Kitabı oku: «The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. II (of II)», sayfa 21

CHAPTER XXVII. A VERY BRIEF INTERVIEW

When Jack Massingbred found himself once more “in town,” and saw that the tide of the mighty world there rolled on the same full, boiling flood he had remembered it of yore, he began to wonder where and how he had latterly been spending his life. There were questions of politics – mighty interests of which every one was talking – of which he knew nothing; party changes and new social combinations had arisen of which he was utterly ignorant. But what he still more acutely deplored was that he himself had, so to say, dropped out of the memory of his friends, who accosted him with that half-embarrassed air that says, “Have you been ill? – or in India? – or how is it that we have n’t met you about?” It was last session he had made a flash speech, – an effort that his own party extolled to the skies, and even the Opposition could only criticise the hardihood and presumption of so very young a member of the House, – and now already people had ceased to bear him in mind.

The least egotistical of men – and Massingbred did not enter into this category – find it occasionally very hard to bear the cool “go-by” the world gives them whenever a chance interval has withdrawn them from public view. The stern truth of how little each atom of the social scheme affects the working of the whole machinery is far from palatable in its personal application. Massingbred was probably sensitive enough on this score, but too consummate a tactician to let any one guess his feelings; and so he lounged down to the “House,” and lolled at his Club, and took his airings in the Park with all the seeming routine of one who had never abdicated these enjoyments for a day.

He had promised, and really meant, to have looked after Martin’s affairs on his reaching London; but it was almost a week after his return that he bethought him of his pledge, his attention being then called to the subject by finding on his table the visiting-card of Mr. Maurice Scanlan. Perhaps he was not sorry to have something to do; perhaps he had some compunctions of conscience for his forgetfulness; at all events, he sent his servant at once to Scanlan’s hotel, with a request that he would call upon him as early as might be. An answer was speedily returned that Mr. Scanlan was about to start for Ireland that same afternoon, but would wait upon him immediately. The message was scarcely delivered when Scanlan himself appeared.

Dressed in deep mourning, but with an easy complacency of manner that indicated very little of real grief, he threw himself into a chair, saying, “I pledge you my word of honor, it is only to yourself I ‘d have come this morning, Mr. Massingbred, for I ‘m actually killed with business. No man would believe the letters I’ve had to read and answer, the documents to examine, the deeds to compare, the papers to investigate – ”

“Is the business settled, then – or in train of settlement?” broke in Jack.

“I suppose it is settled,” replied Scanlan, with a slight laugh. “Of course you know Mr. Martin is dead?”

“Dead! Good heavens! When did this occur?”

“We got the news – that is, Merl did – the day before yesterday. A friend of his who had remained at Baden to watch events started the moment he breathed his last, and reached town thirty hours before the mail; not, indeed, that the Captain has yet written a line on the subject to any one.”

“And what of the arrangement? Had you come to terms previously with Merl?”

“No; he kept negotiating and fencing with us from day to day, now asking for this, now insisting on that, till the evening of his friend’s arrival, when, by special appointment, I had called to confer with him. Then, indeed, he showed no disposition for further delay, but frankly told me the news, and said, ‘The Conferences are over, Scanlan. I ‘m the Lord of Cro’ Martin.’”

“And is this actually the case, – has he really established his claim in such a manner as will stand the test of law and the courts?”

“He owns every acre of it; there’s not a flaw in his title; he has managed to make all Martin’s debts assume the shape of advances in hard cash. There is no trace of play transactions throughout the whole. I must be off, Mr. Massing-bred; there ‘s the chaise now at the door.”

“Wait one moment, I entreat of you. Can nothing be done? Is it too late to attempt any compromise?”

“To be sure it is. He has sent off instructions already to serve the notice for ejectment. I ‘ve got orders myself to warn the tenants not to pay the last half-year, except into court.”

“Why, are you in Mr. Merl’s service, then?” asked Jack, with one of his quiet laughs.

“I am, and I am not,” said Scanlan, reddening. “You know the compact I made with Lady Dorothea at Baden. Well, of course there is no longer any question about that. Still, if Miss Mary agrees to accept me, I ‘ll stand by the old family! There ‘s no end of trouble and annoyance we could n’t give Merl before he got possession. I know the estate well, and where the worst fellows on it are to be found! It’s one thing to have the parchments of a property, and it is another to be able to go live on it, and draw the rents. But I can’t stay another minute. Good-bye, air. Any chance of seeing you in the West soon?”

“I ‘m not sure I ‘ll not go over to-morrow,” said Jack, musing.

“I suppose you are going to blarney the constituency?” said Maurice, laughing heartily at his coarse conceit. Then suddenly seeing that Massingbred did not seem to relish the freedom, he hurriedly repeated his leave-takings, and departed.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE DARK SIDE OF A CHARACTER

“Ye might ken the style of these epistles by this time, Dinah,” said Mr. Henderson, as he walked leisurely up and down a long low-ceilinged room, and addressed himself to a piece of very faded gentility, who sat at a writing-table. “She wants to hear naething but what she likes, and, as near as may be, in her ain words too.”

“I always feel as if I was copying out the same letter every time I write,” whined out a weak, sickly voice.

“The safest thing ye could do,” replied he, gravely. “She never tires o’ reading that everybody on the estate is a fule or a scoundrel, and ye canna be far wrang when ye say the worst o’ them all. Hae ye told her aboot the burnin’ at Kyle-a-Noe?”

“Yes, I have said that you have little doubt it was malicious.”

“And hae ye said that there’s not a sixpence to be had out of the whole townland of Kiltimmon?”

“I have. I have told her that, except Miss Mary herself, nobody would venture into the barony.”

“The greater fule yerself, then,” said he, angrily. “Couldna ye see that she’ll score this as a praise o’ the young leddy’s courage? Ye maun just strike it out, ma’am, and say that the place is in open rebellion – ”

“I thought you bade me say that Miss Mary had gone down there and spoken to the people – ”

“I bade ye say,” broke he angrily in, “that Miss Mary declared no rent should be demanded o’ them in their present distress; that she threw the warrants into the fire, and vowed that if we called a sale o’ their chattels, she ‘d do the same at the castle, and give the people the proceeds.”

“You only said that she was in such a passion that she declared she ‘d be right in doing so.”

“I hae nae time for hair-splitting, ma’am. I suppose if she had a right she ‘d exercise it! Put down the words as I gie them to ye! Ye hae no forgotten the conspeeracy?”

“I gave it exactly as you told me, and I copied out the two paragraphs in the papers about it, beginning, ‘Great scandal,’ and ‘If our landed gentry expect – ‘”

“That’s right; and ye hae added the private history of Joan? They ‘ll make a fine thing o’ that on the trial, showing the chosen associate o’ a young leddy to hae been naething better than – Ech! what are ye blubberin’ aboot, – is it yer feelin’s agen? Ech! ma’am, ye are too sentimental for a plain man like me!”

This rude speech was called up by a smothering effort to conceal emotion, which would not be repressed, but burst forth in a violent fit of sobbing.

“I know you didn’t mean it. I know you were not thinking – ”

“If ye canna keep your ain counsel, ye must just pay the cost o’ it,” said he, savagely. “Finish the letter there, and let me send it to the post. I wanted ye to say a’ about the Nelligans comin’ up to visit Miss Mary, and she goin’ ower the grounds wi’ them, and sendin’ them pineapples and grapes, and how that the doctor’s girls are a’ways wi’ her, and that she takes old Catty out to drive along wi’ herself in the pony phaeton, which is condescendin’ in a way her Leddyship will no approve o’. There was mony a thing beside I had in my head, but ye hae driven them a’ clean awa’ wi’ your feelin’s!” And he gave the last word with an almost savage severity.

“Bide a wee!” cried he, as she was folding up the letter. “Ye may add that Mister Scanlan has taken to shootin’ over the preserves we were keepin’ for the Captain, and if her Leddyship does not wish to banish the woodcocks a’the-gither, she ‘d better gie an order to stop him. Young Nelli-gan had a special permission from Miss Mary hersel’ and if it was na that he canna hit a haystack at twenty yards, there ‘d no be a cock pheasant in the demesne! I think I ‘m looking at her as she reads this,” said he, with a malicious grin. “Ech, sirs, won’t her great black eyebrows meet on her forehead, and her mouth be drawn in till never a bit of a red lip be seen! Is na that a chaise I see comin’ up the road?” cried he, suddenly. “Look yonder!”

“I thought I saw something pass,” said she, trying to strain her eyes through the tears that now rose to them.

“It’s a post-chaise wi’ twa trunks on the top. I wonder who’s comin’ in it?” said Henderson, as he opened the sash-door, and stood awaiting the arrival. The chaise swept rapidly round the beech copse, and drew up before the door; the postilion, dismounting, lowered the steps, and assisted a lady to alight. She threw back her veil as she stood on the ground, and Kate Henderson, somewhat jaded-looking and pale from her journey, was before her father. A slight flush – very slight – rose to his face as he beheld her, and without uttering a word he turned and re-entered the house.

“Ye are aboot to see a visitor, ma’am,” said he to his wife; and, taking his hat, passed out of the room. Meanwhile Kate watched the postboy as he untied the luggage and deposited it at her side.

“Did n’t I rowl you along well, my Lady? – ten miles in little more than an hour,” said he, pointing to his smoking cattle.

“More speed than we needed,” said she, with a melancholy smile, while she placed some silver in his hand.

“What’s this here, my Lady? It’s like one of the owld tenpenny bits,” said he, turning over and over a coin as he spoke.

“It’s French money,” said she, “and unfortunately I have got none other left me.”

“Sure they’ll give you what you want inside,” said he, pointing towards the house.

“No, no; take this. It is a crown piece, and they’ll surely change it for you in the town.” And so saying, she turned towards the door. When she made one step towards it, however, she stopped. A painful irresolution seemed to possess her; but, recovering it, she turned the handle and entered.

“We did not know you were coming; at least, he never told me,” said her stepmother, in a weak, broken voice, as she arose from her seat.

“There was no time to apprise you,” said Kate, as she walked towards the fire and leaned her arm on the chimney-piece.

“You came away suddenly, then? Had anything unpleasant – was there any reason – ”

“I had been desirous of leaving for some time back. Lady Dorothea only gave her consent on Tuesday last, – I think it was Tuesday; but my head is not very clear, for I am somewhat tired.” There was an indescribable sadness in the way these simple words were uttered and in the sigh which followed them.

“I ‘m afraid he ‘ll not be pleased at it!” said the other, timidly.

Another sigh, but still weaker than the former, was Kate’s only reply.

“And how did you leave Mr. Martin? They tell us here that his case is hopeless,” said Mrs. Henderson.

“He is very ill, indeed; the doctors give no hope of saving him. Is Miss Martin fully aware of his state?”

“Who can tell? We scarcely ever see her. You know that she never was very partial to your father, and latterly there has been a greater distance than ever between them. They differ about everything; and with that independent way he has – ”

A wide stare from Kate’s full dark eyes, an expression of astonishment, mingled with raillery, in her features, here arrested the speaker, who blushed deeply in her embarrassment.

“Go on,” said Kate, gently. “Pray continue, and let me hear what it is that his independence accomplishes.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed the other. “I see well you are not changed, Kate. You have come back with your old haughty spirit, and sure you know well, dear, that he ‘ll not bear it.”

“I ‘ll not impose any burden on his forbearance. A few days’ shelter – a week or two at furthest – will not be, perhaps, too much to ask.”

“So, then, you have a situation in view, Kate?” asked she, more eagerly.

“The world is a tolerably wide one, and I ‘m sure there is room for me somewhere, even without displacing another. But let us talk of anything else. How are the Nelligans? and Joe, what is he doing?”

“The old people are just as you left them; but Mr. Joseph is a great man now, – dines with the Lord-Lieutenant, and goes into all the grand society of Dublin.”

“Is he spoiled by his elevation?”

“Your father thinks him haughtier than he used to be; but many say that he is exactly what he always was. Mrs. Nelligan comes up frequently to the cottage now, and dines with Miss Martin. I ‘m sure I don’t know how my Lady would like to see her there.”

“She is not very likely,” said Kate, dryly.

“Why not?”

“I mean, that nothing is less probable than Lady Dorothea’s return here.”

“I suppose not!” half sighed Mrs. Henderson, for hers was one of those sorrowful temperaments that extract only the bitter from the cup of life. In reality, she had little reason to wish for Lady Dorothea’s presence, but still she could make a “very good grievance” out of her absence, and find it a fitting theme for regret. “What reason do you mean to give for your coming home, Kate, if he should ask you?” inquired she, after a pause.

“That I felt dissatisfied with my place,” replied Kate, coldly.

“And we were always saying what a piece of good luck it was for you to be there! Miss Mary told Mrs. Nelligan – it was only the other day – that her uncle could n’t live without you, – that you nursed him, and read to him, and what not; and as to her Ladyship, that she never took a drive in the carriage, or answered a note, without asking your advice first.”

“What a profound impression Miss Martin must have received of my talents for intrigue!” said Kate, sneeringly.

“I believe not. I think she said something very kind and good-natured, just as if it was only people who had really very great gifts that could condescend to make themselves subservient without humiliation. I know she said ‘without humiliation,’ because your father laughed when he heard of it, and remarked, ‘If it’s Kate’s humility they like, they are assuredly thankful for small mercies!”

“I should like to go over and see Miss Martin. What distance is it from this to the cottage?”

“It’s full three miles; but it’s all through the demesne.”

“I’m a good walker, and I’ll go,” said she, rising. “But first, might I ask for a little refreshment, – a cup of tea? Oh, I forgot,” added she, smiling, “tea is one of the forbidden luxuries here.”

“No; but your father doesn’t like to see it in the daytime. If you’d take it in your own room – ”

“Of course, and be most thankful. Am I to have the little room with the green paper, where I used to be, long ago?”

“Well, indeed, I can scarcely tell. The bed was taken down last autumn; and as we never thought of your coming home – ”

“Home!” sighed Kate, involuntarily.

“But come into my room, and I ‘ll fetch you a cup of tea directly.”

“No, no; it is better not to risk offending him,” said Kate, calmly. “I remember, now, that this was one of his antipathies. Give me anything else, for I have not eaten to-day.”

While her stepmother went in search of something to offer her, Kate sat down beside the fire, deep in thought. She had removed her bonnet, and her long silky hair fell in rich masses over her neck and shoulders, giving a more fixed expression to her features, which were of deathlike paleness. And so she sat, gazing intently on the fire, as though she were reading her very destiny in the red embers before her. Her preoccupation of mind was such that she never noticed the opening of the door, nor remarked that her father had entered. The noise of a chair being moved suddenly startled her. She looked up, and there he stood, his hat on his head and his arms closely folded on his breast, at the opposite side of the fire.

“Well, lassie,” said he, after a long and steady stare at her, “ye hae left your place, or been turned oot o’ it, – whilk is the case?”

“I came away of my own accord,” said she, calmly.

“And against my Leddy’s wish?”

“No, with her full consent.”

“And how did ye do it? for in her last letter to my sel’, she says, ‘I desire ye, therefore, to bear in mind that any step she takes on this head’ – meaning about going away – ‘shall have been adopted in direct opposition to my wishes.’ What has ye done since that?”

“I have succeeded in convincing her Ladyship that I was right in leaving her!” said Kate.

“Was it the force of your poleetical convictions that impelled ye to this course?” said he, with a bitter grin, “for they tell me ye are a rare champion o’ the rights o’ the people, and scruple not to denounce the upper classes, while ye eat their bread.”

“I denounce no one; nor, so far as I know myself, is ingratitude amongst my faults.”

“Maybe, if one were to tak’ your ain narrative for it, ye hae nae faults worse than mere failings! But this is na telling me why ye left my Leddy.”

Kate made no answer, but sat steadily watching the fire.

“Ye wad rayther, mayhap, that I asked hersel’ aboot it! Well, be it so. And noo comes anither point. Do ye think that if your conduct has in any way given displeasure to your mistress, or offended those in whose service ye were, – do ye think, I say, that ye hae the right to involve me in your shame and disgrace?”

“Do you mean,” said she, calmly, “that I had no right to come here?”

“It ‘s just exactly what I mean; that if ye canna mak’ friends for yoursel’, ye ought not to turn away those whilk befriend your family.”

“But what was I to have done, then?” said she, gently. “There were circumstances that required – imperatively required me – to leave Lady Dorothea – ”

“Let me hear them,” said he, breaking in, “It would lead me to speak of others than myself, – of events which are purely family matters, – were I to enter upon this theme. Besides,” said she, rising, “I am not, so far as I know, on my trial. There is not anything laid to my charge. I have no apologies to render.”

At this moment her stepmother appeared with a tray at the door, and seeing Henderson, endeavored to retire unobserved, but his quick eye had already detected her, and he cried out, “Come here, – ye canna do too much honor to a young leddy who has such a vara profound esteem for hersel’! Cake and wine! my faith! No but ye ‘ll deem it vara vulgar fare, after the dainties ye hae been used to! And yet, lassie, these are nae the habits here!”

“She has eaten nothing to-day!” meekly observed her stepmother.

“My fayther wad hae askit her hoo much has she earned the day?” said Henderson, severely.

“You are quite right, sir,” broke in Kate, – “I have earned nothing. Not just yet,” added she, as her stepmother pressed a glass of wine on her acceptance; “a little later, perhaps. I have no appetite now.”

“Are ye sae stupid, ma’am, that ye canna see ye are dealin’ wi’ a fine leddy, wha is no obleeged to hae the same mind twa minutes thegither? Ye ‘ll hae to train wee Janet to be a’ ready for whate’er caprice is uppermost. But mine me, lassie,” – here he turned a look of stern meaning towards her, – “ye hae tried for mony a lang day to subdue me to your whims and fancies, as they tell me ye hae done wi’ sae mony others, and ye are just as far fra it noo as the first time ye tried it. Ye canna cheat nor cajole me! I know ye!” And with these words, uttered in a tone of intense passion, he slowly walked out of the room.

“Had he been angry with you? – had anything occurred before I came in?” asked her stepmother.

“Very little,” sighed Kate, wearily. “He was asking me why I came here, I believe. I could scarcely tell him; perhaps I don’t very well know, myself.”

“He can’t get it out of his head,” said the other, in a low, stealthy whisper, “that, if you should leave Lady Dorothea, he will be turned away out of the stewardship. He is always saying it, – he repeats it even in his dreams. But for that, he ‘d not have met you so – so – unkindly.”

Kate pressed her hand affectionately, and smiled a thankful acknowledgment of this speech. “And the cottage,” said she, rallying suddenly, “is about three miles off?”

“Not more. But you could scarcely walk there and back again. Besides, it is already growing late, and you have no chance of seeing Miss Mary if you ‘re not there by breakfast-time, since, when she comes home of an evening, she admits no one. She reads or studies, I believe, all the evening.”

“I think she’d see me,” said Kate; “I should have so much to tell her about her friends. I ‘m sure she ‘d see me, – at least, I’ll try.”

“But you’ll eat something, – you ‘ll at least drink a glass of wine before you set out?”

“I do not like to refuse you,” said Kate, smiling good-naturedly, “but I could n’t swallow now. I have a choking feeling here in my throat, like a heavy cold, that seems as though it would suffocate me. Good-bye, for a while. I shall be quite well, once I ‘m in the open air. Good-bye!” And, so saying, she wrapped her shawl around her, and motioning a farewell with her hand, set out on her errand.