Mr. O'Shea lay in his bed at the Bagni di Lucca. It was late in the afternoon, and he had not yet risen, being one of those who deem, to travesty the poet,—
That the best of all waysTo shorten our daysIs to add a few hours to the night, my dear.
In other words, he was ineffably bored and wearied, sick of the place, the people, and himself, and only wearing over the time as one might do the stated term of an imprisonment His agent—Mr. Mahony, the celebrated Mr. Miles Mahony, who was agent for all the Irish gentlemen of Mr. O'Shea's politics, and who has either estates very much encumbered, or no estates at all—had written him that letter, which might be stereotyped in every agent's office, and sent off indiscriminately by post, at due intervals, to any of the clients, for there was the same bead-roll of mishaps and calamities Ireland has been suffering under for centuries. Take any traveller or guide-book experience of the land, and it is a record of rain that never ceased. The Deluge was a passing April shower compared to the national climate. Ask any proprietor, however, more especially if a farmer, and he would tell you, “We're ruined, entirely ruined, with the drought,”—perhaps he 'd have called it “druth.” “If the rain doesn't fall before twenty-four hours, there will be no potatoes, no grass, no straw, the wheat won't fill, the cattle will be destroyed,” and so on; just as if the whole population was not soaked through like a wet sponge, and the earth a sludge of mud and swamp, to which Holland seems a sand-bank in comparison! Then came the runaway tenants, only varied by those who couldn't be induced to “run” on any terms. There was the usual “agrarian outrage,” with the increased police force quartered on the barony in consequence, and perhaps a threat of a special commission, with more expense besides. There was the extract of the judge's charge, saying that he never remembered so “heavy a calendar,” the whole winding up with an urgent appeal to send over ten or twenty pounds to repair the chapel or the priest's house, or contribute to some local object, “at your indifference to which there is very great discontent at this moment.”
A pleasant postcript also mentioned that a dissolution of Parliament was daily expected, and that it would be well you 'd “come home and look after the borough, where the Tories were working night and day to increase their influence.”
“Bad luck to them for Tories!” muttered he, as he threw the crumpled document from him. “I 'd have been well off to-day if it was n't for them. There's no telling the money the contested elections cost me, while, to make out that I was a patriot, I could n't take a place, but had to go on voting and voting out of the purity of my motives. It was an evil hour when I took to politics at all. Joe! Joe!” cried he, aloud, following up the appeal with a shrill whistle.
“Tear and ages, sure the house isn't on fire!” said a man, rushing into the room with an air and manner that little indicated the respect due from a servant to his master; “not to say,” added he, “that it's not dacent or becomin' to whistle after me, as if I was a tarrier or a bull-dog.”
“Hold your prate, will you?” said Mr. O'Shea.
“Why would I? 'Tis humiliated I am before all in the place.”
“Will you hold your prate?” muttered his master, in a deeper tone, while, stretching forth his hand, he seemed in search of any missile to hurl at his mutinous follower.
“If I do, then, it's undher protest, mind that I put it on record that I 'm only yieldin' to the 'vis magiory.'”
“What o'clock is it?” yawned out O'Shea.
“It wants a trifle of four o'clock.”
“And the day,—what's it like?”
“Blazin' hot—hotter than yesterday—'hotter than New Orleens,' Mr. Quackinbosh says.”
“D—n Mr. Quackinbosh, and New Orleens too!” growled out O'Shea.
“With all my heart. He's always laughing at what he callsmyIrish, as if it was n't better thanhisEnglish.”
“Any strangers arrived?”
“Devil a one. Ould Pagnini says he 'll be ruined entirely; there never was such a set, he says, in the house before,—nothing called for but the reg'lar meals, and no wine but the drink of the country, that is n't wine at all.”
“He's an insolent scoundrel!”
“He is not. He is the dacentest man I seen since I come to Italy.”
“Will you hold your prate, or do you want me to kick you downstairs?”
“I do not!” said he, with a stern doggedness that was almost comic.
“Did you order breakfast?”
“I did, when I heard you screech out. 'There he is,' said ould Pan; 'I wish he 'd be in the same hurry to call for his bill.'”
“Insolent rascal! Did you blacken his eye?”
“I did not”
“What did you do, then?”
“I did nothing.”
“What did you say? You're ready enough with a bad tongue when it's not called for,—what did you say?”
“I said people called for their bills when they were lavin' a house, and too lucky you 'll be, says I, if he pays it when he calls for it.”
This seemed too much for Mr. O'Shea's endurance, for he sprang out of bed and hurled a heavy old olive-wood inkstand at his follower. Joe, apparently habituated to such projectiles, speedily ducked his head, and the missile struck the frame of an old looking-glass, and carried away a much-ornamented but very frail chandelier at its side.
“There's more of it,” said Joe. “Damage to furniture in settin'-room, forty-six pauls and a half.” With this sage reflection, he pushed the fragments aside with his foot, and then, turning to the door, he took from the hands of a waiter the tray containing his master's breakfast, arranging it deliberately before him with the most unbroken tranquillity of demeanor.
“Did n't you say it was chocolate I'd have instead of coffee?” said O'Shea, angrily.
“I did not; they grumble enough about sending up anything, and I was n't goin' to provoke them,” said Joe, calmly.
“No letters, I suppose, but this?”
“Sorra one.”
“What's going on below?” asked he, in a more lively tone, as though dismissing an unpleasant theme. “Any one come,—anything doing?”
“Nothing; they 're all off to that villa to spend the day, and not to be back till late at night.”
“Stupid fun, after all; the road is roasting, and the place, when you get there, not worth the trouble; but they 're so proud of visiting a baronet, that's the whole secret of it, those vulgar Morgans and that Yankee fellow.”
These mutterings he continued while he went on dressing, and though not intended to be addressed to Joe, he was in no wise disconcerted when that free-and-easy individual replied to them.
“'Your master 's not coming with us, I believe,' said Mrs. Morgan to me. 'I'm sure, however, there must have been a mistake. It 's so strange that he got no invitation.'
“'But he did, ma'am,' says I; 'he got a card like the rest.'”
“Well done, Joe; a lie never choked you. Go on,” cried O'Shea, laughing.
“'But you see, ma'am,' says I, 'my master never goes anywhere in that kind of promiscuous way. He expects to be called on and trated with “differince,” as becomes a member of Parliament—'
“'For Ireland?' says she.
“'Yes, ma'am,' says I. 'We haven't as many goats there as in other parts I 'm tould of, nor the females don't ride straddle legs, with men's hats on thim.'”
“You didn't say that?” burst in O'Shea, with a mock severity.
“I did, and more,—a great deal more. What business was it of hers that you were not asked to the picnic? What had she to say to it? Why did she follow me down the street the other morning, and stay watching all the time I was in at the banker's, and though, when I came out, I made believe I was stuffin' the bank-notes into my pocket, I saw by the impudent laugh on her face that she knew I got nothing?”
“By the way, you never told me what Twist and Trover said.”
“I did.”
“Well, what was it? Tell it again,” said O'Shea, angrily.
“Mr. Trover said, 'Of course, whatever your master wants, just step in there and show it to Mr. Twist;' and Mr. Twist said, 'Are you here again,' says he, 'after the warnin' I gave you? Go back and tell your master 't is takin' up his two last bills he ought to be, instead of passin' more.'
“' Mr. Trover, sir,' says I, 'sent me in.'
“'Well, Mr. Twist sent you out again,' says he, 'and there's your answer.'
“'Short and sweet,' says I, goin' out, and pretending to be putting up the notes as I went.”
“Did you go down to the other fellow's,—Macapes?”
“I did; but as he seen me coming out of the other place, he only ballyragged me, and said, 'We only discount for them as has letters of credit on us.'
“'Well,' says I, 'but who knows that they 're not coming in the post now?'
“'We 'll wait till we see them,' says he.
“'By my conscience,' says I, 'I hope you 'll not eat your breakfast till they come.' And so I walked away. Oh dear! is n't it a suspicious world?”
“It's a rascally world!” broke out O'Shea, with bitterness.
“It is!” assented Joe, with a positive energy there was no gainsaying.
“Is Mr. Layton gone with the rest this morning?”
“He is, and the Marquis. They 're a-horseback on two ponies not worth fifty shilling apiece.”
“And that counter-jumper, Mosely, I'll wager he too thinks himself first favorite for the heiress.”
“Well, then, in the name of all that's lucky, why don't you thry your own chance?” said Joe, coaxingly.
“Is n't it because Ididtry that they have left me out of this invitation? Is n't it because they saw I was like to be the winning horse that they scratched me out of the race? Is n't it just because Gorman O'Shea was the man to carry off the prize that they would n't let me enter the lists?”
“There 's only two more as rich as her in all England,” chimed in Joe, “and one of them will never marry any but the Emperor of Roosia.”
“She has money enough!” muttered O'Shea. “And neither father nor mother, brother, sister, kith or kin,” continued Joe, in a tone of exultation that seemed to say he knew of no such good luck in life as to stand alone and friendless in the world.
“Those Heathcotes are related to her.”
“No more than they are to you. I have it all from Miss Smithers, the maid. 'We 're as free as air, Mr. Rouse,' says she; 'wherever we have a “conceit,” we can follow it' That's plain talking, anyhow.”
“Would you marry Smithers, Joe?” said his master, with a roguish twinkle in his eye.
“Maybe, if I knew for what; though, by my conscience, she's no beauty!”
“I meant, of course, for a good consideration.”
“Not on a bill, though,—money down,—hard money.”
“And how much of it?” asked O'Shea, with a knowing look.
“The price of that place at Einsale.”
“The 'Trout and Triangle,' Joe?” laughed out his master. “Are you still yearning after being an innkeeper in your native town?”
“I am just that,” replied Joe, solemnly. “'T is what I 'd rather be than Lord Mayor of Dublin!”
“Well, it is an honorable ambition, no doubt of it. Nothing can be more reasonable, besides, than a man's desire to fill that station in life which, to his boyish ideas, seemed high and enviable.” This speech Mr. O'Shea delivered in a tone by which he occasionally turned to rehearse oratorical effects, and which, by some strange sympathy, always appeared to please his follower. “Yes, Joe,” continued he, “as the poet says, 'The child is father of the man.'”
“You mane the man is father of the child,” broke in Joe.
“I do not, booby; I meant what I have said, and what Wordsworth said before me.”
“The more fool he, then. It's nobody's father he 'd be. Arrah! that's the way you always spoil a fine sintiment with something out of a poet. Poets and play-actors never helped a man out of a ditch!”
“Will you marry this Smithers, if that be her name?” said O'Shea, angrily.
“For the place—”
“I mean as much.”
“I would, if I was treated—'raysonable,'” said he, pausing for a moment in search of the precise word he wanted.
Mr. O'Shea sighed heavily; his exchequer contained nothing but promises; and none knew better than his follower what such pledges were worth.
“It would be the making of you, Joe,” said he, after a brief silence, “if I was to marry this heiress.”
“Indeed, it might be,” responded the other.
“It would be the grand event ofyourlife, that's what it would be. What could I not do for you? You might be land-steward; you might be under-agent, bailiff, driver,—eh?”
“Yes,” said Joe, closing his eyes, as if he desired to relish the vision undisturbed by external distractions.
“I have always treated you as a sort of friend, Joe,—you know that.”
“I do, sir. I do, indeed.”
“And I mean to prove myself your friend too. It is not the man who has stuck faithfully by me that I 'd desert. Where's my dressing-gown?”
“She was torn under the arm, and I gave her to be mended; put this round you,” said he, draping a much-befrogged pelisse over his master's shoulders.
“These are not my slippers, you stupid ass!”
“They are the ould ones. Don't you remember shying one of the others, yesterday, at the organ-boy, and it fell in the river and was lost?”
Mr. O'Shea's brow darkened as he sat down to his meal. “Tell Pan,” said he, “to send me up some broth and a chop about seven. I must keep the house to-day, and be indisposed. And do you go over to Lucca, and raise me a few Naps on my 'rose-amethyst' ring. Three will do; five would be better, though.”
Joe sighed. It was a mission he had so often been charged with and never came well out of, since his master would invariably insist on hearing every step of the negotiation, and as unfailingly revenged upon his envoy all the impertinences to which the treaty gave rise.
“Don't come back with any insolent balderdash about the stone being false, or having a flaw in it. Holditch values it at two hundred and thirty pounds; and, if it wasn't a family ring, I'd have taken the money. And, mind you, don't be talking about whose it is,—it 's a gentleman waiting for his letters—”
“Sure I know,” burst in Joe; “his remittances, that ought to be here every day.”
“Just so; and that merely requires a few Naps—”
“To pay his cigars—”
“There's no need of more explanation. Away with you; and tell Bruno I 'll want a saddle-horse to-morrow, to be here at the door by two o'clock.”
Joe took his departure, and Mr. O'Shea was left to his own meditations.
It may seem a small cause for depression of spirits, but, in truth, it was always a day of deep humiliation to Mr. O'Shea when his necessities compelled him to separate himself from that cherished relic, his great-grandmother's ring. It had been reserved in his family, as a sort of charm, for generations; his grand-uncle Luke had married on the strength of it; his own father had flashed it in the eyes of Bath and Cheltenham, for many a winter, with great success; and he himself had so significantly pointed out incorrect items in his hotel bills, with the forefinger that bore it, that landlords had never pressed for payment, but gone away heart-full of the man who owned such splendor.
It would be a curious subject to inquire how many men have owed their distinction or success in life to some small adjunct, some adventitious appendage of this kind; a horse, a picture, a rare bronze, a statue, a curious manuscript, a fragment of old armor, have made their owners famous, when they have had the craft to merge their identity in the more absorbing interest of the wondrous treasure. And thus the man that owns the winner of the Derby, a great cup carved by Cellini, or achef-d'oeuvreof Claude or Turner, may repose upon the fame of his possession, identified as he is with so much greatness. Oh! ye possessors of show places, handsome wives, rare gardens, or costly gems, in what borrowed bravery do ye meet the world! Not that in this happy category Mr. O'Shea had his niche; no, he was only the owner of a ring—a rose-amethyst ring—whose purity was perhaps not more above suspicion than his own. And yet it had done him marvellous service on more than one occasion. It had astonished the bathers at St. Leonard, and dazzled the dinner company at Tunbridge Wells; Harrogate had winked under it, and Malvern gazed at it with awe; and society, so to say, was divided into those who knew the man from the ring, and those who knew the ring from the man.
Our reader has been told how Mrs. Penthony Morris stormed the Villa Caprini, established herself, child, maid, and Skye terrier within its walls, and became, ere many days went over, a sort of influence in the place. It is not in chemistry alone that a single ingredient, minute and scarce perceptible, can change the property and alter all the quality of the mass with which it is mingled. Human nature exhibits phenomena precisely alike, and certain individuals possess the marvellous power of tingeing the world they mix in, with their own hue and color, and flavoring society with sweet or bitter, as temper induces them. The first and most essential quality of such persons is a rapid—an actually instinctive—appreciation of the characters they meet, even passingly, in the world's intercourse. They have not to spell out temperaments slowly and laboriously. To them men's natures are not written in phonetic signs or dark symbols, but in letters large and legible. They see, salute, speak with you, and they understand you. Not, perhaps, as old friends know you, with reference to this or that minute trick of mind or temper, but, with a far wider range of your character than even old friends have taken, they know your likes and dislikes, the things you fear and hope, the weak points you would fortify, and sometimes the strong ones you would mask,—in a word, for all the purposes of intercourse, they are able to estimate your strength and weakness, and all this ere, perhaps, you have noted the accents of their voice or the color of their eyes.
The lady of whom it is now our business to speak was one of this gifted class. Whence she came, and how she became such, we are not about to enter upon. She had had her share of trials, and yet was both young and good-looking; her good looks in no wise evidencing the vestiges of any sorrow. Whether a widowed or deserted wife, she bore bereavement admirably; indeed, so far as one could see, she professed a very rare ethical philosophy. Her theory was, the world was a very nice world, the people in it very nice people; life itself a very nice thing; and that people, generally speaking, only needed their own consent to be very happy and contented. She had, it is true, some very able adjuncts to carry out her system. There was scarcely an acquirement that she did not possess reasonably well; she spoke several languages, sang, rode, drew, played billiards most gracefully, and could manufacture the most charming cigarettes that ever were smoked. Some of these are envied qualities, and suggest envy; but against this she was careful to guard, and this by a very simple method indeed. In whatever she did, tried, or attempted, she always asked your advice. She had carefully studied the effect of the imputed superiority of those who counsel their neighbors, and she saw in its working one of the most tangible of all human weaknesses. The tendency to guide and direct others is a very popular one. Generous people practise it out of their generosity; gentle natures indulge in the practice in very sympathy. To stern moralists it is an occasion for the hard lessons they love to inculcate. The young are pleased with its importance; the old are gratified to exercise their just prerogative. “Tell me how do you do this;” or, “Teach me how to correct that;” “What would you advise inmyplace?” or, “What reply would you give to that?” are appeals that involve a very subtle flattery. Every man, and more decisively too, every woman, likes to be deemed shrewd and worldly-wise. Now, Mrs. Morris had reflected deeply over this trait, and saw to what good account care and watchfulness might turn it. He who seeks to be guided by another makes his appeal in a guise of humility, besides, which is always a flattery, and when this is done artfully, with every aid from good looks and a graceful manner, success is rarely wanting; and lastly, it is the only form of selfishness the world neither resents nor repudiates.
He who comes to you with a perfectly finished tale of his misfortunes, with “Finis” written on the last volume of his woes, is simply a bore; whereas he who approaches you while the catastrophe yet hangs impending, has always an interest attached to him. He may marry the heiress yet, he may be arrested on that charge of forgery, obtain that Cross of the Bath, or be shot in that duel; you are at least talking to a man Fortune has not done with, and this much is something.
Mrs. Morris had been little more than a fortnight domesticated at the Villa Caprini, where her weakness still detained her, and yet she had contrived to consult Sir William about her fortune, invested, almost entirely, in “Peruvians,” which her agent, Mr. Halker, had told her were “excellent;” but whether the people of that name, or the country, or the celebrated Bark, was the subject of the investment, she really professed not to know.
To May Leslie she had confided the great secret of her heart,—an unpublished novel; a story mainly comprised of the sad events of her own life, and the propriety of giving which to the world was the disputed question of her existence.
As to Charles, she had consulted him how best to disembarrass herself of the attentions of Mr. Mosely, who was really become a persecutor. She owned that in asking his counsel she could not impart to him all the circumstances which he had a right to be possessed of,—she appealed to his delicacy not to question her. So that whether wife or widow, he knew not what she might be, and, in fact, she even made of the obscurity another subject of his interest, and so involved him in her story that he could think of nothing else. She managed each of these confidences with such consummate skill that each believed himself her one sole trusted friend, depositary of her cares, refuge of her sorrows; and while thus insinuating herself into a share of their sympathy, she displayed, as though by mere accident, many of her attractions, and gave herself an opportunity of showing how interesting she was in her sorrow and how fascinating in her joy!
The Heathcotes—father, son, and niece—were possessed of a very ample share of the goods of fortune. They had health, wealth, freedom to live where and how they liked.
They were well disposed towards each other and towards the world; inclined to enjoy life, and suited to its enjoyment. But somehow, pretty much like some mass of complicated machinery, which by default of some small piece of mechanism—a spring, a screw, or a pinion the more—stands idle and inert,—all its force useless, all its power unused, they had no pursuit,—did nothing. Mrs. Morris was exactly the motive power wanting; and by her agency interests sprang up, occupations were created, pleasures invented. Without bustle, without even excitement, the dull routine of the day grew animate; the hours sped glibly along. Little Clara, too, was no small aid to this change. In the quiet monotony of a grave household a child's influence is magical. As the sight of a butterfly out at sea brings up thoughts of shady alleys and woodbine-covered windows, of “the grass and the flowers among the grass,” so will a child's light step and merry voice throw a whole flood of sunny associations over the sad-colored quietude of some old house. Clara was every one's companion and everywhere,—with Charles as he fished, with May Leslie in the flower-garden, with old Sir William in the orangery, or looking over pictures beside him in the long-galleried library.
Mrs. Morris herself was yet too great an invalid for an active life. Her chair would be wheeled out into the lawn, under the shade of an immense weeping-ash, and there, during the day, as to some “general staff,” came all the “reports” of what was doing each morning. Newspapers and books would be littered about her, and even letters brought her to read, from dear friends, with whose names conversation had made her familiar. A portion of time was, however, reserved for Clara's lessons, which no plan or project was ever suffered to invade.
It may seem a somewhat dreary invitation if we ask our readers to assist at one of these mornings. Pinnock and Mrs. Barbauld and Mangnall are, perhaps, not the company to their taste, nor will they care to cast up multiplications, or stumble through the blotted French exercise. Well, we can only pledge ourselves not to exaggerate the infliction of these evils. And now to our task. It is about eleven o'clock of a fine summer's day, in Italy; Mrs. Morris sits at her embroidery-frame, under the long-branched willow; Clara, at a table near, is drawing, her long silky curls falling over the paper, and even interfering with her work, as is shown by an impatient toss of her head, or even a hastier gesture, as with her hands she flings them back upon her neck.
“It was to Charley I said it, mamma,” said she, without lifting her head, and went on with her work.
“Have I not told you, already, to call him Mr. Charles Heathcote, or Mr. Heathcote, Clara?”
“But he says he won't have it.”
“What an expression,—'won't have it'!”
“Well, I know,” cried she, with impatience; and then laughingly said, “I 've forgot, in a hurry, old dear Lindley Murray.”
“I beg of you to give up that vile trash of doggerel rhyme. And now what was it you said to Mr. Heathcote?”
“I told him that I was an only child,—'a violet on a grassy bank, in sweetness all alone,' as the little book says.”
“And then he asked about your papa; if you remembered him?”
“No, mamma.”
“He made some mention, some allusion, to papa?”
“Only a little sly remark of how fond he must be ofme, orIofhim.”
“And what did you answer?”
“I only wiped my eyes, mamma; and then he seemed so sorry to have given me pain that he spoke of something else. Like Sir Guyon,—
“'He talked of roses, lilies, and the rest,The shady alley, and the upland swelling;Wondered what notes birds warbled in their nest,What tales the rippling river then was telling.'”
“And then you left him, and came away?” said her mother.
“Yes, mamma. I said it was my lesson time, and that you were so exact and so punctual that I did not dare to be late.”
“Was it then he asked if mamma had always been your governess, Clara?”
“No; it was May that asked that question. May Leslie has a very pretty way of pumping, mamma, though you 'd not suspect it She begins with the usual 'Are you very fond of Italy?' or 'Don't you prefer England?' and then 'What part of England?'”
Mrs. Morris bit her lip, and colored slightly; and then, laying her work on her lap, stared steadfastly at the girl, still deeply intent on her drawing.
“I like them to begin that way,” continued Clara. “It costs no trouble to answer such bungling questions; and whenever they push me closer, I 've an infallible method, mamma,—it never fails.”
“What's that?” asked her mother, dryly.
“I just say, as innocently as possible, 'I 'll run and ask mamma; I 'm certain she 'll be delighted to tell you.' And then, if you only saw the shame and confusion they get into, saying, 'On no account, Clara dearest. I had no object in asking. It was mere idle talking,' and so on. Oh dear! what humiliation all their curiosity costs them!”
“You try to be too shrewd, too cunning, Miss Clara,” said her mother, rebukingly. “It is a knife that often cuts with the handle. Be satisfied with discovering people's intentions, and don't plume yourself about the cleverness of finding them out, or else, Clara,”—and here she spoke more slowly,—“or else, Clara, they will findyouout too.”
“Oh, surely not, while I continue the thoughtless, guileless little child mamma has made me,” said she. And the tears rose to her eyes, with an expression of mingled anger and sorrow it was sad to see in one so young.
“Clara!” cried her mother, in a voice of angry meaning; and then, suddenly checking herself, she said, in a lower tone, “let there be none of this.”
“Sir William asked me how old I was, mamma.”
“And you said—”
“I believed twelve. Is it twelve? I ought to know, mamma, something for certain, for I was eleven two years ago, and then I have been ten since that; and when I was your sister, at Brighton, I was thirteen.”
“Do you dare—” But ere she said more, the child had buried her head between her hands, and, by the convulsive motion of her shoulders, showed that she was sobbing bitterly. The mother continued her work, unmoved by this emotion. She took occasion, it is true, when lifting up the ball of worsted which had fallen, to glance furtively towards the child; but, except by this, bestowed no other notice on her.
“Well,” cried the little girl, with a half-wild laugh, as she flung backher yellow hair, “Anderson says,—“'On joy comes grief,—on mirth comes sorrow;We laugh to-day, that we may cry to-morrow.'
And I believe one is just as pleasant as the other,—eh, mamma?Youought to know.”
“This is one of your naughty days, Clara, and I had hoped we had seen the last of them,” said her mother, in a grave but not severe tone.
“The naughty days are much more like to see the last ofme,” said the child, half aloud, and with a heavy sigh.
“Clara,” said her mother, in the same calm, quiet voice, “I have made you my friend and my confidante at an age when any other had treated you with strict discipline and reserve. You have been taught to see life—as my sad experience revealed it to me, too—too late.”
“And for me, too—too soon!” burst in the child, passionately.
“Here 's poor Clara breaking her heart over her exercise,” burst in Sir William, as he came forward, and, stooping over the child, kissed her twice on the forehead. “Do let me have a favor to-day, and let this be a holiday.”
“Oh, yes, by all means,” cried she, eagerly, clapping her hands.
“The lizard can lie in the sun, and bask'Mid the odor of fragrant herbs;Little knows he of a wearisome task,Or the French irregular verbs.“The cicala, too, in the long deep grass,All day sings happily,And I'd venture to swearHe has never a care For the odious rule of three.“And as for the bee,And his industry—”
“Oh, what a rhyme” laughed in Mrs. Morris.
“Oh, let her go on,” cried Sir William. “Go on, Clara.”
“And as for the bee,And his industry,I distrust his toilsome hours,For he roves up and down,Like a 'man upon town,'With a natural taste for flowers.
There, mamma, no more,—not another the whole day long, I promise you,” cried she, as she threw her arms around her neck and kissed her affectionately.
“Oh, these doggerel rhymesAre like nursery chimes,That sang us to sleep long ago.
I declare I'm forgetting already; so I'll go and look for Charley, and help him to tie greendrakes, and the rest of them.”
“What a strange child!” said Sir William, as he looked fondly after her as she fled across the lawn.
“I have never seen her so thoroughly happy before,” said Mrs. Morris, with a faint sigh. “This lovely place, these delicious gardens, these charming old woods, the villa itself, so full of objects of interest, have made up a sort of fairy-tale existence for her which is positive enchantment. It is, indeed, high time we should tear ourselves away from fascinations which will leave all life afterwards a very dull affair.”
“Oh, that day is very distant, I should hope,” said he, with sincere cordiality; “indeed, my ward and myself were, this very morning, plotting by what pretext, by what skilful devices, we could induce you to spend your autumn with us.”
Mrs. Morris covered her face, as if to conceal her emotion, but a faint sob was still audible from beneath her handkerchief. “Oh!” cried she, in a faint and broken voice, “if you but knew in what a wounded heart you have poured this balm!—if I could tell—what I cannot tell you—at least, not yet—No, no, Sir William, we must leave this. I have already written to my agent about letters for Alexandria and Cairo. You know,” she added, with a sad smile, “the doctors have sentenced me to Egypt for the winter.”
“These fellows are mere alarmists. Italy is the best climate in the world, or, rather, it has all the climates in the world; besides, I have some wonderful counsel to give you about your bonds. I intend that Miss Clara shall be the great heiress of her day. At all events, you shall settle it with May.” And so, with that dread of a scene, a sort of terror about everything emotional,—not very unnatural in gentlemen of a certain time of life, and with strong sanguineous temperaments,—Sir William hurried away and left her to her own reflections.
Thus alone, Mrs. Morris took a letter from her pocket, and began to read it. Apparently the document had been perused by her before, for she passed hastily over the first page, scarcely skimming the lines with her eye. It was as if to give increased opportunity for judgment on the contents that she muttered the words as she read them. They ran thus:—
“A month or six weeks back our proposal might have been accepted, so at least Collier thinks; but he is now in funds, has money in abundance, andyouknowwhathe is at such moments. When Collier went to him at his lodgings in King Street, he found him in high spirits, boasting that he occupied the old quarters of the French Emperor,—that he had even succeeded to his arm-chair and his writing-table. 'A splendid augury, Tom,' said he, laughing. 'Who knows but I, too, shall be “restored” one of these days?' After some bantering he stopped suddenly, and said, ' By the way, what the devil brings you here? Is n't it something about Loo? They say you want to marry her yourself, Collier,—is that true?' Not heeding C.'s denial, given in all solemnity, he went on to show that you could be no possible use to Collier,—that he himself could utilize your abilities, and give your talents a fitting sphere; whereas in Collier's set you would be utterly lost. C. said it was as good as a play to hear his talk of all the fine things you might have done, and might yet do, in concert. 'Then there's Clara, too,' cried he, again; 'she 'll make the greatest hit of our day. She can come out for a season at the Haymarket, and she can marry whoever she likes.' Once in this vein, it was very hard to bring him back to anything like a bargain. Indeed, Collier says he would n't hear of any but immense terms,—ridiculed the notion of your wanting to be free, for mere freedom's sake, and jocularly said, 'Tell me frankly, whom doesshewant to marry? or who wants to marryher!I 'm not an unreasonable fellow if I 'm treated on “the square.”' Collier assured him that you only desired liberty, that you might take your own road in life. 'Then let her take it, by all means,' cried he. 'I am not molesting her,—never have molested her, even when she went so far as to call herself by another name; she need n't cry out before she's hurt;' and so on. C. at last brought him to distinct terms, and he said, 'She shall cut the painter for five thousand; she's worth to me every guinea of it, and I'll not take less.' Of course, Collier said these were impossible conditions; and then they talked away about other matters. You know his boastful way, and how little reliance can be laid on any statement he makes; but certain it is, Collier came away fully impressed with the flourishing condition of his present fortune, his intimacy with great people, and his actual influence with men in power. That this is not entirely fabulous I have just received a most disagreeable proof. When Collier rose to go away, he said, 'By the way, you occasionally see Nick Holmes; well, just give him a hint to set his house in order, for they are going to stop payment of that Irish pension of his. It appears, from some correspondence of Lord Cornwallis that has just turned up, Nick's pension was to be continued for a stated term of years, and that he has been in receipt of it for the last six years without any right whatever. It is very hard on Nick,' said he, 'seeing that he sold himself to the devil, not at least to be his own master in this world. I 'm sorry for the old dog on family grounds, for he is at least one of my father-in-laws.' I quote his words as Collier gave them, and to-day I have received a Treasury order to forward to the Lords a copy of the letter or warrant under which I received my pension. I mean simply to refer them to my evidence on Shehan's trial, where my testimony hanged both father and son. If this incident shows nothing else, it demonstrates the amount of information he has of what is doing or to be done in Downing Street. As to the pension, I 'm not much afraid; my revelations of 1808 would be worse than the cost of me in the budget.
“If I find that nothing can be done with Ludlow, I don't think I shall remain here longer, and the chances are that I shall take a run as far as Baden, and who says not over the Alps after? Don't be frightened, dear Loo, we shall meet at the sametable d'hôte, drink at the same public spring, bet on the same card atrouge-et-noir, and I will never betray either of us. Of your Heathcotes I can learn next to nothing. There was a baronet of the name who ruined himself by searches after a title—an earldom, I believe—and railroad speculations, but he died, or is supposed to have died, abroad. At all events, your present owners of the name keep a good house, and treat you handsomely, so that there can be no great mistake in knowing them. Sufficient for the day is the evil—as the old saying is; and it is a wise one if we understood how to apply it.
“I have been twice with Hadson and Reames, but there is nothing to be done. They say that the town does not care for a wife's book against her husband; they have the whole story better told, and on oath, in the Divorce Court. A really slashing volume of a husband against his wife might, however, take; he could say a number of things would amuse the public, and have a large sympathy with him. These are Hadson's or Reames's words, I don't know which, for they always talk together. How odd thatyoushould have thought of the ballet for Clara just as I had suggested it! Of course, till free of Ludlow, it is out of the question. I am sorry to seal and send off such a disagreeable letter, dear Louisa, but who knows the sad exigencies of this weary world better than your affectionate father,
“N. Holmes.
“I accidentally heard yesterday that there was actually a Mrs. Penthony Morris travelling somewhere in Switzerland. Washington Irving, I believe, once chanced upon a living Ichabod Crane, when he had flattered himself that the name was his own invention. The complication in the present case might be embarrassing. So bear it in mind.”
“Tant pis pour elle, whoever the other Mrs. Morris may be,” said she, laughing, as she folded up the letter, and half mechanically regarded the seal. “You ought to change your crest, respectable father mine,” muttered she; “the wags might say that your portcullis was a gallows.” And then, with a weary sigh, she closed her eyes, and fell a-thinking.
That quiet, tranquil, even-tempered category of mankind, whose present has few casualties, and whose future is, so far as human foresight can extend, assured to them, can form not the slightest conception of the mingled pleasure and pain that chequer the life of “the adventurer.” The man who consents to gamble existence, has all the violent ecstasies of joy and grief that wait on changeful fortunes.
“Shall I hit upon the right number this time? Will red win once more? Is the run of luck good or ill, or, it may be, exhausted?” These are questions ever rising to his mind; and what contrivance, what preparation, what spirit of exigency do they evoke! Theirs is a hand-to-hand conflict with Fate; they can subsidize no legions, skulk behind no parapets; in open field must the war be carried on; and what a cruel war it becomes when every wound festers into a crime!
This young and pretty woman, on whose fair features not a painful line was traced, and whose beautifully chiselled mouth smiled with a semblance of inward peace, was just then revolving thoughts little flattering to humanity generally. She had, all young as she was, arrived at the ungracious conclusion that what are called the good are mere dupes, and that every step in life's ladder only lifts us higher and higher out of the realm of kindly sympathies and affections. Reading the great moralist in a version of their own, such people deem all virtue “vanity,” and the struggles and sacrifices it entails, “vexation of spirit.” Let us frankly own that Mrs. Morris did not lose herself in any world of abstractions; she was eminently practical, and would no more have thrown away her time in speculations on humanity generally than would a whist-player, in the crisis of the odd trick, have suffered his mind to wander away to the manufactory where the cards were made, and the lives and habits of those who made them.
And now she had to think over Sir William, of whom she was half afraid; of Charles, whom she but half liked; and of May, whom she half envied. There were none of them very deep or difficult to read, but she had seen enough of life to know that many people, like fairy tales, are simple in perusal, but contain some subtle maxim, some cunning truth, in their moral. Were these of this order? She could not yet determine; how, therefore, should we? And so we leave her.