It was a cabinet council; they were met in Lady Dorothea's boudoir, Martin and Mr. Repton being summoned to her presence. A letter had that morning reached her Ladyship from a very high quarter; the writer was the Marquis of Reckington, a very distant connection, who had suddenly been graciously pleased, after a long interval of utter obliviousness, to remember that Lady Dorothea was his relative, and yet living! Whatever pride her Ladyship might have summoned to her aid to repel the slights or impertinences of the vulgar, she displayed a most Christian forgiveness as she broke the seal of an epistle from one who had left several of her own without answers, and even replied to her application for a staff appointment for her son, by a cold assurance that these were times when “nothing but fitness and superior qualifications entitled any man to advancement in the public service.” Oh dear, were there ever any other times since the world was made! Is not merit the only passport to place, and high desert and capacity the sole recommendation to favor? Of all the immense advantages of a representative government, is there any more conspicuous than the unerring certainty with which men of ability rise to eminence without other aid than their own powers; and that, in a system like ours, family influence, wealth, name, connections, and parliamentary support are just so much mere dross? If any one be incredulous of the virtue of public men, let him only ask for a place; let him entreat his great friend—everybody has at least one great friend—mine is a coroner—to make him a Junior Lord, or a Vice-Something, and see what the answer will be. Polite, certainly; nothing more so; but what a rebuke to self-seeking!—what a stern chastisement to the ignorant presumption that places are awarded by means of favor, or that the public service is ever filled through the channels of private influence! Far from it. He is told that our age is an incorruptible one, that ministers pass sleepless nights in balancing the claims of treasury clerks, and that Lord Chancellors suffer agonies in weighing the merits of barristers of six years' standing. “We have but one rule for our guidance: the best man in the best place.” A high-sounding maxim, which it would be excessively uncivil to disparage by asking what constitutes “a best man.” Is he some unscrupulous partisan, who first gave his fortune, and afterwards his fame, to the support of a party? Is he the indisputable disposer of three, or perhaps four votes in the House? Is he a floating buoy to be anchored in either roadstead of politics, and only to be secured to either, for a consideration? Is he the dangerous confidant of some damaging transaction? Or is he the deserter from a camp, where his treason may sow disaffection? These several qualifications have ere this served to make up “a best man;” and strangely enough, are gifts which fit him for the Army, the Navy, the Home Service, or the Colonies.
Let us turn from this digression, into which we have fallen half inadvertently, and read over some parts of Lord Reckington's letter. It was somewhat difficult to decipher, as most great men's letters are, and displayed in more than one place the signs of correction. Although it had been, as we have said, a very long time since any correspondence had occurred between the “cousins,” his Lordship resumed the intercourse as though not a week had intervened. After a little playful chiding over the laxity of her Ladyship's writing habits,—three of hers had been left unreplied to,—and some of that small gossip of family changes and events, never interesting to any but the direct actors, his Lordship approached the real topic of his letter; and, as he did so, his writing grew firmer, and larger and bolder, like the voice of a man who spoke of what truly concerned him.
“I thought, my dear Dora, I had done with it all. I flattered myself that I had served my time in public capacities, and that neither the Crown nor its advisers could reasonably call upon me for further sacrifices.Youknow how little to my taste were either the cares or ambitions of office. In fact, as happens to most men who are zealous for the public service, my official career imposed far more of sacrifices than it conferred privileges. Witness the occasions in which I was driven to reject the claims of my nearest and dearest friends, in compliance with that nervous terror of imputed favoritism so fatal to all in power! I thought, as I have said, that they had no fair claim upon me any longer. I asked nothing; indeed, many thought I was wrong there. But so it was; I quitted office without a pension, and without a ribbon! It was late on a Saturday evening, however, when a Cabinet messenger arrived at 'Beech Woods' with an order for me to repair at once to Windsor. I was far from well; but there was no escape. Immediately on arriving I was summoned to the presence, and before I had paid my respects, his Majesty, who was much excited, said, 'Reckington, we want you. You must go to Ireland!' I believe I started, for he went on, 'I 'll have no refusal. There is but one settlement of this question that I will accept of. You shall go to Ireland!' The King then entered with considerable warmth, but with all his own remarkable perspicuity, into a detail of late changes and events in the Cabinet. He was excessively irritated with B———, and spoke of G———as one whom he never could forgive. He repeatedly said, 'I have been duped; I have been tricked;' and, in fact, exhibited a degree of emotion which, combined with the unbounded frankness of his manner towards me, affected me almost to tears. Of course, my dear Dora, personal considerations ceased at once to have any hold upon me; and I assured his Majesty that the remainder of my life was freely at his disposal, more than requited, as it already was, by the precious confidence he had that day reposed in me. I must not weary you with details. I accepted and kissed hands as Viceroy on Monday morning; since that I have been in daily communication with G———, who still remains in office. We have discussed Ireland from morning to night, and I hope and trust have at last come to a thorough understanding as to the principles which must guide the future administration. These I reserve to talk over with you when we meet; nor do I hesitate to say that I anticipate the very greatest benefit in the fruits of your long residence and great powers of observation of this strange people.” The letter here went off into a somewhat long-winded profession of the equal-handed justice which was to mark the acts of the administration. It was to be, in fact, a golden era of equity and fairness; but, somehow, as codicils are occasionally found to revoke the body of the testament, a very suspicious little paragraph rather damaged this glorious conclusion. “I don't mean to say, my dear coz., that we are to neglect our followers,—the Government which could do so never yet possessed, never deserved to possess, able support; but we must discriminate,—we must distinguish between the mere partisan who trades on his principles, and that high-minded and honorable patriot who gives his convictions to party. With the noisy declaimer at public meetings, the mob-orator or pamphleteer, we shall have no sympathy. To the worthy country gentleman, independent by fortune as well as by principle, extending the example of a blameless life to a large neighborhood, aiding us by his counsels as much as by the tender of his political support,—to him, I say, we shall show our gratitude, not grudgingly nor sparingly, but freely, openly, and largely. You now know in what ranks we wish to see our friends, in the very van of which array I reckon upon yourself.” We shall again skip a little, since here the writer diverged into a slight dissertation on the indissoluble ties of kindred, and the links, stronger than adamant, that bind those of one blood together. After a brief but rapid survey of the strong opposition which was to meet them, he went on: “Of course all will depend upon our parliamentary support; without a good working majority we cannot stand, and for this must we use all our exertions.” A few generalities on the comfort and satisfaction resulting from “safe divisions” ensued, and then came the apparently careless question, “What canyoudo for us? Yes, my dear Dora, I repeat, what canyoudo for us? What we need is the support of men who have courage enough to merge old prejudices and old convictions in their full trust in us; who, with the intelligence of true statesmanship, will comprehend the altered condition of the country, and not endeavor to adapt the nation totheirviews, but rathertheirviews to the nation. In a word, a wise and liberal policy, not based upon party watchwords and antiquated symbols, but on the prospect of seeing Ireland great and united. Now, will Martin come to our aid in this wise? He ought to be in Parliament for his county. But if he be too indolent, or too happy at home, whom can he send us? And again, what of the borough? They tell me that Kilcock, seeing his father's great age, will not stand where a contest might be expected, so that you must necessarily be prepared with another.”
Again the writer launched out upon the happiness he felt at being able to appeal thus candidly and freely to his own “dearest kinswoman,” inviting her to speak as frankly in return, and to believe that no possible difference of political opinion should ever throw a coldness between those whose veins were filled with the same blood, and whose hearts throbbed with the same affections. Her Ladyship's voice slightly faltered as she read out the concluding paragraph, and when she laid the letter down, she turned away her head and moved her handkerchief to her eyes.
As for Martin, he sat still and motionless, his gaze firmly directed to Repton, as though seeking in the impassive lines of the old lawyer's face for some clew to guide and direct him.
“You used to be a Tory, Martin?” said Repton, after a pause.
“Yes, to be sure, we were always with that party.”
“Well, there's an end of them now,” said the other. “What's to follow and fill their place, my Lord Reckington may be able to say; I cannot. I only know thattheyexist no longer; and the great question for you—at least, one of the great questions—is, have you spirit enough to join a travelling party without knowing whither they 're journeying?”
“And what may be the other great question, sir?” asked Lady Dorothea, haughtily.
“The other is, what will it cost in money—ay, my Lady, in money; because any other outlay will not require searches nor title-deeds, loans, mortgages, nor bond-debts.”
“To contest the county would cost ten thousand pounds; Scanlan says so,” rejoined Martin.
“And the borough?” asked Repton.
“A few hundreds would suffice; at least, they have done so hitherto.”
“Then remain content with the cheap luxury of the borough,” said Repton. “You don't want anything from these people, Martin. You don't covet a peerage; you would n't accept a baronetcy. You remember what Langton said when told that the King was going to give him the 'Red Hand.' 'If I have been unfortunate enough to incur his Majesty's displeasure, I must deplore it deeply; but surely my innocent son should not be included in the penalty of my offence. Therefore, in all humility, I beseech and entreat the royal favor to commute the sentence into knighthood, so that the disgrace may die with me.'”
“There were times when such insolence would have cost him dearly,” said her Ladyship, sternly.
“I am not sorry that we don't live in them, my Lady,” replied Repton. “But to return: as I was saying, you ask for no favors; why should you expend ten or fifteen thousand pounds to advocate views of whose tendencies you know nothing, and principles whose very meaning you are in ignorance of?”
“I anticipated every word of this,” said Lady Dorothea. “I told Mr. Martin, this morning, almost literally, the exact advice you'd proffer.”
“I am proud that your Ladyship should have read me so justly,” said Repton, bowing.
An insolent toss of her head was the significant answer to this speech.
“But were I to speak my mind more candidly, I 'd even say, let the borough go after the county; and for this plain reason,” said Repton, speaking with increased firmness and animation, “you neither seek for the ambition of political life, nor want to make a trade of its casualties.”
“Is it not possible, sir, that we might desire the natural influence that should arise out of our station in society and our rank in this county?” said Lady Dorothea, proudly.
“And your Ladyship has it, and can never lose it. Having a vote or two to throw into a Ministerial division would never repay you for the anxieties and cares of contested elections. Ah, my Lady, what doyoucare for the small flatteries of London attentions?”
“We should have these, sir, as our right,” broke she in.
“To be sure you would, and much happiness do I hope they would confer,” added he, in a tone only overheard by Martin; then continued aloud: “As to the patronage at your disposal, would you take a present of it? Whom do you want to make tide-waiters, gaugers, barony-constables, or even clerks of the peace? Of all men living, who is so free of hungry dependants or poor relations!”
“I must say, sir, that you reduce the question of political support to a very intelligible one of material benefit,” said her Ladyship, with a sneer; “but, just for argument sake, imagine that there should be such a thing as a little principle in the matter.”
“I'm going to that part of the case, my Lady,” said Repton. “Martin is a Tory; now, what are the men coming into power? I wish you could tell me. Here, for instance, is one of their own journals,”—and he opened a newspaper and ran his eye over the columns,—“ay, here it is: 'With regard to Ireland, Lord Reckington's appointment as Viceroy is the best guarantee that the rights of Irishmen of every persuasion and every denomination will be respected.' So far so good;” and he read on in a low, humdrum voice for some minutes, till he came to the following: “'No privileged class will any longer be tolerated; no exceptional loyalty admitted as an excuse for insufferable oppression and tyranny; the wishes and benefits of the people—the real people of that country—will at length enter into the views of an administration; and Ireland as she is,—not the possible Ireland of factious enthusiasts,—be governed by men determined to redress her grievances and improve her capacities.' Now, Martin, you want no augur to interpret that oracle. They are going to rule you by the people; but the people must be represented.
“Now, who represents them? Not the demagogue; he is merely their tool. The real representative is the priest; don't laugh, my dear friend, at such a shadowy possibility; the thing is nearer than you dream of. No administration ever yet tried to govern Ireland except by intimidation. The Beresfords were undertakers once, and they did their work very well, let me tell you; they advanced their friends and whipped their enemies; and what with peerages for one set, and pitched caps for the other, they ruled Ireland. Then there came the Orangemen, who rather blundered their work; there were too many heads amongst them, and the really clever fellows were overborne by brawling, talkative fools, who always had the masses with them because theywerefools. Still they ruled Ireland. They preserved the country to the King's crown; and I say once more, that was no small matter. And now we have arrived at a new era; we have obtained Emancipation, and must look out for another stamp of administrators, and I see nothing for it but the priest. Of course you, and every man of your station, sneer at the notion of being dictated to by Father Luke, in the greasy leather small-clothes and dirty black boots,—only, himself, a cottier once removed, a plant of the wild growth of the fields, cultivated, however, in the hotbeds of Maynooth,—a forcing-house whose fruits you are yet to taste of! Sneer away, Martin; but my name is not Val Repton if those men do not rule Ireland yet! Ay, sir, and rule it in such a fashion as your haughty Beresfords and Tottenhams, and Tisdalls never dreamed of! They 'll treat with the Government on equal terms,—so much, for so much; and, what's more, it won't be higgling for a place here, or a peerage there; but they'll have the price paid down in hard legislative coin,—Acts of Parliament, sir; privileges for themselves and their order, benefits to 'the Church;' and, when nothing better or more tempting offers, insults and slights to their antagonists. You, and all like you, will be passed over as if you never existed; the minister will not need you; you'll be so many general officers on the retired list, and only remarked when you swell the crowd at a levee.”
“So, sir, according to this special prediction of yours, we have nothing left us but to live on our estates, enjoy what we can of our fortunes, and leave the interests of the nation to those our inferiors in rank, station, and property?”
“Such a period as your Ladyship has pictured forth—a little strongly, perhaps—is before you. Whether the interval be destined to be long or short, will, in great measure, depend upon yourselves.”
“That agrees with what Scanlan said the other day,” said Martin.
“Scanlan!” echoed her Ladyship, with most profound contempt.
“Who is this Scanlan?” asked Repton.
“There he comes to answer for himself,” said Martin. “The fellow drives neatly. See how cleverly he swept round that sharp turn! He may be 'at fault' about the world of politics; but,myword for it! he is a rare judge of a hack.”
“And, now that you suggest it,” said Repton, musingly, “what an instinctive shrewdness there is on every subject,—I don't care what it is,—about fellows that deal in horse flesh. The practice of buying and selling, searching out flaws here, detecting defects there, gives a degree of suspectful sharpness in all transactions; besides that, really none but a naturally clever fellow ever graduates in the stable. You smile, my Lady; but some of our very first men have achieved the triumphs of the turf.”
“Shall we have Scanlan in and hear the news?” asked Martin.
“Not here. If you please, you may receive him in the library or your own room.”
“Then, come along, Repton. We can resume this affair in the afternoon or to-morrow.” And, without waiting for a reply, he passed his arm within the other's, and led him away. “You have been too abrupt with her, Repton; you have not made due allowances for her attachment to family influences,” said he, in a whisper, as they went along.
Repton smiled half contemptuously.
“Oh, it's all very easy for you to laugh, my dear fellow; but, trust me, there's nothing to be done with my Lady in that fashion.”
“Turn the flank,—eh?” said the old lawyer, slyly. “Ah, Martin, don't teachmehow to deal with humanity. If you have not the courage to tell your wife that your estate cannot bear fresh encumbrances, new loans, and new debts—”
“Hush!” said Martin, cautiously.
“Then, I say, let me prevent the casualty, that's all.”
“How are you, Scanlan?” said Martin, as the attorney came, bowing and smiling, forward to pay his respects. “My friend, Mr. Repton, wishes to make your acquaintance.”
“I have the honor of being known to Mr. Repton, already, sir, if he has not forgotten me.”
“Eh,—how? where?” cried the lawyer, sharply.
“In ReevesversusDockery, and another, sir, in Hilary, 24. It wasIsupplied the instructions—”
“To be sure,—perfectly right. Maurice Scanlan; isn't that the name? You did the thing well, sir; and if we failed, we retreated without dishonor.”
“That was a grand shot you fired at the Bench, sir, when all was over,” said Scanlan. “I don't suppose they ever got such a complete 'set down' before.”
“I forget it,” said Repton, but with a bright twinkle of his eye, which more than contradicted his words.
“Then, sir, it's more than their Lordships ever will,” said Scanlan. “The Chief Baron it was,” said he, addressing Martin, “that overruled every objection made by Counsellor Repton, and at last declared that he would n't hear any more citations whatsoever. 'But I have a stronger case still, my Lord,' says the Counsellor. 'I 'll not hear it, sir,' said the Court. 'It is in Crewe and Fust, Term Reports, page 1,438.'
“'I don't care where it is, sir,' was the answer.
“'In a charge delivered by Lord Eldon—'
“'Oh, let us hear my Lord Eldon,' said Plumridge, the Puisne Judge, who was rather ashamed of the Chief Baron's severity. 'Let us hear my Lord Eldon.'
“'Here it is, my Lords,' said the Counsellor, opening the volume, and laying his hand upon the page,—'Crewe and Fust's Pleas of the Crown, page 1,438. My Lord Eldon says, “I may here observe the Courts of Law in Ireland aregenerallywrong! The Court of Exchequer isalwayswrong!”'”
Repton tried to smother his own delighted laugh at the reminiscence, but all in vain; it burst from him long and joyously; and as he shook Scanlan's hand, he said, “The incident loses nothing by your telling, sir; you have done it admirable justice.”
“You make me very proud, indeed, Counsellor,” said Scanlan, who really did look overjoyed at the speech.
“Have you any news for us, Scanlan?” said Martin, as they entered the library.
“Yes, sir; the Ministry is out.”
“We know that already, man!”
“And the Marquis of Reckington comes here as Lord-Lieutenant.”
“That we know also.”
“Colonel Massingbred to be Chief Sec—”
“Moore Massingbred!” cried both, in a breath.
“Yes, sir; he that was a Treasury Lord.”
“Are you quite sure of this, Scanlan?” asked Martin.
“I had it from Groves, sir, at the Castle, yesterday morning, who told me there would be an immediate dissolution, and showed me a list of Government candidates.”
“You may talk them all over together, then,” said Martin, “for I 'm heartily tired of politics this morning.” And so saying, he left them.
It is one of the most inestimable privileges of Art, that amidst all the cares and contentions of the world, amidst strife and war and carnage, its glorious realm is undisturbed, its peace unbroken, and its followers free to follow their own wayward fancies, without let or hindrance. Your great practical intelligences, your men of committees and corn and railroads and ship-canals, sneer at the fictitious life—for so does it seem to them—of the mere painter or musician. They have a sort of pitying estimate for capacities only exercised upon the ideal, and look down with a very palpable contempt upon those whose world is a gallery or an orchestra. After all, this division of labor is a wise and happy provision, carrying with it many and varied benefits, and making of that strange edifice of mankind a far more pleasing and harmonious structure than we should otherwise have seen it. The imagination is to the actual, in the world of active life, what flowers are to nutritious herbs and roots. It is the influence that adorns, elevates, and embellishes existence. That such gifts have been confided to certain individuals is in itself a sufficient evidence, just as we see in the existence of flowers that pleasure has its place assigned in the grand scheme of creation, and that the happiness which flows from gratified sense has not been denied us.
In that petty world which lived beneath the roof of Cro' Martin Castle, all the eager passions and excitements of political intrigue were now at work. My lady was full of plans for future greatness; Repton was scheming and suggesting, and thwarting everybody in turn; and even Martin himself, engulfed in the “Maelstrom” of the crisis, was roused into a state of semi-preparation that amounted to a condition of almost fever. As for Massingbred, whatever he really did feel, his manner affected a most consummate indifference to all that went forward; nor did the mention of his father's appointment to high office elicit from him anything beyond a somewhat contemptuous opinion of the new party in power. While, therefore, secret counsels were held, letters read and written, conferences conducted in every room, one little space was devoid of all these embarrassments and anxieties, and that was an oval chamber, lighted from the top, and originally destined for a summer ball-room, but now appropriated to Mr. Crow's use for the completion of the Grand Historical, which had lately been transferred from Kilkieran to its place there.
The unlucky masterpiece was doomed to many a difficulty. The great events in prospect had totally banished all thought of “art” from Lady Dorothea's mind. The fall of a recent administration was a far more imminent circumstance than the abdication of a king a few centuries back. Martin, of course, had enough on his head, without the cares of mock royalty. Mary was overwhelmed with occupations. The floods and a threatened famine were casualties not to be overlooked; and she was absent every day from dawn to late night; while, to complete the list of defaulters, young Nelligan—the future Prince of Orange of the picture—was gone!
Men deplore their past youth, their bygone buoyancy of heart, their old loves and extinct friendships; but of all departed pleasures, there is a peculiar poignancy about one, and that is an artist's grief over a “lost sitter.” You ladies and gentlemen whose thumbs have never closed on a palette, nor whose fingers have never felt the soft influence of varnish, may smile at such a sorrow, but take my word for it, it is a real and tangible affliction.
The waving locks, the noble brow; the deep square orbits, and the finely cut chin are but the subtle suggestions out of which inspirations are begotten, and poetic visions nurtured. The graceful bearing and the noble port, the tender melancholy or the buoyant gladness, have each in turn struck some chord of secret feeling in the artist's breast, revealing to him new ideas of beauty, and imparting that creative power which displays itself in new combinations.
Poor Simmy Crow was not a Titian nor a Vandyke, but unhappily the sorrows of genius are very often experienced by those who are not gifted with its greatness; and the humble aspirant of excellence can catch every malady to which the triumphant in all the wild enthusiasm of his powers is exposed. He sat down before his canvas, as some general might before a fortified town which had resisted all his efforts of attack. He was depressed and discouraged.
The upper part of the young student's head was already half finished, and there was enough done to impart a kind of promise of success,—that glorious vista which opens itself so often in imagination to those whose world is but their own fancy. He half thought he could finish it from memory; but before he had proceeded many minutes, he laid down the brush in despair. It seemed like a fatality that something must always interpose to bar the road to success. One time it was sickness, then it was poverty; a disparaging criticism had even done it; and now, when none of these threatened, there arose a new impediment. “Ah! Simmy, Simmy,” he exclaimed aloud, “you were born under an unkindly planet. That's the secret of it all!”
“I confess I cannot concur in that opinion,” said a low, soft voice behind him. He started up, and beheld Kate Henderson, who, leaning on the back of a chair, continued to gaze steadfastly at the canvas, perfectly regardless of his astonishment. “There is a great deal to admire in that picture!” said she, as though talking to herself.
Simmy crept stealthily back, and stationed himself behind her, as if to hear her remarks, while viewing the picture from the same point.
“You have grouped your figures admirably,” continued she, now addressing him, “and your management of the light shows a study of Rembrandt.”
“Very true, ma'am—miss, I mean. I have copied nearly all his great pieces.”
“And the drapery—that robe of the King's—tells me that you have studied another great master of color—am I right, sir, in saying Paul Veronese?”
Simmy Crow's face glowed till it became crimson, while his eyes sparkled with intense delight.
“Oh, dear me!” he exclaimed, “is n't it too much happiness to hear this? and only a minute ago I was in black despair!”
“Mine is very humble criticism, sir; but as I have seen good pictures—”
“Where? In the galleries abroad?” broke in Crow, hurriedly.
“All over Germany and Italy. I travelled with those who really cared for and understood art. But to come back to yours—that head is a noble study.”
“And that's exactly what I'm grieving over,—he's gone.”
“Young Mr. Nelligan?”
“Himself. He started this morning for Oughterard.”
“But probably to return in a day or two.”
Crow looked stealthily around to see if he were not likely to be overheard, and then, approaching Kate, said in a whisper,—
“I don't think he 'll ever cross the doors again.”
“How so? has he received any offence?”
“I can't make out what it is,” said Simmy, with a puzzled look, “but he came to my room late last night, and sat down without saying a word; and at last, when I questioned him if he were ill, he said suddenly,—
“'Have you found, Mr. Crow, that in your career as an artist, you have been able to withdraw yourself sufficiently from the ordinary events of life as to make up a little world of your own, wherein you lived indifferent to passing incidents?'
“'Yes,' said I, 'I have, whenever I was doing anything really worth the name.'
“'And at such times,' said he, again, 'you cared nothing, or next to nothing, for either the flatteries or the sarcasms of those around you?”
“'I could n't mind them,' said I, 'for I never so much as heard them.'
“'Exactly what I mean,' said he, rapidly. 'Intent upon higher ambitions, you were above the petty slights of malice or envy, and with your own goal before you, were steeled against the minor casualties of the journey. Then why should not I also enjoy the immunity? Can I not summon to my aid a pride like this, or am I to be discouraged and disgraced to my own heart by a mere impertinence?'
“I stared at him, not guessing what he could mean.
“'Rather quit the spot with which it is associated,—quit it forever,' muttered he to himself, as he paced the room, while his face grew deathly pale.
“'As for me,' said I, for I wanted to say something—anything, in short—just to take his attention a little off of himself, 'whenever the world goes hard with me, I just step into my studio, lock the door, and sit down before a fresh canvas. I throw in a bit of brown, with a dash of bluish gray over it,—half sky, half atmosphere,—and I daub away till something like an effect—maybe a sunset, maybe a sullen-looking seashore, maybe a long, low prairie swell—rises before me. I don't try for details, I don't even trace an outline, but just throw in an effect here and there, and by good luck it often comes right, in some fine harmony of color, that's sure to warm up my heart and cheer my spirits; for, as there are sounds that, swelling up, fill the whole nature of man with ecstasy, there are combinations of color and tint that enter the brain by the eye, and just produce the same sense of delight.'”
“And how did he accept your consolation?” asked she, smiling good-naturedly.
“I don't well know if he listened to me,” said Simmy, sorrowfully; “for all he said afterwards was,—
“'Well, Mr. Crow, good-bye. I hope you 'll come to see me when you visit Dublin. You 'll easily find out my chambers in the college.'
“Of course I said, 'I'd be delighted;' and there we parted.”
“Poor fellow!” said Kate, but in an accent so peculiar it would have been very difficult to pronounce whether the words were of kindness or of disparagement.
“And your Prince, Mr. Crow?” said she, changing her tone to one of real or affected interest; “what's to be done now that Mr. Nelligan has left us?”
“I'm thinking of making a background figure of him, miss,” said Simmy. “Burnt sienna reduces many an illustrious individual to an obscure position.”
“But why not ask Mr. Massingbred to take his place—you've seen him?”
“Only passing the window, miss. He is a handsome young man, but that same look of fashion, the dash of style about him, is exactly what destroys the face forme, I feel I could make nothing of it; I 'd be always thinking of him standing inside the plate-glass window of a London club, or cantering along the alleys of the Park, or sipping his iced lemonade at Tortoni's. There's no poetizing your man of gold chains and embroidered waistcoats!”
“I half suspect you are unjust in this case,” said she, with one of her dubious smiles.
“I'm only saying what the effect is upon myself, miss,” said Crow.
“But why not make a compromise between the two?” said she. “I believe the great painters—Vandyke, certainly—rarely took the studies from a single head. They caught a brow here, and a mouth there, harmonizing the details by the suggestions of their own genius. Now, what if, preserving all this here,”—and she pointed to the head and eyes,—“you were to fill up the remainder, partly from imagination, partly from a study.” And as she spoke she took the brush from his hand, and by a few light and careless touches imparted a new character to the face.
“Oh, go on! that's admirable,—that's glorious!” exclaimed Crow, wild with delight.
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“There is no necessity to lose the expression of haughty sorrow in the eye and brow,” continued she; “nor does it interfere with the passing emotion he may be supposed unable to control, of proud contempt for that priestly influence which has dominated over the ambition of a king.” And now, as though carried away by the theme, she continued to paint as rapidly as she spoke, while Crow busied himself in preparing the colors upon the palette.
“My hardihood is only intended to encourage you, Mr. Crow,” said she, “by showing that if one like me can point the road, the journey need not be deemed a difficult one.” As she retired some paces to contemplate the picture, she casually glanced through a low glass door which opened upon the lawn, and where, under the shelter of a leafy beech, a young country girl was standing; her blue cloth cloak, with the hood thrown over her head, gave a certain picturesque character to the figure, which nearer inspection more than confirmed, for her features were singularly fine, and her large, soft blue eyes beamed with a gentle earnestness that showed Kate she was there with a purpose.
Opening the door at once, Kate Henderson approached her, and asked what she wanted.
With an air of half pride, half shame, the country girl drew herself up, and stared full and steadfastly at the speaker, and so continued till Kate repeated her question.
“Sure you're not Miss Mary?” replied she, by questioning her in turn.
“No, but if I can be of any use to you—”
“I don't think you can,” broke she in, with a manner almost haughty; “it's somebody else I 'm wanting.”
“If you wish to see Miss Martin, I 'll go and fetch her,” said Kate.
“I did n't say it was her I wanted to see,” replied she, with a calm and almost severe composure.
“Maybe her Ladyship?” asked Kate, far more interested than repelled by the other's manner.
“It's none of them at all,” rejoined she. “I came here to speak to one that I know myself,” added she, after a long pause; “and if he isn't gone, I want to see him.”
“Oh, I think I can guess now,” said Kate, smiling. “It is the Counsellor from Dublin, Mr. Repton.”
“It is no such thing,” said the girl, promptly.
“Then it must be Mr. Crow, here.”
An indignant toss of the head gave the negative to this surmise.
“I have gone through all our names here,” said Kate; “and except Mr. Massingbred—”
“And there's the very one I want,” said the girl, boldly.
“Step in here and rest yourself, and I 'll send for him,” said Kate; and with such persuasive courtesy were the words uttered, that almost, as it seemed, against her very will the girl followed her into the studio and sat down. While Mr. Crow proceeded in search of Massingbred, Kate Henderson, resuming brush and palette, returned to her painting; not, however, on the grand canvas of the “Historical,” but dexterously interposing a piece of fresh board, she seized the opportunity to sketch the beautiful head then before her, while occupying the girl's attention with the objects around.
Notwithstanding her intense astonishment at all she saw, the country girl never uttered a word, nor vouchsafed a single question as to the paintings; she even tried to moderate the eager pleasure they afforded by an endeavor not to admire them. Touched by the native pride of this struggle,—for struggle it was,—the features had assumed a look of haughty composure that well became the character of her beauty, and Kate caught up the expression so rapidly that her sketch was already well-nigh completed when Massing-bred entered.
“My dear Mistress Joan,” cried he, shaking her cordially by both hands, “how glad I am to see you again! It was but this very moment I was inquiring how I could go over and pay you a visit.”
Hurriedly as these words were uttered, and in all the apparent fervor of hearty sincerity, they were accompanied by a short glance at Kate Henderson, who was about to leave the room, that plainly said, “Remain where you are, there is no mystery here.”
“I thank yer honer kindly,” said Joan Landy, “but it's no good coming, he is n't there.”
“Not there!—how and why is that?”
“Sureyouought to know better than me,” said she, fixing her large eyes full upon him. “Ye left the house together, andhenever came back since.”
“Oh, perhaps I can guess,” said Jack, pausing for a moment to reflect. “He might have deemed it safer to keep out of the way for a day or two.”
“It's no good deceivin' me, sir,” said she, rising from her seat; “tell me the whole truth. Where is he?”
“That is really more than I can say, my dear Mistress Joan. We parted in Oughterard.”
“And you never saw him after?”
“Never, I assure you.”
“And you never tried to see him?—you never asked what became of him?”
“I concluded, indeed I was certain, that he returned home,” said Jack, but not without some confusion.
“Ay, that was enough for you,” said she, angrily. “If you were a poor labor in' man, you 'd not desert him that had you under his roof and gave you the best he had; but because ye 're a gentleman—”
“It is precisely for that reason I can't suffer you to think so meanly of me,” cried Jack. “Now just hear me for one moment, and you'll see how unjust you've been.” And, drawing his chair closer to hers, he narrated in a low and whispering voice the few events of their morning at Oughterard, and read for her the short note Magennis had written to him.
“And is that all?” exclaimed Joan, when he concluded.
“All, upon my honor!” said he, solemnly.
“Oh, then, wirra! wirra!” said she, wringing her hands sorrowfully, “why did I come here?—why did n't I bear it all patient? But sure my heart was bursting, and I could not rest nor sleep, thinking of what happened to him! Oh, yer honer knows well what he is tome!” And she covered her face with her hands.
“You have done nothing wrong in coming here,” said Jack, consolingly.
“Not if he never hears of it,” said she, in a voice tremulous with fear.
“That he need never do,” rejoined Jack; “though I cannot see why he should object to it. But come, Mrs. Joan, don't let this fret you; here's a young lady will tell you, as I have, that nobody could possibly blame your natural anxiety.”
“What would a young lady know about a poor creature likeme?” exclaimed Joan, dejectedly. “Sure, from the day she's born, she never felt what it was to be all alone and friendless!”
“You little guess to whom you say that,” said Kate, turning round and gazing on her calmly; “but if the balance were struck this minute, take my word for it, you 'd have the better share of fortune.”
Jack Massingbred's cheek quivered slightly as he heard these words, and his eyes were bent upon the speaker with an intense meaning. Kate, however, turned haughtily away from the gaze, and coldly reminded him that Mrs. Joan should have some refreshment after her long walk.
“No, miss,—no, yer honer; many thanks for the same,” said Joan, drawing her cloak around her. “I couldn't eat a bit; my heart's heavy inside me. I 'll go back now.”
Kate tried to persuade her to take something, or, at least, to rest a little longer; but she was resolute, and eager to return.
“Shall we bear you company part of the way, then?” said Jack, with a look of half entreaty towards Kate.
“I shall be but too happy,” said Kate, while she turned the nearly completed sketch to the wall, but not so rapidly as to prevent Massingbred's catching a glimpse of it.
“How like!” exclaimed he, but only in a whisper audible to himself. “I didn't know that this also was one of your accomplishments.”
A little laugh and a saucy motion of her head was all her reply, while she went in search of her bonnet and shawl. She was back again in a moment, and the three now issued forth into the wood.
For all Jack Massingbred's boasted “tact,” and his assumed power of suiting himself to his company, he felt very ill at ease as he walked along that morning. “His world” was not that of the poor country girl at his side, and he essayed in vain to find some topic to interest her. Not so Kate Henderson. With all a woman's nice perception, and quite without effort, she talked to Joan about the country and the people, of whose habits she knew sufficient not to betray ignorance; and although Joan felt at times a half-suspicious distrust of her, she grew at length to be pleased with the tone of easy familiarity used towards her, and the absence of anything bordering on superiority.
Joan, whose instincts and sympathies were all with the humble class from which she sprung, described in touching language the suffering condition of the people, the terrible struggle against destitution maintained for years, and daily becoming more difficult and hopeless. It was like a shipwrecked crew reduced to quarter-rations, and now about to relinquish even these!
“And they are patient under all this?” asked Kate, with that peculiar accent so difficult to pronounce its meaning.
“They are, indeed, miss,” was the answer.
“Have they any hope? What do they promise themselves as the remedy for these calamities?”
“Sorrow one of 'em knows,” said she, with a sigh. “Some goes away to America, some sinks slowly under it, and waits for God's time to leave the world; and a few—but very few—gets roused to anger, and does something to be transported or put in jail.”
“And Miss Martin,—does she not relieve a good deal of this misery? Is she not of immense benefit by her exertions here?”
“Arrah, what can a young lady do, after all? Sure it's always them that talks most and best gets over her. Some are ashamed, and some are too proud to tell what they 're suffering; and I believe in my heart, for one that 's relieved there are twenty more angry at seeing how lucky he was.”
They walked along now for some time in silence, when Joan, stopping short, said, “There's the house, miss; that's the place I live in.”
“That house far away on the mountain side?”
“Yes, miss; it's four miles yet from this.”
“But surely you haven't to walk all that way?”
“What signifies it? Is n't my heart lighter than when I came along this morning? And now I won't let you come any farther, for I'll take a short cut here across the fields.”
“May I go and see you one of these days?” asked Kate.
Joan grew crimson to the very roots of her hair, and turned a look on Massingbred, as though to say, “You ought to answer this for me.” But Jack was too deep in his own thoughts even to notice the appeal.
“I can scarcely askyouto come tome,” said Kate, quickly perceiving a difficulty, “for I 'm not even a visitor at Cro' Martin.”
“I 'm sure I hope it 's not the last time we 'll meet, miss; but maybe,”—she faltered, and a heavy tear burst forth, and rolled slowly along her cheek,—“maybe you oughtn't to come and see me.”
Kate pressed her hand affectionately, without speaking, and they parted.
“Is Joan gone?” asked Massingbred, raising his head from an attitude of deep revery. “When did she leave us?”
“There she goes yonder,” said Kate, pointing. “I fear me her spirits are not as light as her footsteps. Are her people very poor?”
“Her father was a herd, I believe,” said he, carelessly; “but she does n't live at home.”
“Is she married, then?”
“I 'm not sure that she is; but at least she believes that she is.”
“Poor thing!” said Kate, calmly, while, folding her arms, she continued to gaze after the departing figure of the country girl. “Poor thing!” repeated she once more, and turned to walk homewards.
Massingbred fixed his eyes upon her keenly as she uttered the words; few and simple as they were, they seemed to reveal to him something of the nature of her who spoke them. A mere exclamation—a syllable—will sometimes convey “whole worlds of secret thought and feeling,” and it was evidently thus that Massingbred interpreted this brief expression. “There was nothing of scorn in that pity,” thought he. “I wish she had uttered even one word more! She is a strange creature!”
And it was thus speaking to himself that he walked along at her side.
“This wild and desolate scene is not very like that of which we talked the other night,—when first we met,—Miss Henderson.”
“You forget that we never met,” said she, calmly.
“True, and yet there was a link between us even in those few flowers thrown at random.”
“Don't be romantic, Mr. Massingbred; do not, I pray you,” said she, smiling faintly. “Youknowit's not your style, while it would be utterly thrown away uponme, I am aware that fine gentlemen of your stamp deem this the fitting tone to assume towards 'the governess;' but I 'm really unworthy of it.”
“What a strange girl you are!” said he, half thinking aloud.
“On the contrary, how very commonplace!” said she, hastily.
“Do you like this country?” asked Massingbred, with an imitation of her own abrupt manner.
“No,” said she, shortly.
“Nor the people?”
“Nor the people!” was the answer.
“And is your life to be passed amongst them?”
“Perhaps,” said she, with a slight gesture of her shoulders. “Don't you know, Mr. Massingbred,” added she, with more energy, “that a woman has no more power to shape her destiny than a leaf has to choose where it will fall? If I were a man,—you, for instance,—I would think and act differently.”
“I should like to hear what you would do if in my place,” said Jack, with a degree of deep interest in the remark.
“To begin, I'll tell you what I would not do,” said she, firmly. “I 'd not waste very good abilities on very small objects; I 'd neither have small ambitions nor small animosities. You have both.”
“As how?” asked he, frankly, and with no touch of irritation.
“Am I to be candid?”
“Certainly.”
“Even to rudeness?”
“Cut as deeply as you like,” said he, smiling.
“Then here goes: For the 'small ambition' I speak of, it was displayed yesterday at dinner, when, in rivalry with that old lawyer, you condescended to play agreeable, to out-talk him, out-quote, and out-anecdote him. It is true you succeeded; but what a poor success it was! how inadequate to the forces that were mustered to effect it!”
“And now for the other count of the indictment,” said he, with a half smile.
“First, do you plead guilty to this one?” asked she.
“Yes; with an 'extenuating circumstance.'”
“What is that?”
“Why, thatyouwere present,” said Jack, with a glance of more than mere passing gallantry.
“Well,” said she, after a pause, “Ididtake some of the display to my own share. I saw that you did n't care to captivate the young lady of the house, and that my Lady bored you.”
“Insufferably!” exclaimed Jack, with energy.
“Your manner showed it,” said she, “even more than such polish ought to have betrayed.”
“But I 'm sure I never exhibited any signs of my martyrdom,” said he; “I stood my torture well.”
“Not half so heroically as you fancied I noticed your weariness before the dinner was half over, as I detected your splenetic dislike to young Mr. Nelligan—”
“To young Nelligan?—then he has told you—”
“Stop,—be cautious,” broke she in, hurriedly; “don't turn evidence against yourself.Hehas told me nothing.”
“Then what do you know?”
“Nothing; I only surmise.”
“And what is your surmise?”
“That he and you had met before,—that you had even been intimate,—and now, from some misunderstanding, you had ceased to be friends. Mind, I don't want confessions; I don't seek to learn your secrets.”
“But you shall hear this from me,” said Massingbred, with earnestness; “and perhaps you, so ready to blame me for some things, may see reason to think well of me in this.” He then related, briefly, but simply, the history of his acquaintance with Nelligan; he dwelt, not without feeling, upon the passages of their student-life, and at last spoke of his chance visit to Oughterard, and the accident by which he became old Nelligan's guest. “What can you make of Joseph's conduct,” cried he; “or how explain his refusal to meet me at his father's table? One of two reasons there must be. He either discredits me in the character of his friend, or shrinks, with an ignoble shame, from appearing there in his real position,—the son of the country shopkeeper! I scarcely know if I 'd not prefer he should have been actuated by the former motive; though more offensive to me, inhimit were more manly.”
“Why not have asked him which alternative he accepted?” asked Kate.
“Because the opportunity to wound him deeply—incurably—first presented itself. I knew well that nothing would hurt him like the cool assumption of not recognizing him, and I determined not to lose my vengeance.”
“I'm a woman,” said Kate, “and I'd not have stooped tothat!”
It was rarely that Massingbred's emotions gave any evidence of their working; but now his cheek grew crimson, as he said, “A man can only measure a man's indignation.”
“You are angry without cause,” said she, calmly; “you wish me to pronounce a verdict on an act, and are displeased because I think differently from you. How right I was in my guess that small animosities were amongst your failings! You seek now to quarrel withme!”
Massingbred walked along for some moments without speaking, and then said, “You knew Nelligan formerly?”
“Yes, we were playfellows together as children; lovers, I believe, a little later on—”
“And now?” broke he in.
“And now very good friends, as the world uses that phrase. At all events,” added she, after a brief pause, “enough his friend to be able to say that you have wronged him by your suspicions. Joe Nelligan—or I'm much mistaken—may feel the inequality of his position as a something to overcome, a barrier to be surmounted; not as a disability to contest the prizes of life even with such as Mr. Massingbred.”
“It isyounow would quarrel withme,” said Jack, retorting her own words upon her. “And yet,” he added, in a lower tone, “I would wish to have you my friend.”
“So you can, upon one condition,” replied she, promptly.
“I accept, whatever it be. Name it.”
“That you be your own friend; that you address yourself to the business of life seriously and steadily, resolving to employ your abilities as a means of advancement, not as a mere instrument for amusement; determine, in fact, to be something besides adilettanteand an idler.”
“Is it a bargain, then, if I do this?” asked he, eagerly.
“Yes; I promise you the high and mighty boon ofmyfriendship,” replied she, with mock solemnity.
“And so we seal our contract,” said he, pressing her hand to his lips, but with an air of such respectful gallantry that the action implied nothing bordering on a liberty.
“And now I leave you,” said she, as she opened the wicket-gate of a small flower-garden; “such conferences as ours must not be repeated, or they might be remarked upon. Good-bye.” And without waiting for his reply, she passed on into the garden, while Massingbred stood gazing after her silently and thoughtfully.