SIR JASPER CAREW.
His Life and Experience
By Charles James Lever
Illustrated By E. Van Muyden and Phiz.
Boston: Little, Brown, And Company. 1904.
Copyright, 1894, By Little, Brown, And Company.
DEDICATED TO H. D. W.
By ONE WHO THINKS HIGHLY OF HIS HEART, AND HOPES MUCH FROM HIS HEAD.
CONTENTS
[ CHAPTER I. ] SOME “NOTICES OF MY FATHER AND MOTHER”
[ CHAPTER II. ] THE ILLUSTRATION OF AN ADAGE
[ CHAPTER III. ] A FATHER AND DAUGHTER
[ CHAPTER IV. ] A BREAKFAST AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
[ CHAPTER V. ] JOE RAPER
[ CHAPTER VI. ] TWO FRIENDS AND THEIR CONFIDENCES
[ CHAPTER VII. ] SHOWING HOW CHANCE IS BETTER THAN DESIGN
[ CHAPTER VIII. ] A STATE TRUMPETER
[ CHAPTER IX. ] A GENTLEMAN USHER
[ CHAPTER X. ] THE COMPANY AT CASTLE CAREW
[ CHAPTER XI. ] POLITICS AND NEWSPAPERS
[ CHAPTER XII. ] SHOWING THAT “WHAT IS CRADLED IN SHAME IS HEARSED IN
[ CHAPTER XIII. ] A MIDNIGHT RENCONTRE
[ CHAPTER XIV. ] A CONFERENCE
[ CHAPTER XV. ] CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
[ CHAPTER XVI. ] AN UNLOOKED-FOR DISCLOSURE
[ CHAPTER XVII. ] A FRIEND'S TRIALS
[ CHAPTER XVIII. ] DISAPPOINTMENTS
[ CHAPTER XIX. ] "FUM'S ALLEY, NEAR THE PODDLE”
[ CHAPTER XX. ] PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY
[ CHAPTER XXI. ] AT REST
[ CHAPTER XXII. ] THE VILLAGE OF REICHENAU
[ CHAPTER XXIII. ] A MOUNTAIN ADVENTURE
[ CHAPTER XXIV. ] "THE HERR ROBERT”
[ CHAPTER XXV. ] THE COUNT DE GABRIAC
[ CHAPTER XXVI. ] PARIS IN '95
[ CHAPTER XXVII. ] THE BATTLE OF THE SECTIONS
[ CHAPTER XXVII. ] AN EPISODE OF MY LIFE
[ CHAPTER XXIX. ] THE INN AT VALENCE
[ CHAPTER XXX. ] LINANGE
[ CHAPTER XXXI. ] HAVRE
[ CHAPTER XXXII. ] MY REWARD
[ CHAPTER XXXIII. ] A GLIMPSE OF A NEW PATH
[ CHAPTER XXXIV. ] SECRET SERVICE
[ CHAPTER XXXV. ] "DISCOVERIES”
[ CHAPTER XXXVI. ] THE ORDEAL
[ CHAPTER XXXVII. ] THE GLOOMIEST PASSAGE OF ALL
[ CHAPTER XXXVIII. ] THE STREETS
[ CHAPTER XXXIX. ] A STRANGE INCIDENT TO BE A TRUE ONE
[ CHAPTER XL. ] AT SEA
[ CHAPTER XLI. ] LYS
[ CHAPTER XLII. ] THE COMING SHADOW
[ CHAPTER XLIII. ] A PASSAGE IN THE DRAMA
[ CHAPTER XLIV. ] THE PRICE OF FAME
[ CHAPTER XLV. ] DARK PASSAGES OF LIFE
[ CHAPTER XLVI. ] YSAFFICH
[ CHAPTER XLVII. ] TOWARDS HOME
[ CHAPTER XLVIII. ] THE PERILS OF EVIL
[ CHAPTER XLIX. ] THE FIRST DAY
[ CHAPTER L. ] A TRIAL—CONCLUSION
NOTICE
It has been constantly observed by writers of travels that to gain credence for any of the strange incidents of their journeys, they have been compelled to omit many of the most eventful passages of their lives. “The gentlemen,” and still more the ladies, “who live at home at ease” take, indeed, but little account of those adventures which are the daily lot of more precarious existences, and are too prone to set down as marvellous, or worse, events which have comparatively little remarkable for those whose fortunes have thrown them on the highways of the world.
I make this remark in part to deprecate some of the criticism which I have seen pronounced upon these Memoirs. It has been said: How could any man have met so many adventures? and my answer is simply: By change of place. Nothing more is required. The pawn on the chess-board has a life of a very uneventful character, simply because his progress is slow, methodical, and unchanging. Not so the knight, who, with all the errantry of his race, dashes here and there, encountering every rank and condition of men,—continually in difficulties himself, or the cause of them to others. What the knight is to the chess-board, the adventurer is to real life. The same wayward fortune and zig-zag course belongs to each, and each is sure to have his share in nearly every great event that occurs about him. But I also refer to this subject on another account. Tale-writers are blamed for the introduction of incidents which have little bearing on the main story, or whose catastrophes are veiled in obscurity. But I would humbly ask, Are not these exactly the very traits of real life? Is not every man's course checkered with incidents, and crossed by people who never affect his actual career? Do not things occur every week singular enough to demand a record, and yet, to all seeming, not in any way bearing upon our fortunes? While I need but appeal to universal experience to corroborate me when I say that life is little else than a long series of uncompleted adventures, I do not employ the strongest of all argument on this occasion, and declare that in writing my Memoirs I had no choice but to set down the whole or nothing, because I am aware that some sceptical folk would like to imagine me a shade, and my story a fiction!
I am quite conscious of some inaccuracies; for aught I know, there may be many in these pages; but I wrote most of them in very old age, away from books, and still further away from the friends who might have afforded me their counsel and guidance. I wrote with difficulty and from memory,—that is, from a memory in which a fact often faded while I transcribed it, and where it demanded all my efforts to call up the incidents, without, at the same time, summoning a dozen others, irrelevant and unwarranted.
These same pages, with all their faults, have been a solace to many a dreary hour, when, alone and companionless, I have sat in the stillness of a home that no footsteps resound in, and by a hearth where none confronts me. They would be still richer in comfort if I thought they could cheer some heart lonely as my own, and make pain or sorrow forget something of its sting. I scarcely dare to hope for this, but I wish it heartily! And if there be aught of presumption in the thought, pray set it down amongst the other errors and short-comings of
Jasper Carew.
Palazzo Guidotte, Senegaqlia, Jan. 1855.
CHAPTER I. SOME “NOTICES OF MY FATHER AND MOTHER”
It has sometimes occurred to me that the great suits of armor we see in museums, the huge helmets that come down like extinguishers on the penny candles of modern humanity, the enormous cuirasses and gigantic iron gloves, were neither more nor less than downright and deliberate cheats practised by the “Gents” of those days for the especial humbugging of us, their remote posterity. It might, indeed, seem a strange and absurd thing that any people should take so much pains, and incur so much expense, just for the sake of mystifying generations then unborn. Still, I was led to this conclusion by observing and reflecting on a somewhat similar phenomenon in our own day; and indeed it was the only explanation I was ever able to come to, respecting those great mansions that we Irish gentlemen are so fond of rearing on our estates, “totally regardless of expense,” and just as indifferent to all the circumstances of our fortune, and all the requirements of our station,—the only real difference being, that our forefathers were satisfied with quizzing their descendants, whereas we, with a livelier appreciation of fun, prefer enjoying the joke in our own day.
Perhaps I am a little too sensitive on this point; but my reader will forgive any excess of irritability when I tell him that to this national ardor for brick and mortar—this passion for cutstone and stucco—it is I owe, not only some of the mischances of my life, but also a share of what destiny has in store for those that are to come after me. We came over to Ireland with Cromwell; my ancestor, I believe, and I don't desire to hide the fact, was a favorite trumpeter of Old Noll. He was a powerful, big-boned, slashing trooper, with a heavy hand on a sabre, and a fine deep, bass voice in the conventicle; and if his Christian name was a little inconvenient for those in a hurry,—he was called Bind-your-kings-in-chains-and-your-nobles-in-links-of-iron Carew,—it was of the less consequence, as he was always where he ought to be, without calling. It was said that in the eyes of his chief his moderation was highly esteemed, and that this virtue was never more conspicuous than in his choice of a recompense for his services; since, instead of selecting some fine, rich tract of Meath or Queen's County, some fruitful spot on the Shannon or the Blackwater, with a most laudable and exemplary humility he pitched upon a dreary and desolate region in the County Wicklow,—picturesque enough in point of scenery, but utterly barren and uncultivated. Here, at a short distance from the opening of the Vale of Arklow, he built a small house, contiguous to which, after a few years, was to be seen an outlandish kind of scaffolding,—a composite architecture between a draw-well and a gallows; and which, after various conjectures about its use,—some even suggesting that it was a new apparatus “to raise the Devil,”—turned out to be the machinery for working a valuable lead mine which, by “pure accident,” my fortunate ancestor had just discovered there.
It was not only lead, but copper ore was found there, and at last silver; so that in the course of three generations the trumpeter's descendants became amongst the very richest of the land; and when my father succeeded to the estate, he owned almost the entire country between Newrath Bridge and Arklow. There were seventeen townlands in our possession, and five mines in full work. In one of these, gold was found, and several fine crystals of topaz and beryl,—a few specimens of which are yet to be seen in the Irish Academy. It has been often remarked that men of ability rarely or never transmit their gifts to the generation succeeding them. Nature would seem to set her face against monopolies, and at least, so far as intellect is concerned, to be a genuine “Free-Trader.” There is another and very similar fact, however, which has not attracted so much notice. It is this: that not only the dispositions and tastes of successive generations change and alternate, but that their luck follows the same law, and that after a good run of fortune for maybe a century or two, there is certain to come a turn; and thus it is that these ups and downs, which are only remarked in the lives of individuals, are occurring in the wider ocean of general humanity. The common incident that we so often hear of a man winning an enormous sum and losing every farthing of it, down to the very half-crown he began with, is just the type of many a family history,—the only difference being that the event which in one case occupied a night, in the other was spread over two, or maybe three, hundred years.
When my father succeeded to the family property, Ireland was enjoying her very palmiest days of prosperity. The spirit of her nationality, without coming into actual collision with England, yet had begun to assume an attitude of proud hostility,—a species of haughty defiance,—the first effect of which was to develop and call forth all the native ardor and daring of a bold and generous people. It was in the celebrated year '82; and, doubtless, there are some yet living who can recall to memory the glorious enthusiasm of the “Volunteers.” The character of the political excitement was eminently suited to the nature of the people. The themes were precisely those which lay fastest hold of enthusiastic temperaments. Liberty and Independence were in every mouth. From the glowing eloquence of the Parliament House,—the burning words and heart-stirring sentences of Grattan and Ponsonby,—they issued forth to mingle in all the exciting din of military display,—the tramp of armed battalions, and the crash and glitter of mounted squadrons. To these succeeded those festive meetings, resounding with all the zeal of patriotic toasts,—brilliant displays of those convivial accomplishments for which the Irish gentlemen of that day were so justly famed. There was something peculiarly splendid and imposing in the spectacle of the nation at that moment; but, like the grand groupings we witness upon the stage, all the gorgeousness of the display was only to intimate that the curtain was about to fall!
But to come back to personal matters. At the first election which occurred after his accession to the property, my father was returned for Wicklow, by a large majority, in opposition to the Government candidate; and thus, at the age of twenty-two, entered upon life with all the glowing ardor of a young patriot,—rich, well-looking, and sufficiently gifted to be flattered into the self-confidence of actual ability.
Parliamentary conflicts have undergone a change just as great as those of actual warfare. In the times I speak of, tactical skill and subtlety would have availed but little, in comparison with their present success. The House was then a species of tournament, where he who would break his lance with the most valiant tilter was always sure of an antagonist. The marshalling of party, the muster of adherents, was not, as it now is, all-sufficient against the daring eloquence of a solitary opponent; and if, as is very probable, men were less under the guidance of great political theorems, they were assuredly not less earnest and devoted than we now see them. The contests of the House were carried beyond its walls, and political opponents became deadly enemies, ready to stake life at any moment in defence of their opinions. It was the school of the period; nor can it be better illustrated than by the dying farewell of a great statesman, whose last legacy to his son was in the words: “Be always ready with the pistol.” This great maxim, and the maintenance of a princely style of living, were the two golden rules of the time. My father was a faithful disciple of the sect.
In the course of a two years' tour on the Continent, he signalized himself by various adventures, the fame of which has not yet faded from the memory of some survivors. The splendor of his retinue was the astonishment of foreign courts; and the journals of the time constantly chronicled the princely magnificence of his entertainments, and the costly extravagance of his household. Wagers were the fashionable pastime of the period; and to the absurd extent to which this passion was carried, are we in all probability now indebted for that character of eccentricity by which our countrymen are known over all Europe.
The most perilous exploits, the most reckless adventures, ordeals of personal courage, strength, endurance, and address, were invented as the subject of these wagers; and there was nothing too desperately hazardous, nor too absurdly ridiculous, as not to find a place in such contests. My father had run the gauntlet through all, and in every adventure was said to have acquitted himself with honor and distinction.
Of one only of these exploits do I intend to make mention here; the reason for the selection will soon be palpable to my reader. At the time I speak of, Paris possessed two circles totally distinct in the great world of society. One was that of the Court; the other rallied around the Duc d'Orléans. To this latter my father's youth, wealth, and expensive tastes predisposed him, and he soon became one of the most favored guests of the Palais Royal. Scanty as are the materials which have reached us, there is yet abundant reason to believe that never, in the most abandoned days of the Regency, was there any greater degree of profligacy than then prevailed there. Every vice and debauchery of a corrupt age was triumphant, and even openly defended on the base and calumnious pretence that the company was at least as moral as that of the “Petit Trianon.” My father, I have said, was received into this set with peculiar honor. His handsome figure, his winning manners, an easy disposition, and an ample fortune were ready recommendations in his favor, and he speedily became the chosen associate of the Prince.
Amongst his papers are to be found the unerring proofs of what this friendship cost him. Continued losses at play had to be met by loans of money, at the most ruinous rates of interest; and my poor father's memoranda are filled with patriarchal names that too surely attest the nature of such transactions. It would seem, however, that fortune at last took a turn,—at least, the more than commonly wasteful extravagance of his life at one period would imply that he was a winner. These gambling contests between the Duke and himself had latterly become like personal conflicts, wherein each staked skill, fortune, and address on the issue,—duels which involved passions just as deadly as any whose arbitrament was ever decided by sword or pistol! As luck favored my father, the Duke's efforts to raise money were not less strenuous, and frequently as costly, as his own; while on more than one occasion the jewelled decorations of his rank—his very sword—were the pledges of the play-table. At last, so decidedly had been the run against him that the Prince was forced to accept of loans from my father to enable him to continue the contest. Even this alternative, however, availed nothing. Loss followed upon loss, till at length, one night, when fortune had seemed to have utterly forsaken him, the Prince suddenly rose from the table, and saying, “Wait a moment, I'll make one 'coup' more,” disappeared from the room. When he returned, his altered looks almost startled my father. The color had entirely deserted his cheeks; his very lips were bloodless; his eyes were streaked with red vessels; and when he tried to speak, his first words were inaudible. Pressing my father down again upon the seat from which he had arisen, he leaned over his shoulder, and whispered in a voice low and broken,—
“I have told you, Chevalier, that I would make one 'coup' more. This sealed note contains the stake I now propose to risk. You are at liberty to set any sum you please against it. I can only say, it is all that now remains to me of value in the world. One condition, however, I must stipulate for; it is this: If you win”—here he paused, and a convulsive shudder rendered him for some seconds unable to continue—“if you win, that you leave France within three days, and that you do not open this paper till within an hour after your departure.”
My father was not only disconcerted by the excessive agitation of his manner, but he was little pleased with a compact, the best issue of which would compel him to quit Paris and all its fascinations at a very hour's notice. He tried to persuade the Prince that there was no necessity for so heavy a venture; that he was perfectly ready to advance any sum his Royal Highness could name; that fortune, so persecuting as she seemed, should not be pushed further, at least for the present. In fact, he did everything which ingenuity could prompt to decline the wager. But the more eagerly he argued, the more resolute and determined became the Duke; till at last, excited by his losses, and irritated by an opposition to which he was but little accustomed, the Prince cut short the discussion by the insolent taunt “that the Chevalier was probably right, and deemed it safer to retain what he had won, than risk it by another venture.”
“Enough, sir; I am quite ready,” replied my father, and reseated himself at the table.
“There's my stake, then,” said the Prince, throwing a sealed envelope on the cloth.
“Your Royal Highness must correct me if I am in error,” said my father, “and make mine beneath what it ought to be.” At the same moment he pushed all the gold before him—several thousand louis—into the middle of the table.
The Prince never spoke nor moved; and my father, after in vain waiting for some remark, said,—
“I perceive, sir, that I have miscalculated. These are all that I have about me;” and he drew from his pocket a mass of bank-notes of considerable amount. The Prince still maintained silence.
“If your Royal Highness will not vouchsafe to aid me, I must only trust to my unguided reason, and, however conscious of the inferiority of the venture, I can but stake all that I possess. Yes, sir, such is my stake.”
The Prince bowed formally and coldly, and pushed the cards towards my father. The fashionable game of the day was called Barocco, in which, after certain combinations, the hand to whom fell the Queen of Spades became the winner. So evenly had gone the fortune of the game that all now depended on this card. My father was the dealer, and turned up each card slowly, and with a hand in which not the slightest tremor could be detected. The Prince, habitually the very ideal of a gambler's cold impassiveness, was agitated beyond all his efforts to control, and sat with his eyes riveted on the game; and when the fatal card fell at length from my father's hand, his arms dropped powerless at either side of him, and with a low groan he sank fainting on the floor.
He was quickly removed by his attendants, and my father never saw him after! All his efforts to obtain an audience were in vain; and when his entreaties became more urgent, he was given significantly to understand that the Prince was personally indisposed to receive him. Another and stronger hint was also supplied, in the-shape of a letter from the Minister of Police, inclosing my father's passport, and requiring his departure, by way of Calais, within a given time.
Whatever share curiosity as to the contents of the paper might have had in my father's first thoughts, a sense of offended dignity for the manner of his treatment speedily mastered; and as he journeyed along towards the coast, his mind was solely occupied with one impression. To be suddenly excluded from the society in which he had so long mixed, and banished from the country where he had lived with such distinction, were indeed deep personal affronts, and not without severe reflection on his conduct and character.
His impatience to quit a land where he had been so grossly outraged grew greater with every mile he travelled; and although the snow lay heavily on the road, he passed on, regardless of everything but his insulted honor. It was midnight when he reached Calais. The packet, which had sailed in the afternoon, had just re-entered the port, driven back by a hurricane that had almost wrecked her. The passengers, overcome with terror, fatigue, and exhaustion, were crowding into the hotel at the very moment of my father's arrival. The gale increased in violence at every instant, and the noise of the sea breaking over the old piles of the harbor was now heard like thunder. Indifferent to such warning, my father sent for the captain, and asked him what sum would induce him to put to sea. A positive refusal to accept of any sum was the first reply; but by dint of persuasion, persistence, and the temptation of a large reward, he at last induced him to comply.
To my father's extreme surprise, he learned that two ladies who had just arrived at the hotel were no less resolutely bent on departure, and, in defiance of the gale, which was now terrific, sent to beg that they might be permitted to take their passage in the vessel. To the landlord, who conveyed this request, my father strongly represented the danger of such an undertaking; that nothing short of an extreme necessity would have induced him to embark in such a hurricane; that the captain, who had undertaken the voyage at his especial entreaty, might, most naturally, object to the responsibility. In a word, he pleaded everything against this request, but was met by the steady, unvarying reply, “That their necessity was not less urgent than his own, and that nothing less than the impossibility should prevent their departure.”
“Be it so, then,” said my father, whose mind was too much occupied with his own cares to bestow much attention on strangers. Indeed, so little of either interest or curiosity did his fellow travellers excite in him that although he assisted them to ascend the ship's side, he made no effort to see their faces; nor did he address to them a single word. They who cross the narrow strait nowadays, with all the speed of a modern mail-steamer, can scarcely credit how much of actual danger the passage once involved. The communication with the Continent was frequently suspended for several days together; and it was no unusual occurrence to hear of three or even four mails being due from France. So great was the storm on the occasion I refer to that it was full two hours before the vessel could get clear of the port; and even then, with a mainsail closely reefed, and a mere fragment of a foresail, the utmost she could do was to keep the sea. An old and worthless craft, she was ill-suited to such a service; and now, at each stroke of the waves, some bulwark would be washed away, some spar broken, or part of the rigging torn in shreds. The frail timbers creaked and groaned with the working, and already, from the strain, leaks had burst open in many places, and half the crew were at the pumps. My father, who kept the deck without quitting it, saw that the danger was great, and, not improbably, now condemned his own rashness when it was too late. Too proud, however, to confess his shame, he walked hurriedly up and down the poop, only stopping to hold on at those moments when some tremendous lurch almost laid the craft under. In one of these it was that he chanced to look down through the cabin grating, and there beheld an old lady, at prayer, on her knees; her hands held a crucifix before her, and her upturned eyes were full of deep devotion. The lamp which swung to and fro above her head threw a passing light upon her features, and showed that she must once have been strikingly handsome, while even yet the traces were those that bespoke birth and condition. My father in vain sought for her companion, and while he bent down over the grating to look, the captain came up to his side.
“The poor Duchess is terribly frightened,” said he, with an attempt at a smile which only half succeeded.
“How do you call her?” asked my father.
“La Duchesse de Sargance, a celebrated court beauty some forty years ago. She has been always attached to the Duchess of Orleans; or, some say, to the Duke. At least, she enjoys the repute of knowing all his secret intrigues and adventures.”
“The Duke!” said my father, musing; and, suddenly calling to mind his pledge, he drew nigh to the binnacle lamp, and, opening his letter, bent down to read it. A small gold locket fell into his hand, unclasping which, he beheld the portrait of a beautiful girl of eighteen or nineteen. She was represented in the act of binding up her hair; and in the features, the coloring, and the attitude, she seemed the very ideal of a Grecian statue. In the corner of the paper was written the words, “Ma Fille,” “Philippe d'Orléans.”
“Is this possible? can this be real?” cried my father, whose quick intelligence at once seemed to divine all. The next instant he was at the door of the cabin, knocking impatiently to get in.
“Do you know this, madam?” cried he, holding out the miniature towards the Duchess. “Can you tell me aught of this?”
“Is the danger over? Are we safe?” was her exclamation, as she arose from her knees.
“The wind is abating, madam,—the worst is over; and now to my question.”
“She is yours, sir,” said the Duchess, with a deep obeisance. “His Royal Highnesses orders were, not to leave her till she reached England. Heaven grant that we are to see that hour! This is Mademoiselle de Courtois,” continued she, as at the same instant the young lady entered the cabin.
The graceful ease and unaffected demeanor with which she received my father at once convinced him that she at least knew nothing of the terrible compact in which she was involved. Habituated as he was to all the fascinations of beauty, and all the blandishments of manner, there was something to him irresistibly charming in the artless tone with which she spoke of her voyage, and all the pleasure she anticipated from a tour through England.
“You see, sir,” said the Duchess, when they were once more alone together, “Mademoiselle Josephine is a stranger to the position in which she stands. None could have undertaken the task of breaking it to her. Let us trust that she is never to know it.”
“How so, madam? Do you mean that I am to relinquish my right?” cried my father.
“Nothing could persuade me that you would insist upon it, sir.”
“You are wrong, then, madam,” said he, sternly. “To the letter I will maintain it. Mademoiselle de Courtois is mine; and within twenty-four hours the law shall confirm my title, for I will make her my wife.”
I have heard that however honorable my father's intentions thus proclaimed themselves, the Duchess only could see a very lamentable mésalliance in such a union; nor did she altogether disguise from my father that his Royal Highness was very likely to take the same view of the matter. Mademoiselle's mother was of the best blood of France, and illegitimacy signified little if Royalty but bore its share of the shame. Fortunately the young lady's scruples were more easily disposed of: perhaps my father understood better how to deal with them; at all events, one thing is certain, Madame de Sargance left Dover for Calais on the same day that my father and his young bride started for London,—perhaps it might be exaggeration to say the happiest, but it is no extravagance to call them—as handsome a pair as ever journeyed the same road on the same errand. I have told some things in this episode which, perhaps, second thoughts would expunge, and I have omitted others that as probably the reader might naturally have looked for. But the truth is, the narrative has not been without its difficulties. I have had to speak of a tone of manners and habits now happily bygone, of which I dare not mark my reprehension with all the freedom I could wish, since one of the chief actors was my father,—its victim, my mother.
CHAPTER II. THE ILLUSTRATION OF AN ADAGE
“Marry in haste,” says the adage, and we all know what occupation leisure will bring with it; unhappily, my father was not to prove the exception to the maxim. It was not that his wife was wanting in any quality which can render married life happy; she was, on the contrary, most rarely gifted with them all. She was young, beautiful, endowed with excellent health and the very best of tempers. The charm of her manner won every class with whom she came into contact. But—alas that there should be a but!—she had been brought up in habits of the most expensive kind. Living in royal palaces, waited on by troops of menials, with costly equipages and splendid retinues ever at her command, only mingling with those whose lives were devoted to pleasure and amusement, conversant with no other themes than those which bore upon gayety and dissipation, she was peculiarly unsuited to the wear and tear of a social system which demanded fully as much of self-sacrifice as of enjoyment. The long lessons my father would read to her of deference to this one, patient endurance of that, how she was to submit to the tiresome prosings of certain notorieties in respect of their political or social eminence,—she certainly heard with most exemplary resignation; but by no effort of her reason, nor, indeed, of imagination, could she attain to the fact why any one should associate with those distasteful to them, nor ever persuade herself that any worldly distinction could possibly be worth having at such a price.
She was quite sure—indeed, her own experience proved it—“that the world was full of pleasant people.” Beauty to gaze on and wit to listen to, were certainly not difficult to be found; why, then, any one should persist in denying themselves the enjoyment derivable from such sources was as great a seeming absurdity as that of him who, turning his back on the rare flowers of a conservatory, would go forth to make his bouquet of the wild flowers and weeds of the roadside. Besides this, in the world wherein she had lived, her own gifts were precisely those which attracted most admiration and exerted most sway; and it was somewhat hard to descend to a system where such a coinage was not accepted as currency, but rather regarded as gilded counters, pretty to look at, but, after all, a mere counterfeit money, unrecognized by the mint.
My father saw all this when it was too late; but he lost no time in vain repinings. On the contrary, having taken a cottage in a secluded part of North Wales, by way of passing the honeymoon in all the conventional isolation that season is condemned to, he devoted himself to that educational process at which I have hinted, and began to instil those principles, to the difficulty of whose acquirement I have just alluded.
I believe that his life at this period was one of as much happiness as ever is permitted to poor mortality in this world; so, at least, his letters to his friends bespeak it. It may be even doubted if the little diversities of taste and disposition between himself and my mother did not heighten the sense of his enjoyment; they assuredly averted that lassitude and ennui which are often the results of a connubial duet unreasonably prolonged. I know, too, that my poor mother often looked back to that place as to the very paradise of her existence. My father had encouraged such magnificent impressions of his ancestral house and demesne that he was obliged to make great efforts to sustain the deception. An entire wing had to be built to complete the symmetry of the mansion. The roof had also to be replaced by another, of more costly construction. In the place of a stucco colonnade, one of polished granite was to be erected. The whole of the furniture was to be exchanged. Massive old cabinets and oaken chairs, handsome enough in their way, were but ill-suited to ceilings of fretted gold, and walls hung in the rich draperies of Lyons. The very mirrors, which had been objects of intense admiration for their size and splendor, were now to be discarded for others of more modern pretensions. The china bowls and cups which for centuries had been regarded as very gems of virtu were thrown indignantly aside, to make place for Sèvres vases and rich groupings of pure Saxon. In fact, all the ordinary comforts and characteristics of a country gentleman's house were abandoned for the sumptuous and splendid furniture of a palace. To meet such expenses large sums were raised on loan, and two of the richest mines on the estate were heavily mortgaged. Of course it is needless to say that preparations on such a scale of magnificence attracted a large share of public attention. The newspapers duly chronicled the increasing splendor of “Castle Carew.” Scarcely a ship arrived without some precious consignment, either of pictures, marbles, or tapestries; and these announcements were usually accompanied by some semi-mysterious paragraph about the vast wealth of the owner, and the great accession of fortune he had acquired by his marriage. On this latter point nothing was known, beyond the fact that the lady was of an ancient ducal family of France, of immense fortune and eminently beautiful. Even my father's most intimate friends knew nothing beyond this; for, however strange it may sound to our present-day notions, my father was ashamed of her illegitimacy and rightly judged what would be the general opinion of her acquaintances, should the fact become public. At last came the eventful day of the landing in Ireland; and, certainly, nothing could be more enthusiastic nor affectionate than the welcome that met them.
Personally, my father's popularity was very great; politically, he had already secured many admirers, since, even in the few months of his parliamentary life, he had distinguished himself on two or three occasions. His tone was manly and independent; his appearance was singularly prepossessing; and then, as he owned a large estate, and spent his money freely, it would have been hard if such qualities had not made him a favorite in Ireland.
It was almost a procession that accompanied him from the quay to the great hotel of the Drogheda Arms, where they stopped to breakfast.
“I am glad to see you back amongst us, Carew!” said Joe Parsons, one of my father's political advisers, a county member of great weight with the Opposition. “We want every good and true man in his place just now.”
“Faith! we missed you sorely at the Curragh meetings, Watty,” cried a sporting-looking young fellow, in “tops and leathers.” “No such thing as a good handicap, nor a hurdle race for a finish, without you.”
“Harry deplores those pleasant evenings you used to spend at three-handed whist, with himself and Dick Morgan,” said another, laughing.
“And where's Dick?” asked my father, looking around him on every side.
“Poor Dick!” said the last speaker. “It's no fault of his that he 's not here to shake your hand to-day. He was arrested about six weeks ago, on some bills he passed to Fagan.”
“Old Tony alive still?” said my father, laughing. “And what was the amount?” added he, in a whisper.
“A heavy figure,—above two thousand, I believe; but Tony would be right glad to take five hundred.”
“And couldn't Dick's friends do that much for him?” asked my father, half indignantly. “Why, when I left this, Dick was the very life of your city. A dinner without him was a failure. Men would rather have met him at the cover than seen the fox. His hearty face and his warm shake-hands were enough to inspire jollity into a Quaker meeting.”
“All true, Watty; but there's been a general shipwreck of us all, somehow. Where the money has gone, nobody knows; but every one seems out at elbows. You are the only fellow the sun shines upon.”
“Make hay, then, when it does so,” said my father, laughing; and, taking but his pocket-book, he scribbled a few lines on a leaf which he tore out. “Give that to Dick, and tell him to come down and dine with us on Friday. You'll join him. Quin and Parsons won't refuse me.—And what do you say, Gervy Power? Can you spare a day from the tennis-court, or an evening from piquet?—Jack Gore, I count upon you. Harvey Hepton will drive you down, for I know you never can pay the post-boys.”
“Egad, they 're too well trained to expect it. The rascals always look to me for a hint about the young horses at the Curragh, and, now and then, I do throw a stray five-pound in their way.”
“We have not seen madam yet. Are we not to have that honor to-day?” said Parsons.
“I believe not; she's somewhat tired. We had a stormy time of it,” said my father, who rather hesitated about introducing his bachelor friends to my mother without some little preparation.
Nor was the caution quite unreasonable. Their style and breeding were totally unlike anything she had ever seen before. The tone of familiarity they used towards each other was the very opposite to that school of courtly distance which even the very nearest in blood or kindred observed in her own country; and lastly, very few of those then present understood anything of French; and my mother's English, at the time I speak of, did not range beyond a few monosyllables, pronounced with an accent that made them all but unintelligible.
“You'll have Kitty Dwyer to call upon you the moment she hears you 're come,” said Quin.
“Charmed to see her, if she 'll do us that honor,” said my father, laughing.
“You must have no common impudence, then, Watty,” said another; “you certainly jilted her.”
“Nothing of the kind,” replied my father; “she it was who refused me.”
“Bother!” broke in an old squire, a certain Bob French of Frenchmount; “Kitty refuse ten thousand a-year, and a good-looking fellow into the bargain! Kitty's no fool; and she knows mankind just as well as she knows horseflesh,—and, faix, that's not saying a trifle.”
“How is she looking?” asked my father, rather anxious to change the topic.
“Just as you saw her last. She hurt her back at an ugly fence in Kennedy's park, last winter; but she's all right again, and riding the little black mare that killed Morrissy, as neatly as ever!”
“She's a fine dashing girl!” said my father.
“No, but she's a good girl,” said the old squire, who evidently admired her greatly. “She rode eight miles of a dark night, three weeks ago, to bring the doctor to old Hackett's wife, and it raining like a waterfall; and she gave him two guineas for the job. Ay, faith, and maybe at the same time, two guineas was two guineas to her.”
“Why, Mat Dwyer is not so hard-up as that comes to?” exclaimed my father.
“Is n't he, faith? I don't believe he knows where to lay his hand on a fifty-pound note this morning. The truth is, Walter, Mat ran himself out for you.”
“For me! How do you mean for me?”
“Just because he thought you 'd marry Kitty. Oh! you need n't laugh. There 's many more thought the same thing. You remember yourself that you were never out of the house. You used to pretend that Bishop's-Lough was a better cover than your own,—that it was more of a grass country to ride over. Then, when summer came, you took to fishing, as if your bread depended on it; and the devil a salmon you ever hooked.”
A roar of laughter from the surrounders showed how they relished the confusion of my father's manner.
“Even all that will scarcely amount to an offer of marriage,” said he, in half pique.
“Nobody said it would,” retorted the other; “but when you teach a girl to risk her life, four days in the week, over the highest fences in a hunting country,—when she gives up stitching and embroidery, to tying flies and making brown hackles,—when she 'd rather drive a tandem than sit quiet in a coach and four,—why, she's as good as spoiled for any one else. 'Tis the same with women as with young horses,—every one likes to break them in for himself. Some like a puller; others prefer a light mouth; and there's more that would rather go along without having to think at all, sure that, no matter how rough the road, there would be neither a false step nor stumble in it.”
“And what's become of MacNaghten?” asked my father, anxious to change the topic.
“Scheming, scheming, just the same as ever. I 'm sure I wonder he 's not here to-day. May I never! if that's not his voice I hear on the stairs. Talk of the devil—”
“And you're sure to see Dan MacNaghten,” cried my father; and the next moment he was heartily shaking hands with a tall, handsome man who, though barely thirty, was yet slightly bald on the top of the head. His eyes were blue and large; their expression full of the joyous merriment of a happy schoolboy,—a temperament that his voice and laugh fully confirmed.
“Watty, boy, it 's as good as a day rule to have a look at you again,” cried he. “There's not a man can fill your place when you 're away,—devil a one.”
“There he goes,—there he goes!” muttered old French, with a sly wink at the others.
“Ireland wasn't herself without you, my boy,” continued MacNaghten. “We were obliged to put up with Tom Burke's harriers and old French's claret; and the one has no more scent than the other has bouquet.”
French's face at this moment elicited such a roar of laughter as drowned the remainder of the speech.
“'T was little time you had either to run with the one or drink the other, Dan,” said he; “for you were snug in Kilmainham the whole of the winter.”
“Otium cum dignitate,” said Dan. “I spent my evenings in drawing up a bill for the better recovery of small debts.”
“How so, Dan?”
“Lending enough more, to bring the debtor into the superior courts,—trying him for murder instead of manslaughter.”
“Faith, you'd do either if you were put to it,” said French, who merely heard the words, without understanding the context.
Dan MacNaghten was now included in my father's invitation to Castle Carew; and, after a few other allusions to past events and absent friends, they all took their leave, and my father hastened to join his bride.
“You thought them very noisy, my dear,” said my father, in reply to a remark of hers. “They, I have no doubt, were perfectly astonished at their excessive quietness,—an air of decorum only assumed because they heard you were in the next room.”
“They were not afraid of me, I trust,” said she, smiling. “Not exactly afraid,” said my father, with a very peculiar smile.
CHAPTER III. A FATHER AND DAUGHTER
The celebrated money-lender and bill-discounter of Dublin in the times we speak of, was a certain Mr. Fagan, popularly called “The Grinder,” from certain peculiarities in his dealings with those who stood in need of his aid. He had been, and indeed so had his father before him, a fruit-seller, in a quarter of the city called Mary's Abbey,—a trade which he still affected to carry on, although it was well known that the little transactions of the front shop bore no imaginable proportion to the important events which were conducted in the small and gloomy back-parlor behind it.
It was a period of unbounded extravagance. Few even of the wealthiest lived within their incomes. Many maintained a style and pretension far beyond their fortunes, the first seeds of that crop of ruin whose harvest we are now witnessing. By large advances on mortgage, and great loans at moments of extreme pressure, the Grinder had amassed an immense fortune, at the same time that he possessed a very considerable influence in many counties, in whose elections he took a deep although secret interest.
If money-getting and money-hoarding was the great passion of his existence, it was in reality so in furtherance of two objects, on which he seemed to have set his whole heart. One of these was the emancipation of the Catholics; the other, the elevation of his only child, a daughter, to rank and station, by means of a high marriage.
On these two themes his every thought was fixed; and however closely the miser's nature had twined itself around his own, all the thirst for gain, all the greed of usury, gave way before these master-passions. So much was he under their guidance that no prospect of advantage ever withdrew him from their prosecution; and he who looked for the Grinder's aid, must at least have appeared to him as likely to contribute towards one or other of these objects.
Strange as it may seem to our modern notions, the political ambition seemed easier of success than the social. With all their moneyed embarrassments, the higher classes of Ireland refused to stoop to an alliance with the families of the rich plebeians, and were much more ready to tamper with their conscience on questions of state, than to abate a particle of their pride on a matter of family connection. In this way, Mr. Fagan could command many votes in the House from those who would have indignantly refused his invitation to a dinner.
In pursuit of this plan, he had given his daughter the best education that money could command. She had masters in every modern language, and in every fashionable accomplishment. She was naturally clever and quick of apprehension, and possessed considerable advantages in person and deportment. Perhaps an overweening sense of her own importance, in comparison with those about her, imparted a degree of assumption to her manner, or perhaps this was instilled into her as a suitable lesson for some future position; but so was it, that much of the gracefulness of her youth was impaired by this fault, which gradually settled down into an almost stern and defiant hardiness of deportment,—a quality little likely to be popular in high society.
A false position invariably engenders a false manner, and hers was eminently so. Immeasurably above those with whom she associated, she saw a great gulf between her and that set with whose habits and instincts she had been trained to assimilate. To condescend to intimacy with her father's guests, was to undo all the teachings of her life; and yet how barren seemed every hope of ascending to anything higher! No young proprietor had attained his majority for some years back, without being canvassed by the Grinder as a possible match for his daughter. He well knew the pecuniary circumstances of them all. To some he had lent largely; and yet somehow, although his emissaries were active in spreading the intelligence that Bob Fagan's daughter would have upwards of three hundred thousand pounds.
It seemed a point of honor amongst this class that none should descend to such a union, nor stoop to an alliance with the usurer. If, in the wild orgies of after-dinner in the mad debauchery of the mess-table, some reckless spendthrift would talk of marrying Polly Fagan, a burst of mockery and laughter was certain to hail the proposition. In fact, any alternative of doubtful honesty, any stratagem to defeat a creditor, seemed a more honorable course than such a project.
There were kind friends—mayhap amongst them were some disappointed suitors—ready to tell Polly how she was regarded by this set; and this consciousness on her part did not assuredly add to the softness of a manner that each day was rendering her more cold and severe; and, from despising those of her own rank, she now grew to hate that above her.
It so chanced that my father was one of those on whom Fagan had long speculated for a son-in-law. There was something in the careless ease of his character that suggested the hope that he might not be very difficult of persuasion; and, as his habits of expense required large and prompt supplies, the Grinder made these advances with a degree of liberality that could not fail to be flattering to a young heir.
On more than one occasion, the money was paid down before the lawyers had completed the documents; and this confidence in my father's honor had greatly predisposed him in Fagan's favor. The presumptuous idea of an alliance with him would have, of course, routed such impressions, but this never occurred to my father. It is very doubtful that he could have brought himself to believe the thing possible. So secret had been my father's marriage that none, even of his most intimate friends, knew of it till within a short time before he arrived in Ireland. The great outlay at Castle Carew of course attracted its share of gossip, but all seemed to think that these were the preparations for an event not yet decided on. This also was Fagan's reading of it; and he watched with anxious intensity every step and detail of that costly expenditure in which his now last hope was centred.
“He must come to me for all this; I alone can be the paymaster here,” was his constant reflection, as he surveyed plans which required a princely fortune to execute, and which no private income could possibly have supported by a suitable style of living. “A hundred thousand pounds will pay for all,” was the consolatory thought with which he solaced himself for this extravagance.
The frequent calls for money, the astounding sums demanded from time to time, did indeed alarm Fagan. The golden limit of a hundred thousand had long been passed, and yet came no sign of retrenchment; on the contrary, the plans for the completion of the Castle were on a scale of even greater magnificence.
It was to assure himself as to the truth of these miraculous narratives, to see with his own eyes the splendors of which he had heard so much, that Fagan once undertook a journey down to Castle Carew. For reasons the motives of which may be as well guessed as described, he was accompanied by his daughter. Seeming to be engaged on a little tour of the county, they arrived at the village inn at nightfall, and the following morning readily obtained the permission to visit the grounds and the mansion.
Perhaps there is no higher appreciation of landscape beauty than that of him who emerges from the dark and narrow street of some busy city,—from its noise, and smoke, and din,—from its vexatious cares and harassing duties, and strolls out, of a bright spring morning, through the grassy fields and leafy lanes of a rural country; there is a repose, a sense of tranquil calm in the scene, so refreshing to those whose habitual rest comes of weariness and exhaustion. No need is there of the painter's eye nor the poet's fancy to enjoy to the utmost that rich combination of sky, and wood, and glassy lake.
There may be nothing of artistic excellence in the appreciation, but the sense of pleasure, of happiness even, is to the full as great.
It was in such a mood that Fagan found himself that morning slowly stealing along a woodland-path, his daughter at his side; halting wherever a chance opening afforded a view of the landscape, they walked leisurely on, each, as it were, respecting the other's silence. Not that their secret thoughts were indeed alike,—far from it! The daughter had marked the tranquil look, the unembarrassed expression of those features so habitually agitated and careworn: she saw the sense of relief even one day, one single day of rest, had brought with it. Why should it not be always thus? thought she. He needs no longer to toil and strive. His might be a life of quietude and peace. Our fortune is far above our wants, beyond even our wishes. We might at last make friendships, real friendships, amongst those who would look on us as equals and neighbors, not as usurers and oppressors.
While such was passing in the daughter's mind, the father's thoughts ran thus: Can she see these old woods, these waving lawns, these battlemented towers, topping the great oaks of centuries, and yet not wish to be their mistress? Does no ambition stir her heart to think, These might be mine? He scanned her features closely, but in her drooping eyelids and pensive look he could read no signs of the spirit he sought for.
“Polly,” said he, at length, “this is finer, far finer than I expected; the timber is better grown, the demesne itself more spacious. I hardly looked for such a princely place.”
“It is very beautiful,” said she, pensively.
“A proud thing to be the owner of, Polly,—a proud thing! This is not the home of some wealthy citizen; these trees are like blazons of nobility, girl.”
“One might be very happy here, father,” said she, in the same low voice.
“The very thought of my own mind, Polly,” cried he, eagerly. “The highest in the land could ask for nothing better. The estate has been in his family for four or five generations. The owner of such a place has but to choose what he would become. If he be talented, and with capacity for public life, think of him in Parliament, taking up some great question, assailing some time-worn abuse,—some remnant of that barbarous code that once enslaved us,—and standing forward as the leader of an Irish party. How gracefully patriotism would sit on one who could call this his own! Not the sham patriotism of your envious plebeian, nor the mock independence of the needy lawyer, but the sturdy determination to make his country second to none. There 's the Castle itself,” cried he, suddenly, as they emerged into an open space in front of the building; and, amazed at the spacious and splendid edifice before them, they both stood several minutes in silent admiration.
“I scarcely thought any Irish gentleman had a fortune to suit this,” said she, at length.
“You are right, Polly; nor has Carew himself. The debts he will have incurred to build that Castle will hamper his estate, and cripple him and those that are to come after him. Nothing short of a large sum of ready money, enough to clear off every mortgage and incumbrance at once, could enable this young fellow to save them. Even then, his style should not be the spendthrift waste they say he is fond of. A princely household he might have, nobly maintained, and perfect in all its details, but with good management, girl. You must remember that, Polly.”
She started at this direct appeal to herself; and, as her cheeks grew crimson with conscious shame, she turned away to avoid his glance,—not that the precaution was needed, for he was far too much immersed in his own thoughts to observa her. Polly had on more than one occasion seen through the ambitious schemes of her father. She had detected many a deep-laid plot he had devised to secure for her that eminence and station he longed for. Deep and painful were the wounds of her offended pride at the slights, the insults of these defeated plans. Resentments that were to last her lifetime had grown of them, and in her heart a secret grudge towards that class from which they sprung. Over and over had she endeavored to summon up courage to tell him that, to her, these schemes were become hateful; that all dignity, all self-respect, were sacrificed in this unworthy struggle. At last came the moment of hardihood; and in a few words, at first broken and indistinct, but more assured and distinct as she went on, she said that she, at least, could never partake in his ambitious views.
“I have seen you yourself, father, after a meeting with one of these—these high and titled personages, come home pale, careworn, and ill. The contumely of their manner had so offended you that you sat down to your meal without appetite. You could not speak to me; or, in a few words you dropped, I could read the bitter chagrin that was corroding your heart. You owned to me, that in the very moment of receiving favors from you, they never forgot the wide difference of rank that separated you,—nay more, that they accepted your services as a rightful homage to their high estate, and made you feel a kind of serfdom in your very generosity.”
“Why all this? To what end do you tell me these things, girl?” cried he, angrily, while his cheek trembled with passion.
“Because if I conceal them longer,—if I do not speak them,—they will break my heart,” said she, in an accent of deepest emotion; “because the grief they give me has worn me to very wretchedness. Is it not clear to you, father, that they wish none of us,—that our blood is not their blood, nor our traditions their traditions?”
“Hold—stop—be silent, I say, or you will drive me distracted,” said he, grasping her wrist in a paroxysm of rage.
“I will speak out,” said she, resolutely. “The courage I now feel may, perhaps, never return to me. There is nothing humiliating in our position, save what we owe to ourselves; there is no meanness in our rank in life, save when we are ashamed of it! Our efforts to be what we were not born to be, what we ought not to be, what we cannot be,—these may, indeed, make us despicable and ridiculous, for there are things in this world, father, that not even gold can buy.”
“By Heaven, that is not true!” said he, fiercely. “There never yet was that in rank, honor, and distinction that was not ticketed with its own price! Our haughtiest nobility—the proudest duke in the land—knows well what his alliance with a plebeian order has done for him. Look about you, girl. Who are these marchionesses, these countesses, who sweep past us in their pride? The daughters of men of my own station,—the wealthy traders of the country—”
“And what is their position, father? A living lie. What is their haughty carriage? The assumption of a state they were not born to,—the insolent pretension to despise all amidst which they passed their youth, their earliest friendships, their purest, best days. Let them, on the other hand, cling to these; let them love what has grown into their natures from infancy,—the home, the companions of their happy childhood,—and see how the world will scoff at their vulgarity, their innate degeneracy, their low-born habits: vulgar if generous, vulgar when saving; their costly tastes a reproach, their parsimony a sneer.”
There was a passionate energy in her tone and manner, which, heightening the expression of her handsome features, made her actually beautiful; and her father half forgot the opposition to his opinions, in his admiration of her. As he still gazed at her, the sharp sound of a horse's canter was heard behind them; and, on turning round, they saw advancing towards them a young man, mounted on a blood horse, which he rode with all the careless ease of one accustomed to the saddle; his feet dangling loosely out of the stirrups, and one hand thurst into the pocket of his shooting-jacket.
“Stand where you are!” he cried, as the father and daughter were about to move aside, and give him room to pass; and immediately after he rushed his horse at the huge trunk of a fallen beech-tree, and cleared it with a spring.
“He 'll be perfect at timber, when he gets a little cooler in temper,” said he, turning on his saddle; and then, recognizing Fagan, he reined short in, and called out, “Halloo, Tony! who ever expected to see you here?—Miss Polly, your servant. A most unexpected pleasure this,” added he, springing from his saddle, and advancing towards them with his hat off.
“It is not often I indulge myself with a holiday, Mr. MacNaghten,” said Fagan, as though half ashamed of the confession.
“So much the worse for you, Fagan, and for your handsome daughter here,—not to speak of the poor thriftless devils, like myself, who are the objects of your industrious hours. Eh, Tony, is n't that true?” and he laughed heartily at his impudent joke.
“And if it were not for such industry, sir,” said the daughter, sternly, “how many like you would be abroad to-day?”
“By Jove, you are quite right, Miss Polly. It is exactly as you say. Your excellent father is the providence of us younger sons; and I, for one, will never prove ungrateful to him. But pray let us turn to another theme. Shall I show you the grounds and the gardens? The house is in such a mess of confusion that it is scarcely worth seeing. The conservatory, however, and the dairy are nearly finished; and if you can breakfast on grapes and a pineapple, with fresh cream to wash them down, I 'll promise to entertain you.”
“We ask for nothing better, Mr. MacNaghten,” said Fagan, who was not sorry to prolong an interview that might afford him the information he sought for.
“Now for breakfast, and then for sight-seeing,” said Dan, politely offering his arm to the young lady, and leading the way towards the house.
CHAPTER IV. A BREAKFAST AND ITS CONSEQUENCES
To do the honors of another man's house is a tremendous test of tact. In point of skill or address, we know of few things more difficult. The ease which sits so gracefully on a host becomes assurance when practised by a representative; and there is a species of monarchy about the lord of a household that degenerates into usurpation in the hands of a pretender. It is not improbable, then, Dan MacNaghten's success in this trying part was mainly attributable to the fact that he had never thought of its difficulty. He had gone through a fine property in a few years of dissipation, during which he had played the entertainer so often and so well that nothing seemed to him more natural than a seat at the head of a table, nor any task more simple or agreeable than to dispense its hospitalities.
The servants of the Castle were well accustomed to obey him, and when he gave his orders for breakfast to be speedily laid out in the conservatory, they set about the preparations with zeal and activity. With such promptitude, indeed, were the arrangements made that by the time MacNaghten had conducted his guests to the spot, all was in readiness awaiting them.
The place was admirably chosen, being a central point in the conservatory, from which alleys branched out in different directions; some opening upon little plots of flowers or ornamental shrubbery, others disclosing views of the woodland scenery or the distant mountains beyond it. The table was spread beside a marble basin, into which a little group of sportive Titans were seen spouting. Great Nile lilies floated on the crystal surface, and gold and silver fish flashed and glittered below. The board itself, covered with luscious fruit, most temptingly arranged amidst beautiful flowers, displayed, besides, some gorgeous specimens of Sèvres and Saxony, hastily taken from their packing-cases, while a large vase of silver, richly chased, stood in the centre, and exhibited four views of the Castle, painted in medallions on its sides.
“If you'll sit here, Miss Polly,” said MacNaghten, “you'll have a prettier view, for you'll see the lake, and catch a peep, too, of the Swiss Cottage on the crag above it. I must show you the cottage after breakfast. It was a bit of fancy of my own,—copied, I am free to confess, from one I saw in the Oberland.—Fagan, help yourself; you 'll find these cutlets excellent. Our friend Carew has made an admirable choice of a cook.”
“You treat us in princely fashion, sir,” said Fagan, whose eyes glanced from the splendor before him to his daughter, and there tried to read her thoughts.
“You gave me no time for that; had you told me you were coming down, I 'd have tried to receive you properly. As it is, pray make up your mind to stay a day or two,—Carew will be so delighted; nothing flatters him so much as to hear praise of this place.”
“Ah, sir, you forget that men like myself have but few holidays.”
“So much the worse, Fagan; remember what the adage says about all work and no play. Not, by Jove, but I 'm sure that the converse of the proposition must have its penalty, too; for if not, I should have been a marvellously clever fellow.—Ay, Miss Polly, my life has been all play.”
“A greater fault than the other, sir, and with this addition, too, that it makes proselytes,” said she, gravely; “my father's theory finds fewer followers.”
“And you not one of them?” said MacNaghten, rapidly; while he fixed a look of shrewd inquiry on her.
“Assuredly not,” replied she, in a calm and collected tone.
“By Jove, I could have sworn to it,” cried he, with a burst of enthusiastic delight. “There, Fagan, you see Miss Polly takes my side, after all.”
“I have not said so,” rejoined she, gravely. “Gain and waste are nearer relatives than they suspect.”
“I must own that I have never known but one of the family,” said Dan, with one of those hearty laughs which seemed to reconcile him to any turn of fortune.
Fagan all this time was ill at ease and uncomfortable; the topic annoyed him, and he gladly took occasion to change it by an allusion to the wine.
“And yet there are people who will tell you not to drink champagne for breakfast,” exclaimed Dan, draining his glass as he spoke; “as if any man could be other than better with this glorious tipple. Miss Polly, your good health, though it seems superfluous to wish you anything.”
She bowed half coldly to the compliment, and Fagan added hurriedly, “We are at least contented with our lot in life, Mr. MacNaghten.”
“Egad, I should think you were, Tony, and no great merit in the resignation, after all. Put yourself in my position, however,—fancy yourself Dan MacNaghten for one brief twenty-four hours. Think of a fellow who began the world—ay, and that not so very long ago either—with something over five thousand a-year, and a good large sum in bank, and who now, as he sits here, only spends five shillings when he writes his name on a stamp; who once had houses and hounds and horses, but who now sits in the rumble, and rides a borrowed hack. If you want to make a virtue of your contentment, Fagan, change places with me.”
“But would you take mine, Mr. MacNaghten? Would you toil, and slave, and fag,—would you shut out the sun, that your daily labor should have no suggestive temptings to enjoyment,—would you satisfy yourself that the world should be to you one everlasting struggle, till at last the very capacity to feel it otherwise was lost to you forever?”
“That's more than I am able to picture to myself,” said MacNaghten, sipping his wine. “I 've lain in a ditch for two hours with a broken thigh-bone, thinking all the time of the jolly things I 'd do when I 'd get well again; I 've spent some very rainy weeks in a debtor's prison, weaving innumerable enjoyments for the days when I should be at liberty; so that as to any conception of a period when I should not be able to be happy, it 's clean and clear beyond me.”
Polly's eyes were fixed on him as he spoke, and while their expression was almost severe, the heightened color of her cheeks showed that she listened to him with a sense of pleasure.
“I suppose it's in the family,” continued Dan, gayly. “My poor father used to say that no men have such excellent digestion as those that have nothing to eat.”
“And has it never occurred to you, sir,” said Polly, with a degree of earnestness in her voice and manner,—“has it never occurred to you that this same buoyant temperament could be turned to other and better account than mere “—she stopped, and blushed, and then, as if by an effort, went on—“mere selfish enjoyment? Do you not feel that he who can reckon on such resources but applies them to base uses when he condescends to make them the accessories of his pleasures? Is there nothing within your heart to whisper that a nature such as this was given for higher and nobler purposes; and that he who has the spirit to confront real danger should not sit down contented with a mere indifference to shame?”
“Polly, Polly!” cried her father, alike overwhelmed by the boldness and the severity of her speech.
“By Jove, the young lady has given me a canter,” cried MacNaghten, who, in spite of all his good temper, grew crimson; “and I only wish the lesson had come earlier. Yes, Miss Polly,” added he, in a voice of more feeling, “it 's too late now.”
“You must forgive my daughter, Mr. MacNaghten,—she is not usually so presumptuous,” said Fagan, rising from the table, while he darted a reproving glance towards Polly; “besides, we are encroaching most unfairly on your time.”
“Are you so?” cried Dan, laughing. “I never heard it called mine before! Why, Tony, it's yours, and everybody's that has need of it. But if you 'll not eat more, let me show you the grounds. They are too extensive for a walk, Miss Polly, so, with your leave, we 'll have something to drive; meanwhile I'll tell the gardener to pluck you some flowers.”
Fagan waited till MacNaghten was out of hearing, and then turned angrily towards his daughter.
“You have given him a sorry specimen of your breeding, Polly; I thought, indeed, you would have known better.”
“You forget already, then, the speech with which he accosted us,” said she, haughtily; “but my memory is better, sir.”
“His courtesy might have effaced the recollection, I think,” said Fagan, testily.
“His courtesy! Has he not told you himself that every gift he possesses is but an emanation of his selfishness? The man who can be anything so easily, will be nothing if it cost a sacrifice.”
“I don't care what he is,” said Fagan, in a low, distinct voice, as though he wanted every word to be heard attentively. “For what he has been, and what he will be, I care just as little. It is where he moves, and lives, and exerts influence,—these are what concern me.”
“Are the chance glimpses that we catch of that high world so attractive, father?” said she, in an accent of almost imploring eagerness. “Do they, indeed, requite us for the cost we pay for them? When we leave the vulgar circle of our equals, is it to hear of generous actions, exalted sentiments, high-souled motives; or is it not to find every vice that stains the low pampered up into greater infamy amongst the noble?”
“This is romance and folly, girl. Who ever dreamed it should be otherwise? Nature stamped no nobility on gold, nor made copper plebeian. This has been the work of men; and so of the distinctions among themselves, and it will not do for us to dispute the ordinance. Station is power, wealth is power; he who has neither, is but a slave; he who has both, may be all that he would be!”
A sudden gesture to enforce caution followed these words; and at the same time MacNaghten's merry voice was heard, singing as he came along,—
“'Kneel down there, and say a prayer,
Before my hounds shall eat you.'
'I have no prayer,' the Fox replied,
'For I was bred a Quaker.'
“All right, Miss Polly. Out of compliment to you, I suppose, Kitty Dwyer, that would never suffer a collar over her head for the last six weeks, has consented to be harnessed as gently as a lamb; and my own namesake, 'Dan the Smasher,' has been traced up, without as much as one strap broken. They 're a little pair I have been breaking in for Carew; for he's intolerably lazy, and expects to find his nags trained to perfection. Look at them, how they come along,—no bearing reins, no blinkers. That 's what I call a very neat turn-out.”
The praise was, assuredly, not unmerited, as two highbred black ponies swept past with a beautiful phaeton, and drew up at the door of the conservatory.
The restless eyes, the wide-spread nostrils and quivering flanks of the animals, not less than the noiseless caution of the grooms at their heads, showed that their education had not yet been completed; and so Fagan remarked at once.
“They look rakish,—there's no denying it!” said Mac-Naghten; “but they are gentleness itself. The only difficulty is to put the traps on them; once fairly on, there's nothing to apprehend. You are not afraid of them, Miss Polly?” said he, with a strong emphasis on the “you.”
“When you tell me that I need not be, I have no fears,” said she, calmly.
“I must be uncourteous enough to say that I do not concur in the sentiment,” said Fagan; “and, with your leave, Mr. MacNaghten, we will walk.”
“Walk! why, to see anything, you'll have twelve miles a-foot. It must n't be thought of, Miss Polly,—I cannot hear of it!” She bowed, as though in half assent; and he continued: “Thanks for the confidence; you shall see it is not misplaced. Now, Fagan—”
“I am decided, Mr. MacNaghten; I'll not venture; nor will I permit my daughter to risk her life.”
“Neither would I, I should hope,” said MacNaghten; and, although the words were uttered with something of irritation, there was that in the tone that made Polly blush deeply.
“It's too bad, by Jove!” muttered he, half aloud, “when a man has so few things that he really can do, to deny his skill in the one he knows best.”
“I am quite ready, sir,” said Polly, in that tone of determination which she was often accustomed to assume, and against which her father rarely or never disputed.
“There now, Fagan, get up into the rumble. I 'll not ask you to be the coachman. Come, come,—no more opposition; we shall make them impatient if we keep them standing much longer.”
As he spoke, he offered his arm to Polly, who, with a smile,—the first she had deigned to give him,—accepted it, and then, hastily leading her forward, he handed her into the carriage. In an instant MacNaghten was beside her. With the instinct of hot-tempered cattle, they no sooner felt a hand upon the reins than they became eager to move forward, and, while one pawed the ground with impatience, the other, retiring to the very limit of the pole-strap, prepared for a desperate plunge.
“Up with you, Fagan; be quick—be quick!” cried Dan. “It won't do to hold them in. Let them go, lads, or they 'll smash everything!” and the words were hardly out, when, with a tremendous bound, that carried the front wheels off the road, away they went. “Meet us at the other gate,—they 'll show you the way,” cried MacNaghten, as, standing up, he pointed with his whip in the direction he meant. He had no time for more; for all his attention was now needed to the horses, as, each exciting the other, they dashed madly on down the road.
“This comes of keeping them standing,” muttered Dan; “and the scoundrels have curbed them up too tight. You're not afraid, Miss Polly? By Jove, that was a dash,—Kitty showed her heels over the splash-board. Look at that devil Dan,—see how he 's bearing on the pole-piece!—an old trick of his.”
A tremendous cut on his flank now drove him almost furious, and the enraged animal set off at speed.
“We must let them blow themselves, Miss Polly. It all comes of their standing so long. You're not afraid?—Well, then, they may do their worst.”
By this time the pace had become a tearing gallop, and seeing that nothing short of some miles would suffice to tame them down, MacNaghten turned their heads in the direction of a long avenue which led towards the sea.
It was all in vain that Fagan fastened through the flower-garden, and across a private shrubbery; when he reached the “gate,” there was no sign of the phaeton. The cuckoo and the thrush were the only voices heard in the stillness; and, at intervals, the deep booming of the sea, miles distant, told how unbroken was the silence around. His mind was a conflict of fear and anger; terrible anxieties for his daughter were mixed up with passion at this evidence of her wayward nature, and he walked along, reproaching himself bitterly for having accepted the civilities of MacNaghten.
Fagan's own schemes for a high alliance for his daughter had made him acquainted with many a counterplot of adventurers against himself. He well knew what a prize Polly Fagan was deemed amongst the class of broken-down and needy spendthrifts who came to him for aid. Often and often had he detected the first steps of such machinations, till at length he had become suspectful of everything and everybody. Now, MacNaghten was exactly the kind of man he most dreaded in this respect. There was that recklessness about him that comes of broken fortune; he was the very type of a desperate adventurer, ready to seize any chance to restore himself to fortune and independence. Who could answer for such a man in such an emergency?
Driven almost mad with these terrors, he now hastened his steps, stopping at times to listen, and at times calling on his daughter in the wildest accents. Without knowing whither he went, he soon lost himself in the mazes of the wood, and wandered on for hours in a state bordering upon distraction. Suspicion had so mastered his reason that he had convinced himself the whole was a deliberate scheme,—that MacNaghten had planned all beforehand. In his disordered fancies, he did not scruple to accuse his daughter of complicity, and inveighed against her falsehood and treachery in the bitterest words.
And what was Dan MacNaghten doing all this time? Anything, everything, in short, but what he was accused of! In good truth, he had little time for love-making, had such a project even entered his head, so divided were his attentions between the care of the cattle and his task of describing the different scenes through which they passed at speed,—the prospect being like one of those modern inventions called dissolving views,—no sooner presenting an object than superseding it by another. In addition to all this, he had to reconcile Miss Polly to what seemed a desertion of her father; so that, what with his “cares of coachman, cicerone, and consoler,” as he himself afterwards said, it was clean beyond him to slip in even a word on his own part. It is no part of my task to inquire how Polly enjoyed the excursion, or whether the dash of recklessness, so unlike every incident of her daily life, did not repay her for any discomfort of her father's absence: certain is it that when, after about six miles traversed in less than half an hour, they returned to the Castle, her first sense of apprehension was felt by not finding her father to meet her. No sooner had MacNaghten conducted her to the library than he set out himself in search of Fagan, having despatched messengers in all directions on the same errand. Dan, it must be owned, had far rather have remained to reassure Miss Polly, and convince her that her father's absence would be but momentary; but he felt that it was a point of duty with him to go—and go he did.
It chanced that, by dint of turning and winding, Fagan had at length approached the Castle again, so that MacNaghten came up with him within a few minutes after his search began. “Safe, and where?” were the only words the old man could utter as he grasped the other's arm. Dan, who attributed the agitation to but one cause, proceeded at once to reassure him on the score of his daughter's safety, detailing, at the same time, the circumstances which compelled him to turn off in a direction the opposite of that he intended. Fagan drank in every word with eagerness, his gray eyes piercingly fixed on the speaker all the while. Great as was his agitation throughout, it became excessive when MacNaghten chanced to allude to Polly personally, and to speak of the courage she displayed.
“She told you that she was not afraid?—she said so to yourself?” cried he, eagerly.
“Ay, a dozen times,” replied Dan, freely. “It was impossible to have behaved better.”
“You said so,—you praised her for it, I have no doubt,” said the other, with a grim effort at a smile.
“To be sure I did, Tony. By Jove, you've reason to be proud of her. I don't speak of her beauty,—that every one can see; but she's a noble-minded girl. She would grace any station in the land.”
“She heard you say as much with pleasure, I 'm certain,” said Fagan, with a smile that was more than half a sneer.
“Nay, faith, Tony, I did not go so far. I praised her courage. I told her that not every man could have behaved so bravely.”
MacNaghten paused at this.
“And then—and then, sir,” cried Fagan, impatiently.
Dan turned suddenly towards him, and, to his amazement, beheld a countenance tremulous with passionate excitement.
“What then, sir? Tell me what then? I have a right to ask, and I will know it. I 'm her father, and I demand it.”
“Why, what in Heaven's name is the matter?” exclaimed MacNaghten. “I have told you she is safe,—that she is yonder.”
“I speak not of that, sir; and you know it,” cried Fagan, imperiously. “The dissimulation is unworthy of you. You ought to be a man of honor.”
“Egad, good temper would be the best quality for me just now,” said the other, with a smile; “for you seem bent on testing it.”
“I see it all,” cried Fagan, in a voice of anguish. “I see it all. Now hear me, Mr. MacNaghten. You are one who has seen much of the world, and will readily comprehend me. You are a man reputed to be kind-hearted, and you will not pain me by affecting a misunderstanding. Will you leave this to-morrow, and go abroad, say for a year or two? Give me your hand on it, and draw on me for one thousand pounds.”
“Why, Tony, what has come over you? Is it the air of the place has disordered your excellent faculties? What can you mean?”
“This is no answer to my question, sir,” said Fagan, rudely.
“I cannot believe you serious in putting it,” said MacNaghten, half proudly. “Neither you nor any other man has the right to make such a proposal to me.”
“I say that I have, sir. I repeat it. I am her father, and by one dash of my pen she is penniless to-morrow. Ay, by Heaven, it is what I will do if you drive me to it.”
“At last I catch your meaning,” said MacNaghten, “and I see where your suspicions have been pointing at. No, no; keep your money. It might be a capital bargain for me, Tony, if I had the conscience to close with it; and if you knew but all, you 've no right to offer so much temptation. That path will bring you to the Castle. You 'll find Miss Polly in the library. Good-bye, Fagan.”
And without waiting for a reply, MacNaghten turned abruptly away, and disappeared in the wood.
Fagan stood for a second or two deep in thought, and then bent his steps towards the Castle.
CHAPTER V. JOE RAPER
The little incident which forms the subject of the last chapter occurred some weeks before my father's return to Ireland, and while as yet the fact of his marriage was still a secret to all, save his most intimate friends. The morning after Fagan's visit, however, MacNaghten received a few lines from my father, desiring him to look after and “pass” through the Custom House certain packages of value which would arrive there about that time. It chanced that poor Dan's circumstances just at this moment made seclusion the safer policy, and so he forwarded the commission to Fagan.
The packages contained the wardrobe of Madame de Carew, and revealed the mystery of my father's marriage. Fagan's plans and speculations must have attained to a great maturity in his own mind, to account for the sudden shock which this intelligence gave him. He was habitually a cautious calculator, rarely or never carried away by hope beyond the bounds of stern reality, and only accepting the “probable” as the “possible.” In this instance, however, he must have suffered himself a wider latitude of expectation, for the news almost stunned him. Vague as were the chances of obtaining my father for a son-in-law, they were yet fair subjects of speculation; and he felt like one who secures a great number of tickets in a lottery, to augment his likelihood to win. Despite of all this, he had now to bear the disappointment of a “blank.” The great alliance on which he had built all his hopes of position and station was lost to him forever; and, unable to bear up against the unexpected stroke of fortune, he feigned illness and withdrew.
It is very difficult for some men to sever the pain of a disappointment from a sense of injury towards the innocent cause of it. Unwilling to confess that they have calculated ill, they turn their anger into some channel apart from themselves. In the present case Fagan felt as if my father had done him a foul wrong, as though he had been a party to the deceit he practised on himself, and had actually traded on the hopes which stirred his own heart. He hastened home, and, passing through the little shop, entered the dingy parlor behind it.
At a large, high desk, at each side of which stood innumerable pigeon-holes, crammed with papers, a very diminutive man was seated writing. His suit of snuff-brown was worn and threadbare, but scrupulously clean, as was also the large cravat of spotless white which enclosed his neck like a pillory. His age might have been about fifty-one or two; some might have guessed him more, for his features were cramped and contracted with wrinkles, which, with the loss of one of his eyes from small-pox, made him appear much older than he was. His father had been one of the first merchants of Dublin, in whose ruin and bankruptcy, it was said, Fagan's father had a considerable share. The story also ran that Joe Raper—such was his name—had been the accepted suitor of her who subsequently married Fagan. The marriage having been broken off when these disasters became public, young Raper was forced by poverty to relinquish his career as a student of Trinity College, and become a clerk in Fagan's office and an inmate of his house. In this station he had passed youth and manhood, and was now growing old; his whole ambition in life being to see the daughter of his former sweetheart grow up in beauty and accomplishments, and to speculate with himself on some great destiny in store for her. Polly's mother had died within two years after her marriage, and to her child had Joe transmitted all the love and affection he had borne to herself. He had taken charge of her education from infancy, and had labored hard himself to acquire such knowledge as might keep him in advance of his gifted pupil. But for this self-imposed task it is more than likely that all his little classic lore had been long forgotten, and that the graceful studies of his earlier days had been obliterated by the wear and tear of a life so little in unison with them. To be her teacher, he had toiled through the long hours of the night, hoarding up his miserable earnings to buy some coveted book of reference, some deeply prized authority in criticism. By dint of downright labor,—for his was not one of those bright intelligences that acquire as if by instinct,—he had mastered several of the modern languages of Europe, and refreshed his knowledge of the ancient ones. With such companionship and such training, Polly Fagan's youth had been fashioned into that strange compound, where high ambitions and gentle tastes warred with each other, and the imaginative faculties were cultivated amidst views of life alone suggestive of gain and money-getting.
If Fagan took little interest in the care bestowed by Raper on his daughter's education, he was far from indifferent to the devotion of his faithful follower; while Joe, on the other hand, well knowing that without him the complicated business of the house could not be carried on for a single day, far from presuming on his indispensable services, only felt the more bound in honor to endure any indignity rather than break with one so dependent on him. It had been a kind of traditionary practice with the Fagans not to keep regular books, but to commit all their transactions to little fragments of paper, which were stuffed, as it seemed, recklessly into some one or other of that vast nest of pigeon-holes, which, like a gigantic honeycomb, formed the background of Joe Raper's desk, and of which he alone, of men, knew the secret geography. No guide existed to these mysterious receptacles, save when occasionally the name of some suitor of uncommon importance appeared over a compartment; and as an evidence of what a share our family enjoyed in such distinction, I have heard that the word “Carew” figured over as many as five of these little cells.
Joe turned round hastily on his stool as his chief entered, and saluted him with a respectful bow; and then, as if continuing some unbroken thread' of discourse, said, “Whyte is protested,—Figgis and Read stopped.”
“What of Grogan?” said Fagan, harshly.
“Asks for time. If he sells his stock at present prices, he 'll be a heavy loser.”
“So let him,—say that we'll proceed.”
“The writ can't run there; he lives in Mayo.”
“We 'll try it.”
“We did so before, and the sub-sheriff was shot.”
“Attorneys are plenty,—we 'll send down another.”
“Hump!” muttered Joe, as he turned over a folio of papers before him. “Ay, here it is,” said he. “Oliver Moore wishes to go to America, and will give up his lease; he only begs that you will vouchsafe to him some small compensation—”
“Compensation! That word is one of yours, Mr. Raper, and I've no doubt has a classical origin,—you got it in Homer, perhaps; but, let me tell you, sir, that it is a piece of vulgar cant, and, what is worse, a swindle! Ay, grow pale if you like; but I 'll repeat the word,—a swindle! When a man wants to sell a pair of old boots, does he think of charging for all the blacking he has put on them for the three years before? And yet that is precisely what you dignify with the name of compensation. Tell him if he built a house, that he lived in it; if he fenced the land, that the neighbors' cattle made fewer trespasses; if he drained, the soil was the drier. Your cry of compensation won't do, Raper. I might as well ask an insurance office to pay me for taking care of my health, and give me a bonus whenever I took castor oil!”
“The cases are not alike, sir. If his improvements be of a permanent character—”
“Is this an office, Mister Raper, or is it a debating society?” broke in Fagan. “My answer to Moore is, pay, and go—to the devil, if he likes.”
“Sir Harry Wheeler,” continued Joe, “writes from Cheltenham that he thinks there must be a mistake about the bill for three hundred and forty odd,—that it was included In the bond he gave in September last.”
“File a bill, send for Crowther, and let him proceed against him.”
“But I think he 's right, sir; the memorandum is somewhere here. I put it amongst the W's; for we have no box for Sir Harry.”
“It's a nice way to keep accounts, Mister Raper; I must say it's very creditable to you,” said Fagan, who, when any inaccuracy occurred, always reproached Joe with the system that he rigidly compelled him to follow. “Perhaps it's classical, however; maybe it's the way the ancients did it! But I 'll tell you what, sir, you 'd cut an ugly figure before the courts if you came to be examined; your Latin and Greek wouldn't screen you there.”
“Here it is,—here's the note,” said Joe, who had all the while been prosecuting his search. “It's in your own hand, and mentions that this sum forms a portion of the debt now satisfied by his bond.”
“Cancel the bill, and tell him so. What's that letter yonder?”
“It is marked 'strictly private and confidential,' sir; but comes from Walter Carew, Esq.”
“Then why not give it to me at once? Why keep pottering about every trifle of no moment, sir?” said Fagan, as he broke the seal, and drew near to the window to read. It was very brief, and ran thus:—
Dear Fagan,—Shylock could n't hold a candle to you; such
an infernal mess of interest, compound interest, costs, and
commission as you have sent me I never beheld! However, for
the present I must endure all your exactions, even to the
tune of fifty per cent. Let me have cash for the enclosed
three bills, for one thousand each, drawn at the old dates,
and, of course, to be 'done' at the old discount.
I have just taken a wife, and am in want of ready money to
buy some of the customary tomfooleries of the occasion.
Regards to Polly and her fat terrier.
Yours, in haste,
Walter Carew.
“Read that,” said Fagan, handing the letter to his clerk, while the veins in his forehead swelled out with passion, and his utterance grew hoarse and thick.
Raper carefully perused the note, and then proceeded to examine the bills, when Fagan snatched them rudely from his hand.
“It was his letter I bade you read,—the gross insolence of his manner of addressing me. Where's his account, Raper? How does he stand with us?”
“That's a long affair to make out,” said Joe, untying a thick roll of papers.
“I don't want details. Can you never understand that? Tell me in three words how he stands.”
“Deeply indebted,—very deeply indebted, sir,” said Joe, poring over the papers.
“Tell Crowther to come over this evening at six o'clock, and write to Carew by this post, thus:—
“'Mr. Fagan regrets that in the precarious condition of the money market he is obliged to return you the bills, herewith enclosed, without acceptance. Mr. F., having some large and pressing claims to meet, desires to call your attention to the accompanying memorandum, and to ask at what early period it will be your convenience to make an arrangement for its settlement.'
“Make out an account and furnish it, Raper; we'll see how he relishes Shylock when he comes to read that.”
Joseph sat with the pen in his hand, as if deep in thought.
“Do you hear me, Raper?” asked Fagan, in a harsh voice.
“I do,” said the other, and proceeded to write.
“There's a judgment entered upon Carew's bond of February, isn't there?”
“There is! Crowther has it in his office.”
“That's right. We 'll see and give him a pleasant honeymoon.” And with these words, uttered with an almost savage malevolence, he passed out into the street.
Joe Raper's daily life was a path on which the sunlight seldom fell; but this day it seemed even darker than usual, and as he sat and wrote, many a heavy sigh broke from him, and more than once did he lay down his pen and draw his hand across his eyes. Still he labored on, his head bent down over his desk, in that selfsame spot where he had spent his youth, and was now dropping down into age unnoticed and unthought of. Of those who came and went from that dreary room, who saw and spoke with him, how many were there who knew him, who even suspected what lay beneath that simple exterior! To some he was but the messenger of dark tidings, the agent of those severe measures which Fagan not unfrequently employed against his clients. To others he seemed a cold, impassive, almost misanthropic being, without a tie to bind him to his fellow-man; while not a few even ascribed to his influences all the harshness of the “Grinder.” It is more than likely that he never knew of, never suspected, the different judgments thus passed on him. So humbly did he think of himself, so little disposed was he to fancy that he could be an object of attention to any, the chances are that he was spared this source of mortification. Humility was the basis of his whole character, and by its working was every action of his simple life influenced. It might be a curious subject of inquiry how far this characteristic was fashioned by his habits of reading and of thought. Holding scarcely any intercourse with the world of society, companionless as he was, his associates were the great writers of ancient or modern times,—the mighty spirits whose vast conceptions have created a world of their own. Living amongst them, animated by their glorious sentiments, feeling their thoughts, breathing their words, how natural that he should have fallen back upon himself with a profound sense of his inferiority! How meanly must he have thought of his whole career in life, in presence of such standards!
Upon this day Joe never once opened a book; the little volumes which lay scattered through his drawers were untouched, nor did he, as was his wont, turn for an instant to refresh himself in the loved pages of Metastasio or of Uhland. Whenever he had more than usual on hand, it was his custom not to dine with the family, but to eat something as he sat at his desk. Such was his meal now: a little bread and cheese, washed down by a glass of water.
“Miss Polly hopes you'll take a glass of wine, Mr. Joe,” said a maid-servant, as she appeared with a decanter in her hand.
“No! Thanks—thanks to Miss Polly; many thanks—and to you Margaret; not to-day. I have a good deal to do.” And he resumed his work with that air of determination the girl well knew brooked no interruption.
It was full an hour after sunset when he ceased writing; and then, laying his head down between his hands, he slept,—the sound, heavy sleep that comes of weariness. Twice or thrice had the servant to call him before he could awake, and hear that “Miss Polly was waiting tea for him.”
“Waiting for me!” cried he, in mingled shame and astonishment. “How forgetful I am; how very wrong of me! Is Mr. Crowther here, Margaret?”
“He came an hour ago, sir.”
“Dear me, how I have forgotten myself!” And he began gathering up his papers, the hard task of the day, in all haste. “Say I'm coming, Margaret; tell Miss Polly I'm so sorry.” And thus with many an excuse, and in great confusion, Raper hurried out of the office, and upstairs into the drawing-room.
Fagan's house was, perhaps, the oldest in the street, and was remarkable for possessing one of those quaint, old-fashioned windows, which, projecting over the door beneath,-formed a species of little boudoir, with views extending on either side. Here it was Polly's pleasure to sit, and here she now presided at her tea-table; while in a remote corner of the room her father and Mr. Crowther were deep in conversation.
“Have you finished the statement? Where 's the account?” cried Fagan, roughly interrupting the excuses that Raper was making for his absence.