Kitabı oku: «The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. II (of II)», sayfa 9

“And you ‘re telling me this in the very spot that contradicts every word you say!” cried Crow, half angrily; for the port had given him courage, and the decanter waxed low.

“How so?” exclaimed Scanlan.

“Here, where we sit – on this very estate of Cro’ Martin – where a young girl – a child the other day – has done more to raise the condition of the people, to educate and civilize, than the last six generations together.”

A long wailing whistle from Scanlan was the insulting reply to the assertion.

“What do you mean by that?” cried Crow, passionately.

“I mean that she has done more mischief to the property than five-and-forty years’ good management will ever repair, Now don’t be angry, Simmy; keep your temper, and draw your chair back again to the table. I ‘m not going to say one word against her intentions; but when I see the waste of thousands of pounds on useless improvements, elegant roads that lead nowhere, bridges that nobody will ever pass, and harbors without boats, not to say the habits of dependence the people have got by finding everything done for them. I tell you again, ten years more of Miss Mary’s rule will finish the estate.”

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“I don’t believe a word of it!” blurted out Simmy, boldly. “I saw her yesterday coming out of a cabin, where she passed above an hour, nursing typhus fever and cholera. The cloak she took off the door – for she left it there to dry – was still soaked with rain; her wet hair hung down her shoulders, and as she stood bridling her own pony, – for there was not a living soul to help her – ”

“She ‘d have made an elegant picture,” broke in Scanlan, with a laugh. “But that’s exactly the fault of us in Ireland, – we are all picturesque; I wish we were prosperous! But come, Simmy, finish your wine; it’s not worth disputing about. If all I hear about matters be true, there will be very little left of Cro’ Martin when the debts are paid.”

“What! do you mean to say that they ‘re in difficulty?”

“Far worse; the stories that reach me call it – ruin!”

Simmy drew his chair closer to the table, and in a whisper scarcely breathed, said, “That chap’s not asleep, Maurice.”

“I know it,” whispered the other; and added, aloud, “Many a fellow that thinks he has the first charge on the property will soon discover his mistake; there are mortgages of more than eighty years’ standing on the estate. You’ve had a great sleep, sir,” said he, addressing Merl, who now yawned and opened his eyes; “I hope our talking did n’t disturb you?”

“Not in the least,” said Merl, rising and stretching his legs. “I’m all right now, and quite fresh for anything.”

“Let me introduce Mr. Crow to you, sir, – a native artist that we ‘re all proud of.”

“That’s exactly what you are not then,” said Crow; “nor would you be if I deserved it. You ‘d rather gain a cause at the Quarter Sessions, or take in a friend about a horse, than be the man that painted the Madonna at Florence.”

“He’s cross this evening, – cross and ill-humored,” said Scanlan, laughing. “Maybe he ‘ll be better tempered when we have tea.”

“I was just going to ask for it,” said Merl, as he arranged his whiskers, and performed a small impromptu toilet before the glass, while Simmy issued forth to give the necessary orders.

“We ‘ll have tea, and a rubber of dummy afterwards,” said Scanlan, “if you’ve no objection.”

“Whatever you like, – I ‘m quite at your disposal,” replied Merl, who now seated himself with an air of bland amiability, ready, according to the amount of the stake, to win pounds or lose sixpences.

CHAPTER XI. MR. MERL “AT FENCE”

All the projects which Mr. Scanlan had struck out for Merl’s occupation on the following day were marred by the unfavorable weather. It blew fiercely from the westward, driving upon shore a tremendous sea, and sending white masses of drift and foam far inland. The rain, too, came down in torrents. The low-lying clouds, which scarcely reached more than half-way up the mountain sides, seemed as if rent asunder at times, and from them came a deluge, filling all the watercourses, and swelling rivulets to the size of mighty torrents. The unceasing roll of thunder, now near, now rumbling along in distant volleys, swelled the wild uproar, and helped to make up a scene of grand but desolate meaning.

What could well be drearier than that little line of cabins that formed the village of Kilkieran, as with strongly barricaded doors, and with roofs secured by ropes and spars, they stood exposed to the full violence of the wild Atlantic! Not a man, not a living thing was to be seen. The fishermen were all within doors, cowering in gloomy indolence over the scanty turf fires, and brooding darkly on the coming winter.

With a thorough conviction of all the dreariness of this scene, Mr. Merl stood at the window and looked out. He had been all his life too actively engaged in his pursuits of one kind or other to know much about what is called “being bored.” Let rain fall ever so heavily, a cab could take him down to “‘Change,” – the worst weather never marred a sale of stock, and Consols could rise even while the mercury was falling. The business-life of a great city seems to care little for weather, and possibly they whose intent faculties are bent on gain, scarcely remember whether the sun shines upon their labors.

Merl felt differently now; the scene before him was wilder and gloomier than anything he had ever beheld. Beyond and behind the village steep mountains rose on every side, of barren and rugged surface, – not a vestige of any culture to be seen; while on the road, which led along a narrow gorge, nothing moved. All was dreary and deserted.

“I suppose you’ll keep the roof over you to-day, Mr. Merl?” said Scanlan, as he entered the room, buttoned up to the chin in a coarse frieze coat, while his head was protected by a genuine “sou’-wester” of oilskin.

“And are you going out in such weather?” asked Merl.

“‘Needs must,’ sir, as the proverb says. I have to be at the assizes at Oughterard this morning, to prosecute some scoundrels for cutting brambles in the wood; and I want to serve notices on a townland about eight miles from this; and then I ‘ll have to go round by Cro’ Martin and see Miss Mary. That’s not the worst of it,” added he, with an impudent leer, “for she’s a fine girl, and has the prettiest eyes in the kingdom.”

“I have a letter for her,” said Merl, – “a letter of introduction from Captain Martin. I suppose I might as well send it by you, and ask if I might pay my respects to-morrow or next day?”

“To be sure; I’ll take it with pleasure. You’ll like her when you see her. She’s not a bit like the rest: no pride, no stand-off, – that is, when she takes a fancy; but she is full of life and courage for anything.”

“Ah, yes, – the Captain said we should get on very well together,” drawled out Merl.

“Did he, though!” cried Scanlan, eagerly. Then as suddenly checking his anxiety, he added: “But what does he know about Miss Mary? Surely they’re as good as strangers to each other. And for the matter of that, even when he was here, they did n’t take to each other, – she was always laughing at the way he rode.”

“Wasn’t he in the dragoons?” asked Merl, in a half-rebutting tone.

“So he was; but what does that signify? Sure it’s not a cavalry seat, with your head down and your elbows squared, will teach you to cross country, – at least, with Mary Martin beside you. You’ll see her one of these day yourself, Mr. Merl. May I never, if you don’t see her now!” cried Scanlan, suddenly, as he pointed to the road along which a horse was seen coming at speed, the rider breasting the storm fearlessly, and only crouching to the saddle as the gusts swept past. “What in the name of all that’s wonderful brings her here?” cried Maurice. “She wasn’t down at Kilkieran for four months.”

“She’ll stop at this inn here, I suppose?” said Merl who was already performing an imaginary toilet for her visit.

“You may take your oath she’ll not!” said Scanlan half roughly; “she ‘d not cross the threshold of it! She ‘s going to some cabin or other. There she goes, – is n’t that riding?” cried he, in animation. “Did you ever see a horse held neater? And see how she picks the road for him! Easy as she’s sitting, she ‘d take a four-foot wall this minute, without stirring in her saddle.”

“She hasn’t got a nice day for pleasuring!” said the Jew, with a vulgar cackle.

“If ye call it pleasure,” rejoined Scanlan, “what she’s after; but I suspect there’s somebody sick down at the end of the village. There, I ‘m right; she’s pulling up at Mat Landy’s, – I wonder if it’s old Mat is bad.”

“You know him?” asked Merl.

“To be sure I do. He ‘s known down the coast for forty miles. He saved more men from shipwreck himself than everybody in the barony put together; but his heart is all but broke about a granddaughter that ran away. Sure enough, she’s going in there.”

“Did you see Miss Mary?” cried Crow, entering suddenly. “She’s just gone down the beach. They say there’s a case now down there.”

“A case – of what?” said Merl.

“Cholera or typhus, as it may be,” said Crow, not a little surprised at the unmistakable terror of the other’s face.

“And she’s gone to see it!” exclaimed the Jew.

“To do more than see it. She ‘ll nurse the sick man, and bring him medicine and whatever he wants.”

“And not afraid?”

“Afraid!” broke in Crow. “I’d like to know what she’s afraid of. Ask Mr. Scanlan what would frighten her.” But Mr. Scanlan had already slipped noiselessly from the room, and was already on his way down the shore.

“Well,” said Merl, lighting his cigar, and drawing an arm-chair close to the fire, “I don’t see the advantage of all that. She could send the doctor, I suppose, and make her servants take down to these people whatever she wanted to send them. What especial utility there is in going herself, I can’t perceive.”

“I’ll tell you, then,” said Crow. “It’s more likely the doctor is busy this minute, ten or fifteen miles away, – for the whole country is down in sickness; but even if he was n’t, if it were not for her courage in going everywhere, braving danger and death every hour, there would be a general flight of all that could escape. They’d rush into the towns, – where already there’s more sickness than they know how to deal with. She encourages some, – she shames more; and not a few are proud to be brave in such company, for she is an angel, – that’s her name, – an angel.”

“Well, I should like to see her,” drawled out Merl, as he smoothed down his scrubby mustachios.

“Nothing easier, then,” rejoined Crow. “Put on your coat and hat, and we ‘ll stroll down the beach till she comes out; it can’t be very long, for she has enough on her hands elsewhere.”

The proposition of a “stroll” in such weather was very little to Mr. Merl’s taste; but his curiosity was stronger than even his fear of a drenching, and having muffled and shawled himself as if for an Arctic winter, they set out together from the inn.

“And you tell me,” said he, “that the Martins used to live here, – actually pass their lives in this atrocious climate?”

“That they did, – and the worst mistake they ever made was to leave it,” said Crow.

“I confess you puzzle me,” said Merl.

“Very possibly I do, sir,” was the calm reply; “but you’d have understood me at once had you known this country while they resided at Cro’ Martin. It was n’t only that the superfluities of their wealth ran over, and filled the cup of the poor man, but there was a sense of hope cherished, by seeing that however hard the times, however adverse the season, there was always ‘his Honor,’ as they called Mr. Martin, whom they could appeal to for aid or for lenient treatment.”

“Very strange, very odd, all this,” said Merl, musing. “But all that I hear of Ireland represents the people as if in a continual struggle for mere existence, and actually in a daily state of dependence on the will of somebody above them.”

“And if that same condition were never to be exaggerated into downright want, or pushed to an actual slavery, we could be very happy with it,” said Crow, “and not thank you, or any other Englishman that came here, to disturb it.”

“I assure you I have no ambition to indulge in any such interference,” said Merl, with a half-contemptuous laugh.

“And so you’re not thinking of settling in Ireland?” asked Crow, in some surprise.

“Never dreamed of it!”

“Well, the story goes that you wanted to buy an estate, and came down to have a look at this property here.”

“I’d not live on it if Martin were to make me a present of it to-morrow.”

“I don’t think he will,” said Crow, gravely. “I am afraid he could n’t, if he wished it.”

“What, do you mean on account of the entail?” asked Merl.

“Not exactly.” He paused, and after some silence said, “If the truth were told, there’s a great deal of debt on this property, – more than any one suspects.”

“The Captain’s encumbrances?” asked Merl, eagerly.

“His grandfather’s and his great-grandfather’s! As for the present man, they say that he’s tied up some way not to sell, except for the sake of redeeming some of the mortgages. But who knows what is true and what is false about all this?”

Merl was silent; grave fears were crossing his mind how far his claims were valid; and terrible misgivings shot across him lest the Captain might have been paying him with valueless securities.

“I gather from what you say,” said he, at last, “that it would be rather difficult to make out a title for any purchaser of this estate.”

“Don’t be afraid of that, sir. They’ll make you out a fair title.”

“I tell you again, I’d not take it as a present,” said Merl, half angrily.

“I see,” said Crow, nodding his head sententiously. And then fixing his eyes steadily on him, he said, “You are a mortgagee.”

Merl reddened, – partly anger, partly shame. Indeed, the feeling that such a capacity as Mr. Crow’s should have pushed him hard, was anything but complimentary to his self-esteem.

“I don’t want to pry into any man’s affairs,” said Crow, easily. “Heaven knows it’s mighty little matter to Simmy Crow who lives in the big house there. I ‘d rather, if I had my choice, be able to walk the wood with my sketch-book and brushes than be the richest man that ever was heartsore with the cares of wealth.”

“And if a friend – a sincere, well-wishing friend – were to bind himself that you should enjoy this same happiness you speak of, Mr. Crow, what would you do in return?”

“Anything he asked me, – anything, at least, that a fair man could ask, and an honest one could do.”

“There’s my hand on it, then,” said Merl. “It’s a bargain.”

“Ay, but let us hear the conditions,” said Crow. “What could I possibly serve you in, that would be worth this price?”

“Simply this: that you’ll answer all my inquiries, so far as you know about this estate; and where your knowledge fails, that you’ll endeavor to obtain the information for me.”

“Maybe I could tell you nothing at all – or next to nothing,” said Crow. “Just ask me, now, what’s the kind of question you ‘d put; for, to tell truth, I ‘m not over bright or clever, – the best of me is when I’ve a canvas before me.”

Merl peered stealthily at the speaker over the great folds of the shawl that enveloped his throat; he was not without his misgivings that the artist was a “deep fellow,” assuming a manner of simplicity to draw him into a confidence. “And yet,” he thought, “had he really been shrewd and cunning, he ‘d never have blurted out his suspicion as to my being a mortgagee. Besides,” said he to himself, “there, and with that fact, must end all his knowledge of me.” “You can dine with me to-day, Mr. Crow, can’t you?”

“I ‘m engaged to the stranger in No. 4, – the man I’m making the drawings for.”

“But you could get off. You could ask him to excuse you by saying that something of importance required you elsewhere?”

“And dine in the room underneath?” asked Crow, with a comical look of distress at this suggestion.

“Well, let us go somewhere else. Is there no other inn in the neighborhood?”

“There’s a small public-house near the gate of Cro’ Martin, to be sure.”

“Then we’ll dine there. I’ll order a chaise at four o’clock, and we ‘ll drive over together. And now, I ‘ll just return to the house, for this wading here is not much to my taste.”

Mr. Merl returned gloomily to the house, his mind too deeply occupied with his own immediate interests to bestow any thought upon Mary Martin. The weather assuredly offered but little inducement to linger out of doors, for, as the morning wore on, the rain and wind increased in violence, while vast masses of mist swept over the sea and were carried on shore, leaving only, at intervals, little patches of the village to be seen, – dreary, storm-beaten, and desolate! Merl shuddered, as he cast one last look at this sad-colored picture, and entered the inn.

Has it ever been your ill-fortune, good reader, to find yourself alone in some dreary, unfrequented spot, the weather-bound denizen of a sorry inn, without books or newspapers, thrown upon the resources of your own thoughts, so sure to take their color from the dreary scene around them? It is a trying ordeal for the best of tempers. Your man of business chafes and frets against the inactivity; your man of leisure sorrows over monotony that makes idleness a penalty. He whose thoroughfare in life is the pursuit of wealth thinks of all those more fortunate than himself then hurrying on to gain, while he who is the mark of the world’s flatteries and attentions laments over the dismal desolation of an uncompanionable existence.

If Mr. Merl did not exactly occupy any one of these categories, he fancied, at least, that he oscillated amidst them all. It was, indeed, his good pleasure to imagine himself a “man upon town,” who played a little, discounted a little, dealt a little in old pictures, old china, old cabinets, and old plate, but all for mere pastime, – something, as he would say, “to give him an interest in it;” and there, certainly, he was right. Nothing so surely imparted an “interest” in Mr. Merl’s eyes as having an investment. Objects of art, the greatest triumphs of genius, landscape the richest eye ever ranged over, political events that would have awakened a sense of patriotism in the dullest and coldest, all came before him as simple questions of profit and loss.

If he was not actually a philosopher, some of his views of life were characterized by great shrewdness. He had remarked, for instance, that the changeful fashions of the world are ever alternating; and that not only dress and costume and social customs undergo mutations, but that objects of positive sterling value are liable to the same wayward influences. We are all modern to-day, to-morrow we may be “Louis Quatorze,” the next day “Cinque Centi” in our tastes. Now we are mad after Italian art, yesterday the Dutch school was in vogue. Our galleries, our libraries, our houses, our gardens, all feel the caprices of these passing moods. There was but one thing that Mr. Merl had perceived never changed, and that was the estimation men felt for money. Religions might decay, and states crumble, thrones totter, and kings be exiled, Cuyps might be depreciated and marquetry be held in mean esteem; but gold was always within a fraction at least of four pounds eleven shillings the ounce!

He remarked, too, that men gradually grow tired of almost everything; the pursuits of the young are not those of the middle-aged, still less of advanced life. The books which we once cried over are now thrown down with languor; the society we imagined perfection we now smile at for its very absurdities. We see vulgarity where we once beheld vigor; we detect exaggeration where we used to attribute power. There is only one theme of which our estimation never varies, – wealth! Mr. Merl had never yet met the man nor the woman who really despised it; nay, he had seen kings trafficking on ‘Change. He had known great ministers deep speculators on the Bourse; valiant admirals, distinguished generals, learned judges, and even divines, had bought and sold with him, all eager in the pursuit of gain, and all employing, to the best of their ability, the high faculties of their intelligence to assist them in making crafty bargains.

If these experiences taught him the universal veneration men feel for wealth, they also conveyed another lesson, which was, the extreme gullibility of mankind. He met every day men who ruled cabinets and commanded fleets, – the reputed great of the earth, – and saw them easier victims in his hand than the commonest capacity in “Leadenhall Street.” They had the earliest information, but could not profit by it; they never understood the temper on ‘Change, knew nothing of the variations of the money-barometer, and invariably fell into snares that your city man never incurred. Hence Mr. Merl came to conceive a very low general opinion of what he himself called “the swells,” and a very high one of Herman Merl.

If we have dwelt upon these traits of this interesting individual in this place, it is simply to place before our reader’s mind the kind of lucubrations such a man might be disposed to indulge in. In fact, story-tellers like ourselves have very little pretension to go beyond the narrow limit; and having given to the reader the traits of a character, they must leave their secret working more or less to his ingenuity. So much, however, we are at liberty to declare, that Mr. Merl was terribly bored, and made no scruple of confessing it.

“What the deuce are you staring at? Is there anything really to be seen in that confounded dreary sea?” cried he, as Crow stood shading his eyes from the lightning flashes, and intently gazing on the scene without.

“That’s one of the effects Backhuysen was so fond of!” exclaimed Crow, eagerly, – “a sullen sea, lead-colored and cold, with a white curl just crisping the top of the waves, over it a dreary expanse of dark sky, low-lying and black, till you come near the horizon, where there is a faint line of grayish white, just enough to show that you are on the wide, wide ocean, out of sight of land, and nothing living near, except that solitary sea-gull perched upon the breakers there. There’s real poetry in a bit like that; it sets one a thinking over the desolation of those whose life is little better than a voyage on such a sea!”

“Better be drowned at once,” broke in Merl, impatiently.

Crow started and looked at him; and had Merl but seen that glance, so scornful and contemptuous was it, even his self-esteem might have felt outraged. But he had not remarked it; and as little did he guess what was then passing in the poor artist’s mind, as Crow muttered to himself, “I know one that will not be your guest to-day, if he dines on a cold potato, or does n’t dine at all.”

“Did I tell you,” cried he, suddenly, “that there’s no horses to be had?”

“No horses!” exclaimed Merl; “how so?”

“There’s a great trial going on at the assizes to-day, and Mr. Barry is gone on to Oughterard to hear it, and he has the only pair of posters in the place.”

“What a confounded hole!” burst out Merl, passionately. “That I ever should have set my foot in it! How are we to get through the day here? Have you thought of anything to be done?”

“I’ll go down and find out how poor Landy is,” said Crow; “for Miss Mary’s horse is still at the door, and he must be very bad, indeed, or she wouldn’t delay so long.”

“And what if it should turn out the cholera, or typhus, or something as bad?”

“Well?” said Crow, interrogatively; for he could not guess the drift of the suggestion.

“Simply this, my worthy friend,” resumed Merl, – “that I have no fancy for the pleasure of your company at dinner after such an excursion as you speak of.”

“I was just going to say that myself,” said Crow. “Good-bye!” And before Merl could interpose a word, he was gone.