Kitabı oku: «The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XII. A VERY “CROSS EXAMINATION”

The morning was bright and sunny, the air sharp, crisp, and bracing, as the heavy travelling-carriage which conveyed Mr. Martin and Lady Dorothea rolled smoothly along the trimly kept approach to Cro’ Martin. Many a beautiful glade, many a lovely vista opened on them as they passed along deep-bosomed woods and gently swelling slopes, dotted over with cattle, stretched away on either side; while far in the distance could be seen the battlemented towers of the princely residence.

The lover of nature might have felt intense pleasure at a scene so abounding in objects of beauty. A painter would have lingered with delight over effects of light and shade, glorious displays of color, and graceful groupings of rocks and trees and gnarled stumps. A proud man might have exulted in the selfish enjoyment of feeling that these were all his own; while a benevolent one would have revelled in the thought of all the channels through which such wealth might carry the blessings of aid and charity.

Which of these feelings predominated now in the minds of those who, snugly encased in furs, occupied the respective corners of the ample coach? Shall we own it? Not any of them. A dreamy, unremarking indifference was the sentiment of each; and they sat silently gazing on a prospect which suggested nothing, nor awoke one passing emotion in their hearts. Had any one been there to express his admiration of the landscape, – praised the trees, the cattle, or the grassy slopes, – Martin might have heard him with pleasure, and listened even with interest to his description. My Lady, too, might not unwillingly have lent an ear to some flattery of the splendid demesne of which she was mistress, and accepted as half homage the eulogy of what was hers. None such was, however, there; and so they journeyed along, as seemingly unconscious as though the scene were wrapped in midnight darkness.

Martin had known the spot, and every detail of it, from his boyhood. The timber, indeed, had greatly grown, – graceful saplings had become stately trees, and feathery foliage deepened into leafy shade; but he himself had grown older, too, and his sense of enjoyment, dulled and deadened with years, saw nothing in the scene to awaken pleasure. As for Lady Dorothea, she had reasoned herself into the notion that the walls of her own grounds were the boundaries of a prison, and had long convinced herself that she was a suffering martyr to some mysterious sense of duty. From the drowsy languor in which they reclined they were both aroused, as the pace of the carriage gradually diminished from a smooth brisk trot to an uneven jolting motion, the very reverse of agreeable.

“What have they done? Where are they going?” said Lady Dorothea, peevishly.

And Martin called out from the window, in tones even less gentle. “Oh, it’s the new approach; the road is not quite completed,” said he, half sulkily, as he resumed his place.

“Another of Miss Martin’s clever devices, which, I must say, I never concurred in.”

“Why, you always professed to hate the old road by the stables.”

“So I did; but I never agreed to passing round the back of the house, and thus destroying the privacy of the flower-garden, – the only spot I may dare to call my own. Oh, dear! I shall be shaken to death. Have they broken the carriage? I ‘m certain they ‘ve smashed the spring at my side!”

Martin gave a cold, supercilious smile, the only reply to these words.

“They ‘ve only broken a trace, I perceive,” said he, casting a hurried glance through the window, as the carriage came to a dead stop.

“You are equanimity itself, sir, this morning,” said her Ladyship, in a voice almost tremulous with anger. “I wonder if this admirable temper will befriend you when you shall see the cost of this precious piece of road-making?”

“It employs the people,” said he, coolly.

“Employs the people! How I hate that cant phrase! Can’t they employ themselves on their own farms? Have n’t they digging and draining, and whatever it is, to do of their own? Must they of necessity depend on us for support, and require that we should institute useless works to employ them?”

As if to offer a living commentary on her speech, a number of half-fed and less than half-clad men now drew near, and in accents of a most servile entreaty begged to offer their services. Some, indeed, had already busied themselves to repair the broken harness, and others were levelling the road, carrying stones to fill up holes, and in every possible manner endeavoring to render assistance; but all were vociferous in asserting that the delay would not be above a minute or two; that the road was an elegant one, or would be soon, and that it was a “raal blessing” to see her Ladyship and the master looking so well. In fact, they were thankful and hopeful together; and, notwithstanding the evidences of the deepest destitution in their appearance, they wore an air of easy, jaunty politeness, such as many a professional diner-out might have envied. Lady Dorothea was in no mood to appreciate such traits; indeed, if the truth must be told, they rather ruffled than soothed her. Martin saw nothing in them; he was too much accustomed to the people to be struck with any of their peculiarities, and so he lay back in silent apathy, and took no notice of them.

With all their alacrity and all their good-will – and there was no lack of either – there was yet such a total absence of all system and order, that their efforts were utterly useless. Some tugged away manfully to raise stones too heavy to lift; others came rudely in contact with fellows heavily laden, and upset them. The sturdy arms that spoked the hind wheels were resolutely antagonized by as vigorous struggles to move the fore ones. Every one shouted, cried, cursed, and laughed, by turns; and a more hopeless scene of confusion and uproar need not be conceived. Nor was Lady Dorothea herself an inactive spectator; for, with her head from the carriage-window, she directed a hundred impossible measures, and sat down at last, overcome with rage and mortification at their blunders.

The tumult was now at the highest, and the horses, terrified by the noise around them, had commenced plunging and rearing fearfully, when Mary Martin came galloping up to the spot at full speed.

“Let go that bridle, Hogan,” cried she, aloud; “you are driving that horse mad. Loose the leaders’ traces; unbuckle the reins, Patsey; the wheelers will stand quietly. There, lead them away. Speak to that mare; she ‘s trembling with fear. I told you not to come by this road, Barney; and it was only by accident that I saw the wheel-tracks. A thousand pardons, Aunt Dora, for this mishap. Barney misunderstood my orders. It will be all right in a moment. Once over this bad spot, the road is hard and level.”

“Having no taste, nor any genius for adventures, Miss Martin,” began her Ladyship – But Mary did not await the remainder of the speech; for, turning her horse sharply round, and beckoning to some of the people to follow her, she was away across the lawn at a smart canter. Having arrived at a small wooden bridge over a river, she ordered the men to lift some of the planking, by the aid of which they soon constructed a firm and safe passage for the carriage; and as her presence was the signal for quiet obedience and prompt action, in less than ten minutes the difficulty was surmounted, the horses reharnessed, and all in readiness to proceed on their way.

Martin looked on in silent satisfaction, not offering a single suggestion, or even seeming to feel interested in the events, but enjoying, with all a lazy man’s pleasure, the activity displayed around him. Not so Lady Dorothea. If she did not like “an adventure,” she loved “a grievance.” Whatever ministered to her selfishness, even in the remotest degree, was grateful to her. Mary’s opportune arrival had now converted what might have passed for a calamity into a mere momentary inconvenience; and she could not conceal her discontent. “Your heroines are a perfect torment; at least, to us souls of commoner clay. They live only for disasters.”

“I must say that Mary extricated us from what might have become one,” said Martin, dryly.

“We are indebted to her, however, for the possibility. This detestable road, which I promise you I ‘ll never come again, is entirely her own invention. I hope, Miss Martin,” added she, from the window, “that the other approach is to be kept in repair, – at least, for me.” But Mary did not hear the appeal, for she was bandaging the arm of a poor country fellow, who had been sorely cut.

“There, drive on, Barney,” cried Lady Dorothea. “I shall be taken ill if I stay here. Really, Mr. Martin, your niece’s accomplishments are the least feminine one can conceive.” And improving this theme, she continued the entire way till the carriage drew up at the door of the castle.

“Yes, sir,” said she, as she descended, “that heavy sigh shows you are indeed greatly to be pitied. No martyrdom ever exceeded yours. I am quite aware of all my imperfections, and can at least fancy everything you could say of me and my temper. What did you say, Collins?” said she, addressing the obsequious-looking servant, who, with an air of gloomy joy, very respectful, – but meant to mean more, – had whispered something in her ear.

“A young lady, did you say, Collins?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Then you were very wrong, Collins. You meant to say a young person.”

“Yes, my Lady, – a young person, like a lady.”

“Not in the least, except to such appreciation as yours. Where is she?”

“In your Ladyship’s library.”

“Did she come alone?”

“No, my Lady. Mr. Henderson drove her over in his car, and said he ‘d pass this way again in the evening.”

And now her Ladyship swept proudly by, scarcely noticing the bowing servants who had formed into a line along the hall, and who endeavored to throw into their sorrowful faces as much of joy as might consist with the very deepest humility. Nor was she more condescending to old Catty, who stood courtesying at the top of the stairs, with a basket of keys on her arm that might have served to lock up all Newgate.

“How cold every place feels! Collins, are you sure the rooms are properly aired?” cried she, shuddering. “But I suppose it’s the climate. Have another stove put there,” said she, pointing to an impossible locality.

“Yes, my Lady,” replied Collins.

“And warmer carpets on these passages.”

“Yes, my Lady; it shall be done to-morrow.”

“No, sir; to-day.”

“Yes, my Lady; this afternoon.”

“I don’t remember if the windows are double along here.”

“Yes, my Lady, they are all double towards the north.”

“Then they fit badly, for I feel the draught acutely here. It’s like the keen air of a mountain;” and Collins gave a slight sympathetic shudder, and really looked cold. A somewhat haughty glance from her Ladyship, however, as quickly reproved him, for Collins ought to have known that it was not by such as himself changes of temperature could be appreciable. And now she passed on and entered that part of the mansion peculiarly her own, and where, it must be owned, her spirit of fault-finding would have been at a loss what to condemn.

Lady Dorothea’s library occupied an angle of the building; and from this circumstance, included within its precincts an octagonal tower, the view from which comprised every varied character of landscape. This favored spot was fitted up in the most luxurious taste, – with rarest gems of art, and cabinet pictures of almost fabulous value, – to supply which foreign dealers and connoisseurs had been for years back in correspondence with her Ladyship. Now it was some rare treasure of carved ivory, or some sculptured cup of Benvenuto, that had been discovered accidentally, and which, despite the emulous zeal of princes and cardinals to obtain, was destined for herself. Now it was some choice mosaic of which but one other specimen existed, and that in the Pope’s private collection at the Quirinal. Such was her ardor in this pursuit of excellence, that more than once had every object of this precious chamber been changed, to give place to something more costly, more precious, and rarer. For about two years back, however, the resources of the old world seemed to offer nothing worthy of attention, and the vases, the “statuettes,” the bronzes, the pictures, and medallions had held their ground undisturbed.

Such was the sanctity of this spot, that in showing the house to strangers it was never opened, nor, without a special order from Lady Dorothea, – a favor somewhat more difficult to obtain than a firman from the Sultan, – could any one be admitted within its walls. The trusty servant in whose charge it was, was actually invested with a species of sacred character in the household, as one whose feet had passed the threshold of the tabernacle. Our reader may then picture to himself something of Lady Dorothea’s varied sensations – for, indeed, they were most mingled – as she heard a slight cough from within the chamber, and, drawing nearer, perceived a female figure seated in front of one of the windows, calmly regarding the landscape.

With a degree of noise and bustle sufficient to announce her approach, Lady Dorothea entered the tower; while the stranger, rising, retired one step, and courtesied very deeply. There was in all the humility of the obeisance a certain degree of graceful dignity that certainly struck her Ladyship; and her haughty look and haughtier tone were some little modified as she asked by what accident she found her there.

“My intrusion was a pure accident, my Lady,” replied the other, in a low, soft voice; “mistaking the door by which I had entered a room, I wandered on through one after another until I found myself here. I beg your Ladyship to believe that nothing was further from my thoughts than to obtrude upon your privacy.”

“Your name?” began her Ladyship; and then, as suddenly correcting herself, she said, “You are Miss Henderson, I suppose?”

“Yes, my Lady,” she replied, with a slight bend of the head.

“I sent for you,” said Lady Dorothea, in a half-careless tone, while she turned over some books on the table, as if in search of something, – “I sent for you, partly at the request of your mother – ”

“My stepmother, my Lady,” interposed the girl, calmly.

Lady Dorothea stared at her for a second or two, as though to say, how had she dared to correct her; but either that the reproof had not met its full success, or that she did not care to pursue it, she added, “At the request of your friends, and partly out of curiosity.” And here Lady Dorothea raised her glass to her eye, and quietly surveyed her, – an examination which, it must be owned, none could have borne with more unshaken fortitude; not the slightest tremor of a limb, not the faintest change of color betokening that the ordeal was a painful one.

“I do see that you have been educated in France,” said her Ladyship, with a smile of most supercilious import, while a courtesy from the young girl admitted the fact.

“Were you brought up in Paris?” asked she, after a pause.

“For four years, my Lady.”

“And the remainder of the time, where was it passed?”

“We travelled a great deal, my Lady, in Germany and Italy.”

“‘We,’ – who were the ‘we’ you speak of? Please to bear in mind that I know nothing of your history.”

“I forgot that, my Lady. I thought my stepmother had, perhaps, informed your Ladyship.”

“Of nothing whatever, child,” said she, haughtily, “save of your having a foreign education, and wishing, or hoping, to find some engagement as a governess or a teacher;” and the last words were drawled out languidly, as though they were suggestive of all that was wearisome and a bore. “So you must be good enough to explain who ‘we’ were.”

“The Duchesse de Luygnes and her family, my Lady.”

“You travelled with them; and in what capacity, pray?”

“I was called companion to the Princesse de Courcelles, the eldest daughter of the Duchess, my Lady.”

“Companion! – why, you must have been a mere child at the time?”

“A mere child, my Lady; but they took me from the Pensionnat, to speak English with the young Princess.”

“And then they took the charge of your education, I conclude?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“And to what extent – or rather, in what direction; I mean, what object had they in view in choosing your studies?”

“They gave me the same masters as to the young Princess, my Lady; and I was instructed in all respects as she was.”

“And treated like her also, I conclude?” said Lady Dorothea, with a sneering smile.

“Madame la Duchesse was ever most kind to me,” said the girl, half proudly.

“Kind – yes, of course – kind, if you conducted yourself properly and to her satisfaction. A person of her condition would be kind; but I trust this did not proceed so far as to spoil you? I hope it never made you forget your station?”

“I trust it did not, my Lady.”

“With what part of the establishment did you live? Where did you dine?”

“With the Princess, my Lady; except on fête days, when we were invited to the table of the Duchess.”

“I never heard of anything more absurd, – outrageously absurd. Why, are you aware, young woman, that these same friends of yours have done you irreparable mischief? They have, so to say, ruined your entire future; for how can I, and others in my station, avail myself of your services, with such habits and expectations as these?”

“Certainly not expectations, my Lady. I never did or can expect such condescension from another.”

“No matter; your head is filled with ideas unbefitting your condition, usages, habits, associations, all foreign to a menial station. You have been admitted to privileges the want of which would be felt as hardships. In fact, as I said before, they have done you irreparable injury. You must feel it yourself.”

A very faint smile, half in deprecation of the appeal, was the only reply of the young girl.

“You are certain to feel it later on in life, if you are not sensible of it at present, that I can vouch for, young woman,” said Lady Dorothea, with all the firmness with which she could utter an unpleasant speech. “Nothing but unhappiness ever resulted from such ill-judged indulgence. Indeed, if your mother had mentioned the circumstances, I scarcely think I should have sent for you” – she paused to see if any strong signs of contrite sorrow displayed themselves in the young girl’s features; none such were there, and Lady Dorothea more sternly added, – “I may safely say, I never should have asked to see you.”

When a speech meant to be severe has failed to inflict the pain it was intended to produce, it invariably recoils with redoubled power upon him who uttered it; and so Lady Dorothea now felt all the pang of her own ungenerous sentiment. With an effort to shake off this unpleasant sensation, she resumed, —

“I might go further, and observe that unless you yourself became thoroughly penetrated with the fact, you must always prove very unsuitable to the station you are destined to occupy in life. Do you understand me?”

“I believe I do, my Lady,” was the calm reply.

“And also,” resumed she, still more dictatorially – “and also, that acquiring this knowledge by yourself will be less painful to your feelings than if impressed upon you by others. Do you fully apprehend me?”

“I think so, my Lady.”

Now, although the tone and manner of the young girl were unexceptionable in all that regards deference and respect, Lady Dorothea was not a little provoked at her unbroken composure. There was no confusion, not even a semblance of constraint about her. She replied to even sarcastic questions without the faintest shadow of irritation, and exhibited throughout the most perfect quietude and good breeding. Had the “young person” been overwhelmed with shame, or betrayed into any access of temper, her Ladyship’s manner would have presented a pattern of haughty dignity and gracefulness, and her rebukes would have been delivered in a tone of queen-like superiority; but Miss Henderson afforded no opportunity for these great qualities. She was deference itself; but deference so self-possessed, so assured of its own safeguard, as to be positively provoking.

“Under all these circumstances, therefore,” resumed Lady Dorothea, as if having revolved mighty thoughts within her mind, “it appears to me you would not suit me.”

But even this speech failed to call up one trait of disappointment, and the young girl received it with only a deep courtesy.

“I’m sorry for it,” continued my Lady, “on your mother’s account; your education has of course cost her and your father many sacrifices, which your duty requires you to repay.” She paused, as if asking for some assent to this speech.

Another deep courtesy was the reply.

“There, that will do,” said Lady Dorothea, angrily; for any attempt to provoke seemed an utter failure. “I think I have nothing more to say. When I shall see your mother I can explain more fully to her. Good-morning.”

“I wish your Ladyship good-morning,” said the girl, with a deep obeisance, and in a voice of perfect deference, while she retired towards the door. Before she had reached it, however, Lady Dorothea again addressed her.

“You forgot, I think, to tell me why you left the Duchesse de Luygnes?”

“I left on the marriage of the Princess, my Lady.”

“Oh, I remember; she married a Russian, I think.”

“No, my Lady; she married the Duc de Mirecourt, French Ambassador at St. Petersburg.”

“Ah, to be sure. I knew there was something Russian about it. And so they sent you away then?”

“The Duchess most kindly invited me to accompany her, my Lady, but my father desired I should return to Ireland.”

“And very properly,” said Lady Dorothea; “he took a most just view of the case; your position would only have exposed you to great perils. I’m sure you are not of my opinion, for distrust of yourself does not appear one of your failings.” – It is possible that this ungenerous remark was evoked by a very slight curl of the young girl’s lip, and which, faint as it was, did not escape her Ladyship’s keen glances. – “Good-morning.”

Again had Miss Henderson gained the door; her hand was already on the lock, when her Ladyship called out: “In the event of anything occurring to me likely to suit you, I ought to know what you can teach; and mind, don’t bore me with a mere catalogue of hard names, but say what you really know.”

“Some modern languages, my Lady, with music.”

“No Greek or Latin?” said Lady Dorothea, half sneer-ingly.

“Latin, perhaps; but though I can read some Greek, I could not venture to teach it.”

“Nor Hebrew?”

“No, my Lady.”

“And the modern tongues, – which of them do you profess to know?”

“French, Italian, Spanish, and German.”

“And don’t you draw? – they showed me what they called yours.”

“Yes, my Lady, but I cannot teach drawing.”

“And of course you are thoroughly versed in history. Have you studied any scientific subjects? – mathematics, for instance.”

“Only a few of the French initial books, my Lady.”

“Why, you are quite an Admirable Crichton for acquirement. I feel really abashed to find myself in such company.” But even this coarse speech failed to irritate, and Lady Dorothea walked angrily towards the window and looked out.

It so chanced that, through an opening of the wood, she caught sight of a large assemblage of workpeople, who, headed by Miss Martin on horseback, were on their way to the quarries; and as she looked, a sudden thought flashed across her: “Why not retain the ‘young person’ as a companion for her niece? How admirably would all this girl’s knowledge contrast with Mary’s ignorance! What an unceasing source of disparagement would their contact afford, at the very moment that the arrangement might seem dictated by the very best and highest of motives.”

It may doubtless appear to many, that the individual who could reason thus must be animated by a most corrupt and depraved nature, but unhappily the spiteful element in the human heart is one which never measures its modes of attack, but suffers itself to be led on, from acts of mere petty malice to actions of downright baseness and badness. Lady Dorothea was not devoid of good traits, but once involved in a pursuit, she totally forgot the object which originally suggested it, but engaged all her zeal and all her ardor for success. She would have been shocked at the bare possibility of actually injuring her niece; she would have resented with indignation the mere mention of such; but yet she would have eagerly grasped at whatever afforded a chance of dominating over her. Mary’s influence in the household – her rule over the peasantry of the estate – was a perpetual source of annoyance to her Ladyship, and yet she never knew how to thwart it, till now that chance seemed to offer this means.

“You need not go back just yet: I ‘ll speak to Mr. Martin about you,” said she, turning towards Miss Henderson; and, with a respectful courtesy, the girl withdrew, leaving her Ladyship to her own somewhat complicated reflections.

In less than half an hour after Lady Dorothea proceeded to Mr. Martin’s study, where a cabinet council was held, the substance of which our reader can readily conceive; nor need he have any doubts as to the decision, when we say that Lady Dorothea retired to her own room with a look of satisfaction so palpably displayed that Mademoiselle Hortense, her maid, remarked to herself, “Somebody or other was sure to pass a mauvais quart d’heure when miladi goes to her room with an air of such triumphant meaning as that.”