packet; for it bears the date of that eventful morning.
I, however, am in a position to prove that Barry declared he would not
disturb the possession Godfrey was then enjoying. 'Make that poor
child,' said he, alluding to his little girl, your own daughter, and it
matters little what becomes of _me_.' Godfrey has more than once
adverted to this distressing scene to me. He told me how Lady Dorothea's
passion was such that she alternately inveighed against himself for
having betrayed her into a marriage beneath her, and abjectly implored
Barry not to expose them to the shame and disgrace of the whole world by
the assertion of his claim. From this she would burst out into fits of
open defiance of him, daring him as an impostor; in fact, Martin said,
'That morning has darkened my life forever; the shadow of it will be
over me to the last hour I live!' And so it was! Self-reproach never
left him: at one time, for his usurpation of what never was his; at
another, for the neglect of poor Mary, who was suffered to grow up
without any care of her education, or, indeed, of any attention whatever
bestowed upon her.

“I believe that, in spite of herself, Lady Dorothea visited the
dislike she bore Barry on his daughter. It was a sense of hate from the
consciousness of a wrong,--one of the bitterest sources of enmity!
At all events, she showed her little affection,--no tenderness. Poor
Godfrey did all that his weak and yielding nature would permit to repair
this injustice; his consciousness that to that girl's father he owed
position, fortune, station, everything, was ever rising up in his mind,
and urging him to some generous effort in her behalf. But you knew him;
you knew how a fatal indolence, a shrinking horror of whatever demanded
action or energy overcame all his better nature, and made him as
useless to all the exigencies of life as one whose heart was eaten up by
selfishness.

“The remainder of this sad story is told in very few words. Barry Martin,
from whom for several years before no tidings had been received, came
suddenly back to England. At first it had not been his intention to
revisit Ireland. There was something of magnanimity in the resolve to
stay away. He would not come back to impose upon his brother a renewal
of that lease of gratitude he derived from him; he would rather spare
him the inevitable conflict of feeling which the contrast of his own
affluence with the humble condition of an exile would evoke. Besides, he
was one of those men whom, whatever Nature may have disposed them to be,
the world has so crushed and hardened that they live rather to indulge
strong resentments and stern duties than to gratify warm affections.
Something he had accidentally heard in a coffee-room--the chance mention
by a traveller recently returned from Ireland--about a young lady of
rank and fortune whom he had met hunting her own harriers alone in the
wildest glen of Connemara, decided him to go over there, and, under the
name of Mr. Barry, to visit the scenes of his youth.

“I have but to tell you that it was in that dreary month of November,
when plague and famine came together upon us, that he saw this country;
the people dying on every side, the land until led, the very crops in
some places uncut, terror and dismay on every side, and they who alone
could have inspired confidence, or afforded aid, gone! Even Cro' Martin
was deserted,--worse than deserted; for one was left to struggle alone
against difficulties that the boldest and the bravest might have shrunk
from. Had Barry Martin been like any other man, he would at once have
placed himself at her side. It was a glorious occasion to have shown
her that she was not the lone and friendless orphan, but the loved and
cherished child of a doting father. But the hard, stern nature of the
man had other and very different impulses; and though he tracked her
from cottage to cottage, followed her in her lonely rambles, and watched
her in her daily duties, no impulse of affection ever moved him to call
her his daughter and bring her home to his heart. I know not whether it
was to afford him these occasions of meeting her, or really in a spirit
of benevolence, but he dispensed large sums in acts of charity among the
people, and Mary herself recounted to me, with tears of delight in her
eyes, the splendid generosity of this unknown stranger. I must hasten
on. An accident, the mere circumstance of a note-book dropped by some
strange chance in Barry's room, revealed to him the whole story of
Captain Martin's spendthrift life; he saw that this young man had
squandered away not only immense sums obtained by loans, but actually
bartered his own reversionary right to the entire estate for money
already lost at the gaming-table.

“Barry at once set out for Dublin to call upon me and declare himself;
but I was, unfortunately, absent at the assizes. He endeavored next to
see Scanlan. Scanlan was in London; he followed him there. To Scanlan he
represented himself as a money-lender, who, having come to the knowledge
of Merl's dealings with young Martin, and the perilous condition of the
property in consequence, offered his aid to re-purchase the reversion
while it was yet time. To effect this bargain, Scanlan hastened over to
Baden, accompanied by Barry, who, however, for secrecy' sake, remained
at a town in the neighborhood. Scanlan, it seems, resolved to profit
by an emergency so full of moment, and exacted from Lady Dorothea--for
Martin was then too ill to be consulted--the most advantageous terms for
himself. I need not mention one of the conditions,--a formal consent to
his marriage with Miss Martin! and this, remember, when that young lady
had not the slightest, vaguest suspicion that such an indignity could
be offered her, far less concurred in by her nearest relatives! In the
exuberance of his triumph, Scanlan showed the formal letter of assent
from Lady Dorothea to Barry. It was from this latter I had the account,
and I can give you no details, for all he said was, 'As I crushed it in
my hand, I clenched my fist to fell him to the ground! but I refrained.
I muttered a word or two, and got out into the street. I know very
little more.'

“That night he set out for Baden; but of his journey I know nothing. The
only hint of it he ever dropped was when, giving me this key, he said,
'I saw Godfrey.'

“He is now back here once more; come to insist upon his long unasserted
rights, and by a title so indisputable that it will leave no doubt of
the result.

“He is silent and uncommunicative; but he has said enough to show me
that he is possessed of evidence of the compact between Godfrey and
himself; nor is he the man to fail for lack of energy.

“I have now come to the end of this strange history, in which it is not
impossible you yourselves may be called to play a part, in confirmation
of what you have seen this day.”

“Then this was the same Mr. Barry of whom we spoke last night?” said
Nelligan, thoughtfully. “When about to describe him to you, I was really
going to say, something like what Mr. Martin might look, if ten years
older and white-haired.”

“There is a strong resemblance still!” said Repton, as he busied himself
sealing up the vestry-book and the other documents. “These I mean to
deposit in your keeping, Mr. Nelligan, till they be called for. I have
sent over Massingbred to Barry to learn what his wishes may be as to the
next legal steps; and now I am ready to return with you to Oughterard.”

Talking over this singular story, they reached the town, where
Massingbred had just arrived a short time before.

“I have had a long chase,” said Jack, “and only found him late in the
afternoon at the cottage.”

“You gave him the packet, then, and asked when we should meet?” asked
Repton, hurriedly.

“Yes; he was walking up and down before the door with the doctor, when
we rode up. He scarcely noticed us; and taking your letter in his hand
he placed it, without breaking the seal, on a seat in the porch. I then
gave him your message, and he seemed so lost in thought that I fancied
he had not attended to me. I was about to repeat it, when he interrupted
me, saying, 'I have heard you, sir; there is no answer.' As I stood
for a moment or two, uncertain what to do or say, I perceived that
Joe Nelligan, who had been speaking to the doctor, had just staggered
towards a bench, ill and fainting. 'Yes,' said Barry, turning his eyes
towards him, 'she is very--very ill; tell Repton so, and he 'll feel for
me!'”

Repton pressed his handkerchief to his face and turned away.

“I 'm afraid,” said Massingbred, “that her state is highly dangerous.
The few words the doctor dropped were full of serious meaning.”

“Let us hope, and pray,” said Repton, fervently, “that, amidst all the
calamities of this sorrow-struck land, it may be spared the loss of one
who never opened a cabin door without a blessing, nor closed it but to
shut a hope within.”



CHAPTER XXXVII. A DARK DAY

A mild, soft day, with low-lying clouds, and rich odors of wild-flowers
rising from the ground, a certain dreamy quiet pervading earth and sky
and sea, over which faint shadows lingered lazily; some drops of the
night dew still glittered on the feathery larches, and bluebells hung
down their heads, heavy with moisture; so still the scene that the plash
of the leaping trout could be heard as he rose in the dark stream. And
yet there was a vast multitude of people there. The whole surface of the
lawn that sloped from the cottage to the river was densely crowded, with
every age, from the oldest to very infancy; with all conditions, from
the well-clad peasant to the humblest “tramper” of the high-roads.
Weariness, exhaustion, and even hunger were depicted on many of their
faces. Some had passed the night there; others had come long distances,
faint and footsore; but as they sat, stood, or lay in groups around,
not a murmur, not a whisper escaped them; with aching eyes they looked
towards an open window, where the muslin curtain was gently stirred in
the faint air.

The tidings of Mary Martin's illness had spread rapidly: far-away glens
down the coast, lonely cabins on the bleak mountains, wild remote spots
out of human intercourse had heard the news, and their dwellers had
travelled many a mile to satisfy their aching hearts.

From a late hour of the evening before they had learnt nothing of her
state; then a few words whispered by old Catty to those nearest the door
told “that she was no better,--if anything, weaker!” These sad tidings
were soon passed from lip to lip; and thus they spent the night, praying
or watching wearily, their steadfast gaze directed towards that spot
where the object of all their fears and hopes lay suffering.

Of those there, there was scarcely one to whom she was not endeared by
some personal benefit. She had aided this one in distress, the other she
had nursed in fever; here were the old she had comforted and cheered,
there the children she had taught and trained beside her chair. Her
gentle voice yet vibrated in every heart, her ways of kindness were in
every memory. Sickness and sorrow were familiar enough to themselves.
Life was, at least to most of them, one long struggle; but they could
not bring themselves to think of _her_ thus stricken down! She! that
seemed an angel, as much above the casualties of such fortune as theirs
as she was their superior in station,--that _she_ should be sick and
suffering was too terrible to think of.

There was a stir and movement in the multitude, a wavy, surging motion,
for the doctor was seen to issue from the stable-yard, and lead his pony
towards the bridge. He stopped to say a word or two as he went. They
were sad words; and many a sobbing voice and many a tearful eye told
what his tidings had been. “Sinking,--sinking rapidly!”

A faint low cry burst from one in the crowd at this moment, and the
rumor ran that a woman had fainted. It was poor Joan, who had come that
night over the mountain, and, overcome by grief and exhaustion together,
had at last given way.

“Get a glass of wine for her, or even a cup of water,” cried out three
or four voices; and one nigh the door entered the cottage in search of
aid. The moment after a tall and handsome girl forced her way through
the crowd, and gave directions that Joan might be carried into the
house.

“Why did ye call her my Lady?” muttered an old hag to one of the men
near her; “sure, she's Henderson's daughter!”

“Is she, faith? By my conscience, then, she might be a better man's!
She's as fine a crayture as ever I seen!”

“If she has a purty face, she has a proud heart!” muttered another.

“Ayeh! she'll never be like _her_ that's going to leave us!” sighed a
young woman with a black ribbon in her cap.

Meanwhile Kate had Joan assisted into the cottage, and was busily
occupied in restoring her. Slowly, and with difficulty, the poor
creature came to herself, and gazing wildly around, asked where she was;
then suddenly bursting out in tears, she said,--“Sure, I know well where
I am; sure, it's my own self, brought grief and sorrow under this roof.
But for _me_ she 'd be well and hearty this day!”

“Let us still hope,” said Kate, softly. “Let us hope that one so dear
to us all may be left here. You are better now. I 'll join you again
presently.” And with noiseless footsteps she stole up the stairs. As she
came to the door, she halted and pressed her hands to her heart, as if
in pain. There was a low murmuring sound, as if of voices, from within,
and Kate turned away and sat down on the stairs.

Within the sick-room a subdued light came, and a soft air, mild and
balmy, for the rose-trees and the jessamine clustered over the window,
and mingled their blossoms across it. Mary had just awoke from a
short sleep, and lay with her hand clasped within that of a large and
white-haired man at the bedside.

“What a good, kind doctor!” said she, faintly; “I'm sure to find you
ever beside me when I awake.”

“Oh, darlin', dear,” broke in old Catty, “sure you ought to know who he
is. Sure it 's your own--”

“Hush! be silent!” muttered the old man, in a low, stern voice.

“Is it Tuesday to-day?” asked Mary, softly.

“Yes, dear, Tuesday,” said the old man.

“It was on Thursday my poor uncle died. Could I live till Thursday,
doctor?”

The old man tried to speak, but could not.

“You are afraid to shock me,” said she, with a faint attempt to smile,
“but if you knew how happy I am,--happy even to leave a life I loved
so well. It never could have been the same again, though--the spell was
breaking, hardship and hunger were maddening them--who knows to what
counsels they 'd have listened soon! Tell Harry to be kind to them,
won't you? Tell him not to trust to others, but to know them himself; to
go, as I have done, amongst them. They 'll love him _so_ for doing it.
He is a man, young, rich, and high-hearted,--how they 'll dote upon him!
Catty used to say it was my father they 'd have worshipped; but that was
in flattery to me, Catty, you always said we were so like--”

“Oh dear! oh dear! why won't you tell her?” broke in Catty. But a severe
gesture from the old man again checked her words.

“How that wild night at sea dwells in my thoughts! I never sleep but to
dream of it. Cousin Harry must not forget those brave fellows. I
have nothing to requite them with. I make no will, doctor,” said she,
smiling, “for my only legacy is that nosegay there. Will you keep it for
my sake?”

The old man hid his face, but his strong frame shook and quivered in the
agony of the moment.

“Hush!” said she, softly; “I hear voices without. Who are they?”

“They're the country-people, darlin', come from Kiltimmon and beyond
Kyle-a-Noe, to ax after you. They passed the night there, most of them.”

“Catty, dear, take care that you look after them; they will be hungry
and famished, poor creatures! Oh, how unspeakably grateful to one's
heart is this proof of feeling! Doctor, you will tell Harry how _I_
loved _them_ and how _they_ loved _me_. Tell him, too, that this bond
of affection is the safest and best of all ties. Tell him that their old
love for a Martin still survives in their hearts, and it will be his
own fault if he does not transmit it to his children. There's some one
sobbing there without. Oh, bid them be of good heart, Catty; there is
none who could go with less of loss to those behind. There--there come
the great waves again before me! How my courage must have failed me to
make this impression so deep! And poor Joan, and that dear fond girl
who has been as a sister to me,--so full of gentleness and love,--Kate,
where is she? No, do not call her; say that I asked for her--that I
blessed her--and sent her this kiss!” She pressed a rose to her hot,
parched lips as she spoke, and then closing her eyes seemed to fall off
to sleep. Her breathing, at first strong and frequent, grew fainter and
fainter, and her color came and went, while her lips slightly moved, and
a low, soft murmur came from them.

“She's asleep,” muttered Catty, as she crouched down beside the bed.

The old man bent over the bed, and watched the calm features. He sat
thus long, for hours, but no change was there; he put his lips to hers,
and then a sickly shuddering came over him, and a low, deep groan, that
seemed to rend his very heart!

Three days after, the great gateway of Cro' Martin Castle opened to
admit a stately hearse drawn by six horses, all mournfully caparisoned,
shaking with plumes and black-fringed drapery. Two mourning-coaches
followed, and then the massive gates were closed, and the sad pageant
wound its slow course through the demesne. At the same moment another
funeral was approaching the churchyard by a different road. It was a
coffin borne by men bareheaded and sorrow-struck. An immense multitude
followed, of every rank and age; sobs and sighs broke from them as they
went. Not an eye was tearless, not a lip that did not tremble. At the
head of this procession walked a small group whose dress and bearing
bespoke their class. These were Barry Martin, leaning on Repton;
Massingbred and the two Nelligans came behind.

The two coffins entered the churchyard at the same instant The uncle
and the niece were laid side by side in the turf! The same sacred words
consigned them both to their last bed; the same second of time heard the
dank reverberation that pronounced “earth” had returned “to earth.” A
kind of reverential awe pervaded the immense crowd during the ceremony,
and if here and there a sob would burst from some overburdened
heart, all the rest were silent; respecting, with a deference of true
refinement, a sorrow deeper and greater than their own, they never
uttered a word, but with bent-down heads stole quietly away. And now
by each grave the mourners stood, silently gazing on the little mounds
which typify so much of human sorrow!

Barry Martin's bronzed and weather-beaten features were a thought paler,
perhaps. There was a dark shade of color round the eyes, but on the
whole the expression conveyed far more of sternness than sorrow. Such,
indeed, is no uncommon form for grief to take in certain natures. There
are men who regard calamity like a foe, and go out to meet it in a
spirit of haughty defiance. A poor philosophy! He who accepts it as
chastisement is both a braver and a better man!

Repton stood for a while beside him, not daring to interrupt his
thoughts. At length he whispered a few words in his ear. Barry started
suddenly, and his dark brow grew sterner and more resolute.

“Yes, Martin, you must,” said Repton, eagerly, “I insist upon it. Good
heavens! is it at such a time, in such a place as this, you can harbor a
thought that is not forgiveness? Remember he is poor Godfrey's son, the
last of the race now.” As he spoke, passing his arm within the other's,
he drew him gently along, and led him to where a solitary mourner was
standing beside the other grave.

Barry Martin stood erect and motionless, while Repton spoke to the young
man. At first the words seemed to confuse and puzzle him, for he
looked vaguely around, and passed his hand across his brow in evident
difficulty.

“Did you say here, in this country? Do I understand you aright?”

“Here, in this very spot; there, standing now before you!” said Repton,
as he pushed young Martin towards his uncle.

Barry held out his hand, which the young man grasped eagerly; and then,
as if unable to resist his emotions longer, fell, sobbing violently,
into the other's arms.

“Let us leave them for a while,” said Repton, hurrying over to where
Massingbred and the Nelligans were yet standing in silent sorrow.

They left the spot together without a word. Grief had its own part for
each. It is not for us to say where sorrow eat deepest, or in which
heart the desolation was most complete.

“I'd not have known young Martin,” whispered Nelligan in Repton's ear;
“he looks full twelve years older than when last I saw him.”

“The fast men of this age, sir, live their youth rapidly,” replied the
other. “It is rarely their fortune to survive to be like me, or heaven
knows what hearts they would be left with!”

While they thus talked, Massingbred and Joe Nelligan had strolled away
into the wood. Neither spoke. Massingbred felt the violent trembling
of the other's arm as it rested on his own, and saw a gulping effort by
which more than once he suppressed his rising emotion. For hours they
thus loitered along, and at length, as they issued from the demesne,
they found Repton and Mr. Nelligan awaiting them.

“Barry Martin has taken his nephew back with him to the cottage,” said
Repton, “and we 'll not intrude upon them for the rest of the evening.”



CHAPTER XXXVIII. REPTON'S LAST CAUSE

We have no right, as little have we the inclination, to inflict our
reader with the details by which Barry Martin asserted and obtained his
own. A suit in which young Martin assumed to be the defendant developed
the whole history to the world, and proclaimed his title to the estate.
It was a memorable case in many ways; it was the last brief Val Repton
ever held. Never was his clear and searching intellect more conspicuous;
never did he display more logical acuteness, nor trace out a difficult
narrative with more easy perspicuity.

“My Lords,” said he, as he drew nigh the conclusion of his speech, “it
would have been no ordinary satisfaction to me to close a long life of
labor in these courts by an effort which restores to an ancient name the
noble heritage it had held for centuries. I should have deemed such
an occasion no unfitting close to a career not altogether void of its
successes; but the event has still stronger claims upon my gratitude. It
enables me in all the unembellished sternness of legal proof to display
to an age little credulous of much affection the force of a brother's
love,--the high-hearted devotion by which a man encountered a long life
of poverty and privation, rather than disturb the peaceful possession of
a brother.

“Romance has its own way of treating such themes; but I do not
believe romance can add one feature to the simple fact of this man's
self-denial.

“We should probably be lost in our speculations as to the noble motives
of this sacrifice, if our attention was not called away to something
infinitely finer and more exalted than even this. I mean the glorious
life and martyr's death of her who has made a part of this case less
like a legal investigation than the page of an affecting story. Story,
do I say! Shame on the word! It is in truth and reality alone are such
virtues inscribed. Fiction cannot deal with the humble materials that
make up such an existence,--the long hours of watching by sickness; the
weary care of teaching the young; the trying disappointments to hope
bravely met by fresh efforts; the cheery encouragement drawn from a
heart exhausting itself to supply others. Think of a young girl--a very
child in the world's wisdom, more than a man in heroism and daring, with
a heart made for every high ambition, and a station that might command
the highest--calmly consenting to be the friend of destitution, the
companion of misery, the daily associate of every wretchedness; devoting
grace that might have adorned a court to shed happiness in a cabin,
and making of beauty that would have shed lustre around a palace the
sunshine that pierced the gloom of a peasant's misery! Picture to
yourself the hand a prince might have knelt to kiss, holding the cup to
the lips of fever; fancy the form whose elegance would have fascinated,
crouched down beside the embers as she spoke words of consolation or
hope to some bereaved mother or some desolate orphan!

“These are not the scenes we are wont to look on here. Our cares are,
unhappily, more with the wiles and snares of crafty men than with the
sorrows and sufferings of the good! It is not often human nature wears
its best colors in this place; the spirit of litigious contest little
favors the virtues that are the best adornments of our kind. Thrice
happy am I, then, that I end my day where a glorious sunset gilds
its last hours; that I close my labors not in reprobating crime or
stigmatizing baseness, but with a full heart, thanking God that my last
words are an elegy over the grave of the best of The Martins of Cro'
Martin.'”

The inaccurate record from which we take these passages--for the only
report of the trial is in a newspaper of the time--adds that the emotion
of the speaker had so far pervaded the court that the conclusion was
drowned in mingled expressions of applause and sorrow; and when Repton
retired, he was followed by the whole bar, eagerly pressing to take
their last farewell of its honored father.

The same column of the paper mentions that Mr. Joseph Nelligan was to
have made his first motion that day as Solicitor-General, but had left
the court from a sudden indisposition, and the cause was consequently
deferred.

If Val Repton never again took his place in court, he did not entirely
abdicate his functions. Barry Martin had determined on making a
conveyance of the estate to his nephew, and the old lawyer was for
several weeks busily employed in that duty. Although Merl's claim became
extinguished when young Martin's right to the property was annulled,
Barry Martin insisted on arrangements being made to repay him all that
he had advanced,--a course which Repton, with some little hesitation, at
last concurred in. He urged Barry to reserve a life-interest to himself
in the property, representing the various duties which more properly
would fall to his lot than to that of a young and inexperienced
proprietor. But he would not hear of it.

“He cannot abide the place,” said Repton, when talking the matter over
with Massingbred. “He is one of those men who never can forgive the
locality where they have been miserable, nor the individual who has had
a share in their sorrow. When he settles his account with Henderson,
then he 'll leave the West forever.”

“And will he still leave Henderson in his charge?” asked Jack.

“That is as it may be,” said Repton, cautiously. “There is, as I
understand, some very serious reckoning between them. It is the only
subject on which Martin has kept mystery with me, and I do not like even
to advert to it.”

Massingbred pondered long over these words, without being able to make
anything of them.

It might be that Henderson's conduct had involved him in some grave
charge; and if so, Jack's own intentions with regard to the daughter
would be burdened with fresh complications. “The steward” was bad
enough; but if he turned out to be the “unjust steward”--“I 'll start
for Galway to-night,” thought he. “I 'll anticipate the discovery,
whatever it be. She can no longer refuse to see me on the pretext of
recent sorrow. It is now two months and more since this bereavement
befell her. I can no longer combat this life of anxiety and doubt.--What
can I do for you in the West, sir?” asked he of Repton, suddenly.

“Many things, my young friend,” said Repton, “if you will delay your
departure two days, since they are matters on which I must instruct you
personally.”

Massingbred gave a kind of half-consent, and the other went on to speak
of the necessity for some nice diplomacy between the uncle and his
nephew. “They know each other but little; they are on the verge of
misunderstandings a dozen times a day. Benefits are, after all, but
sorry ties between man and man. They may ratify the treaty of affection;
they rarely inscribe the contract!”

“Still Martin cannot but feel that to the noblest act of his uncle's
generosity he is indebted for all he possesses.”

“Of course he knows, and he feels it; but who is to say whether that
same consciousness is not a load too oppressive to bear. I know already
Barry Martin's suggestions as to certain changes have not been well
taken, and he is eager and pressing to leave Ireland, lest anything
should disturb the concord, frail as it is, between them.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed Massingbred, passionately, “there is wonderfully
little real good in this world; wonderfully little that can stand the
test of the very basest of all motives,--mere gain.”

“Don't say so!” cried Repton. “Men have far better natures than you
think; the fault lies in their tempers. Ay, sir, we are always entering
into heavy recognizances with our passions, to do fifty things we never
cared for. We have said this, we have heard the other; somebody sneered
at that, and some one else agreed with him; and away we go, pitching all
reason behind us, like an old shoe, and only seeking to gratify a whim,
or a mere caprice, suggested by temper. Why do people maintain friendly
intercourse at a distance for years, who could not pass twenty-four
hours amicably under the same roof? Simply because it is their natures,
and not their tempers, are in exercise.”

“I scarcely can separate the two in my mind,” said Jack, doubtingly.

“Can't you, sir? Why, nature is your skin, temper only your great-coat.”
 And the old lawyer laughed heartily at his own conceit. “But here comes
the postman.”

The double knock had scarcely reverberated through the spacious hall
when the servant entered with a letter.

“Ah! Barry Martin's hand. What have we here?” said Repton, as he ran his
eyes over it. “So-so; just as I was saying this minute, only that Barry
has the good sense to see it himself. 'My nephew,' he writes, 'has his
own ideas on all these subjects, which are not mine; and as it is no
part of my plan to hamper my gift with conditions that might impair its
value, I mean to leave this at once.

“'I have had my full share of calamity since I set foot in this land;
and if this rugged old nature could be crushed by mere misfortune, the
last two months might have done it. But no, Repton, the years by which
we survive friends serve equally to make us survive affections, and we
live on, untouched by time!

“'I mean to be with you this evening. Let us dine alone together, for I
have much to say to you.

“' Yours ever,

“'Barry Martin.

“'I hope I may see Massingbred before I sail. I 'd like to shake hands
with him once again. Say so to him, at all events.'”

“Come in to-morrow to breakfast,” said Repton; “by that time we'll have
finished all mere business affairs.” And Massingbred having assented,
they parted.



CHAPTER XXXIX. TOWARDS THE END

Repton was standing at his parlor window, anxiously awaiting his
friend's arrival, when the chaise with four posters came to the door.
“What have we here?” said the old lawyer to himself, as Barry assisted
a lady dressed in deep mourning to alight, and hurried out to receive
them.

“I have not come alone, Repton,” said the other. “I have brought my
daughter with me.” Before Repton could master his amazement at these
words, she had thrown back her veil, revealing the well-known features
of Kate Henderson.

“Is this possible?--is this really the case?” cried Repton, as he
grasped her hand between both his own. “Do I, indeed, see one I have so
long regarded and admired, as the child of my old friend?”

“Fate, that dealt me so many heavy blows of late, had a kindness in
reserve for me, after all,” said Barry. “I am not to be quite alone in
this world!”

“If _you_ be grateful, what ought not to be _my_ thankfulness?” said
Kate, tremulously.

“Leave us for a moment together, Kate,” said Barry; and taking Repton's
arm, he led him into an inner room.

“I have met with many a sore cut from fortune, Repton,” said he, in the
fierce tone that was most natural to him; “the nearest and dearest to
me not the last to treat me harshly. I need not tell you how I have been
requited in life; not, indeed, that I seek to acquit myself of my own
share of ill. My whole career has been a fault; it could not bring other
fruit than misery.” He paused, and for a while seemed laboring in strong
emotion. At last he went on:--

“When that girl was born--it was two years before I married--I intrusted
the charge of her to Henderson, who placed her with a sister
of his in Bruges. I made arrangements for her maintenance and
education,--liberally for one as poor as I was. I made but one condition
about her. It was that under no circumstances save actual want should
she ever be reduced to earn her own bread; but if the sad hour did come,
never--as had been her poor mothers fate--never as a governess! It was
in that fearful struggle of condition I first knew her. I continued,
year after year, to hear of her; remitting regularly the sums I
promised,--doubling, tripling them, when fortune favored me with a
chance prosperity. The letters spoke of her as well and happy, in humble
but sufficient circumstances, equally remote from privation as from the
seductions of a more exalted state. I insisted eagerly on my original
condition, and hoped some day to hear of her being married to
some honest but humble man. It was not often that I had time for
self-reproach; but when such seasons would beset me, I thought of this
girl, and her poor mother long dead and gone--But let me finish. While I
struggled--and it was often a hard struggle--to maintain my side of the
compact, selling at ruinous loss acquisitions it had cost me years of
labor to obtain, this fellow, this Henderson, was basely betraying the
trust I placed in him! The girl, for whose protection, whose safety
I was toiling, was thrown by him into the very world for which I had
distinctly excepted her; her talents, her accomplishments, her very
graces, farmed out and hired for his own profit! Launched into the very
sea where her own mother met shipwreck, she was a mere child, sent to
thread her way through the perils of the most dissipated society. Hear
her own account of it, Repton. Let _her_ tell you what is the tone of
that high life to which foreign nobility imparts its fascinations. Not
that I want to make invidious comparisons; our own country sends its
high tributaries to every vice of Europe! I know not what accident saved
her amidst this pollution. Some fancied theory of popular wrongs, she
thinks, gave her a kind of factitious heroism; elevating her, at least
to her own mind, above the frivolous corruptions around her. She was a
democrat, to rescue her from being worse.

“At last came a year of unusual pressure; my remittance was delayed, but
when sent was never acknowledged. From that hour out I never heard of
her. How she came into my brother's family, you yourself know. What was
her life there, she has told me! Not in any spirit of complaint,--nay,
she acknowledges to many kindnesses and much trust. Even my cold
sister-in-law showed traits for which I had not given her credit. I have
already forgotten her wrongs towards myself, in requital of her conduct
to this poor girl.”

“I'll spare you the scene with Henderson, Repton,” said he, after a long
pause. “When the fellow told me that the girl was the same I had seen
watching by another's sickbed, that she it was whose never-ceasing cares
had soothed the last hours of one dearer than herself, I never gave
another thought to him. I rushed out in search of her, to tell her
myself the tidings.”

“How did she hear it?” asked Repton, eagerly.

“More calmly than I could tell it. Her first words were, 'Thank God for
this, for I never could love that man I had called my father!'”

“She knows, then, every circumstance of her birth?”

“I told her everything. We know each other as well as though we had
lived under the same roof for years. She is my own child in every
sentiment and feeling. She is frank and fearless, Repton,--two qualities
that will do well enough in the wild savannahs of the New World, but
would be unmanageable gifts in the Old, and thither we are bound. I have
written to Liverpool about a ship, and we shall sail on Saturday.”

“How warmly do I sympathize in this your good fortune, Martin!” said
Repton. “She is a noble creature, and worthy of belonging to you.”

“I ask for nothing more, Repton,” said he, solemnly. “Fortune and
station, such as they exist here, I have no mind for! I'm too old now
to go to school about party tactics and politics; I'm too stubborn,
besides, to yield up a single conviction for the sake of unity with a
party,--so much for my unfitness for public life. As to private, I am
rough and untrained; the forms of society so pleasant to others would be
penalties to _me_. And then,” said he, rising, and drawing up his figure
to its full height, “I love the forest and the prairie; I glory in the
vastness of a landscape where the earth seems boundless as the sky, and
where, if I hunt down a buffalo-ox, after twenty miles of a chase,
I have neither a game-law nor a gamekeeper nor a charge of trespass
hanging over me.”

“There's some one knocking at the door,” said Repton, as he arose and
opened it.

“A thousand pardons for this interruption,” said Mas-singbred, in a low
and eager voice, “but I cannot keep my promise to you; I cannot defer my
journey to the West. I start to-night. Don't ask me the reasons. I 'll
be free enough to give them if they justify me.”

“But here is one who wishes to shake hands with you, Massingbred,” said
Repton, as he led him forward into the room.

“I hope you are going to keep your pledge with me, though,” said Barry.
“Have you forgotten you have promised to be my guest over the sea?”

“Ah,” said Jack, sighing, “I 've had many a day-dream of late!”

“The man's in love,” said Repton. “Nay, prisoner, you are not called on
to say what may criminate you. I 'll tell you what, Barry, you 'll do
the boy good service by taking him along with you. There 's a healthful
sincerity in the active life of the New World well fitted to dispel
illusions that take their rise in the indolent voluptuousness of the
Old. Carry him off then, I say; accept no excuses nor apologies. Send
him away to buy powder and shot, leather gaiters, and the rest of it.
When I saw him first myself, it was in the character of a poacher, and
he filled the part well. Ah! he is gone,” added he, perceiving that
Martin had just quitted the room. “Poor fellow, he is so full of his
present happiness,--the first gleam of real sunshine on a long day of
lowering gloom! He has just found a daughter,--an illegitimate one, but
worthy to be the rightful-born child to the first man in the land. The
discovery has carried him back twenty years of life, and freshened a
heart whose wells of feeling were all but dried up forever. If I mistake
not, you must have met her long ago at Cro' Martin.”

“Possibly. I have no recollection of it,” said Jack, musing.

“An ignoble confession, sir,” said Repton; “no less shocked should I
be were she to tell me she was uncertain if she had ever met Mr.
Massingbred. As Burke once remarked to me, 'Active intelligences,
like appropriate ingredients in chemistry, never meet without fresh
combinations.' It is then a shame to ignore such products. I 'd swear
that when you did meet you understood each other thoroughly; agreed
well,--ay, and what is more to the purpose, differed in the right places
too.”

“I'm certain we did,” said Jack, smiling, “though I'm ungrateful enough
to forget all about it.”

“Well,” said Martin, entering, “I have sent for another advocate to
plead my cause. My daughter will tell you, sir, that she, at least, is
not afraid to encounter the uncivilized glens beside the Orinoco. Come
in, Kate. You tell me that you and Mr. Massingbred are old friends.”

Massingbred started as he heard the name, looked up, and there stood
Kate before him, with her hand extended in welcome.

“Good heavens! what is this? Am I in a dream? Can this be real?” cried
Jack, pressing his hands to his temples, and trembling from head to foot
in the intensity of his anxiety.

“My father tells me of an invitation he has given you, Mr. Massingbred,”
 said she, smiling faintly at his embarrassment, “and asks me to repeat
it; but I know far better than he does all that you would surrender by
exile from the great world wherein you are destined to eminence. The
great debater, the witty conversationalist, the smart reviewer, might
prove but a sorry trapper, and even a bad shot! I have my scruples,
then, about supporting a cause where my conscience does not go along
with me.”

“My head on't, but he 'll like the life well,” said Barry, half
impatiently.

“Am I to think that you will not ask me to be your guest?” said Jack, in
a whisper, only audible by Kate.

“I have not said so,” said she, in the same low tone. “Will you go
further, Kate,” muttered he, in tremulous eagerness, “and say, 'Come'?”
 “Yes!” said she. “Come!”

[Illustration: 410]

“I accept!” cried Jack, rushing over, and grasping Martin's hands
between his own. “I 'm ready,--this hour, this instant, if you like it.”

“We find the prisoner guilty, my Lords,” said Repton; “but we recommend
him to mercy, as his manner on this occasion convinces us it is a first
offence.”

We have now done with the Martins of Cro' Martin. Should any of our
readers feel a curiosity as to the future fortunes of the estate, its
story, like that of many another Irish property, is written in the
Encumbered Estates Court. Captain Martin only grew wiser by the especial
experience of one class of difficulties. His indolent, easy disposition
and a taste for expense led him once again into embarrassments from
which there was but one issue,--the sale of his property. He has still,
however, a handsome subsistence remaining, and lives with Lady Dorothea,
notable and somewhat distinguished residents of a city on the Continent.

We cannot persuade ourselves that we have inspired interest for the
humbler characters of our piece. Nor dare we ask the reader to hear
more about Mrs. Cronan and her set, nor learn how Kilkieran fared in the
changes around it.

For Joseph Nelligan, however, we claim a parting word. He was the first
of an order of men who have contributed no small share to the great
social revolution of Ireland in late years. With talents fully equal
to the best in the opposite scale of party, and a character above all
reproach, he stood a rebuking witness to all the taunts and sarcasms
once indiscriminately levelled at his class; and, at the same time,
inspired his own party with the happy knowledge that there was a nobler
and more legitimate road to eminence than by factious display and
popular declamation.

We do not wish to inquire how far the one great blow to his
happiness--the disappointment of his early life--contributed to his
success by concentrating his ambition on his career. Certain is it,
no man achieved a higher or more rapid elevation, and old Dan lived
to receive at his board the Chief Justice of the Queen's Bench in the
person of his own son.

Poor Simmy Crow! for if we would forget him, he has taken care that
oblivion is not to be his fate. He has sent from the Rocky Mountains,
where he is now wandering with Barry Martin, some sketches of Indian
Life to the Irish Art Exhibition.

If it be a pleasure to trace in our friends the traits we have admired
in them in youth, and remark the embers of the fires that once wanned
their hearts, Simmy affords us this gratification, since his drawings
reveal the inspirations that first filled his early mind. The Chief
in his war-paint has a fac-simile likeness to his St. John in the
Wilderness; and as for the infant the squaw is bathing in the stream, we
can produce twelve respectable witnesses to depose that it is “Moses.”

We are much tempted to add a word about the Exiles themselves, but
we abstain. It is enough to say that all the attractive prospects of
ambition held out by friends, all the seductions of generous offers from
family, have never tempted them to return to the Old World; but that
they live on happily, far away from the jarring collisions of life, the
tranquil existence they had longed for.

THE END.