The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. II (of II)

Had Scanlan been waiting for the few words which from a jury-box determine a man’s fate forever, he could not have suffered more acute anxiety than he felt while contemplating the other’s calm and unmoved countenance. A bold, open rejection of his plan, a defiant repudiation of his presumption, would not probably have pained him more, if as much as the impassive quietness of Jack’s demeanor.

“If you think that this is a piece of impudence on my part, Mr. Massingbred, – if it’s your opinion that in aspiring to be connected with the Martins I’m forgetting my place and my station, just say so at once. Tell it to me frankly, and I’ll know how to bear it,” said he, at last, when all further endurance had become impossible.

“Nothing of the kind, my dear Scanlan,” said Jack, smiling blandly. “Whatever snobbery once used to prevail on these subjects, we have come to live in a more generous age. The man of character, the man who unites an untarnished reputation to very considerable abilities, with talent to win any station, and virtues to adorn it, such a man wants no blazonry to illustrate his name, and it is mainly by such accessions that our English aristocracy, refreshed and invigorated as it is, preserves its great acknowledged superiority.”

It would have required a more acute critic than Maurice Scanlan to have detected the spirit in which this rhapsody was uttered. The apparent earnestness of the manner did not exactly consort with a certain pomposity of enunciation and an over-exactness in the tone of the declamation. On the whole Maurice did not like it. It smacked to his ears very like what he had often listened to in the Four Courts at the close of a “junior’s” address; and there was a Nisi Prius jingle in it that sounded marvellously unlike conviction.

“If, then,” resumed Massingbred, “they who by the accidents of fortune, or the meritorious services of their forefathers, represent rather in their elevation the gratitude of their country than – ”

“I ‘m sorry to interrupt you, sir, – indeed, I’m ashamed of myself for doing it, – for your remarks are beautiful, downright eloquent; but the truth is, this is a case touches me too closely to make me care for a grand speech about it. I ‘d rather have just a few words – to the evidence, as one might say, – or a simple answer to a plain question, Can this thing be done?”

“There’s where you beat us, Scanlan. There’s where we cannot approach you. You are practical. You reduce a matter at once to the simple dimension of efficacy first, then possibility, and with these two conditions before you you reject the fifty extraneous considerations, outlying contingencies, that distract and embarrass such fellows as me.

“I have no pretension to abilities like yours, Mr. Massingbred,” said Scanlan, with unassumed modesty.

“Ah, Scanlan, yours are the true gifts, take my word for it! – the recognized currency by which a man obtains what he seeks for; and there never was an era in which such qualities bore a higher value. Our statesmen, our diplomatists, our essay-writers, – nay, our very poets, addressing themselves as they do to the correction of social wrongs and class inequalities, – they are all ‘practical’! That is the type of our time, and future historians will talk of this as the ‘Age of Fact’!”

If one were to judge from Maurice Scanlan’s face during the delivery of this peroration, it might be possibly inferred that he scarcely accepted the speech as an illustration in point, since anything less practical he had never listened to.

“When I think,” resumed he, “what a different effect I should have produced in the ‘House’ had I possessed this requisite! You, possibly, may be under the impression that I achieved a great success?”

“Well, I did hear as much,” said Scanlan, half doggedly.

“Perhaps it was so. A first speech, you are aware, is always listened to indulgently; not so a second, especially if a man rises soon after his first effort. They begin to suspect they have got a talkative fellow, eager and ready to speak on every question; they dread that, and even if he be clever, they ‘ll vote him a bore!”

“Faith! I don’t wonder at it!” said Maurice, with a hearty sincerity in the tone.

“Yet, after all, Scanlan, let us be just! How in Heaven’s name, are men to become debaters, except by this same training? You require men not alone to be strong upon the mass of questions that come up in debate, but you expect them to be prompt with their explanations, always prepared with their replies. Not ransacking history, or searching through ‘Hansard,’ you want a man who, at the spur of the moment, can rise to defend, to explain, to simplify, or mayhap to assail, to denounce, to annihilate. Is n’t that true?”

“I don’t want any such thing, sir!” said Scanlan, with a sulky determination that there was no misunderstanding.

“You don’t. Well, what do you ask for?”

“I’ll tell you, sir, and in very few words, too, what I do not ask for! I don’t ask to be humbugged, listening to this, that, and the other, that I have nothing to say to; to hear how you failed or why you succeeded; what you did or what you could n’t do. I put a plain case to you, and I wanted as plain an answer. And as to your flattering me about being practical, or whatever you call it, it’s a clean waste of time, neither less nor more!”

“The agency and the niece!” said Massingbred, with a calm solemnity that this speech had never disconcerted.

“Them ‘s the conditions!” said Scanlan, reddening over face and forehead.

“You ‘re a plucky fellow, Scanlan, and by Jove I like you for it!” said Massingbred. And for once there was a hearty sincerity in the way he spoke. “If a man is to have a fall, let it be at least over a ‘rasper,’ not be thrown over a furrow in a ploughed field! You fly at high game, but I’m far from saying you’ll not succeed.” And with a jocular laugh he turned away and left him.

CHAPTER XXIV. A CONSULTATION

Jack Massingbred was one of those who, in questions of difficulty, resort to the pen in preference to personal interference. It was a fancy of his that he wrote better than he talked. Very probably he thought so because the contrary was the fact. On the present occasion another motive had also its influence. It was Lady Dorothea that he addressed, and he had no especial desire to commit himself to a direct interview.

His object was to convey Mr. Scanlan’s propositions, – to place them fully and intelligibly before her Ladyship without a syllable of comment on his own part, or one word which could be construed into advocacy or reprobation of them. In truth, had he been called upon for an opinion, it would have sorely puzzled him what to say. To rescue a large estate from ruin was, to be sure, a very considerable service, but to accept Maurice Scanlan as a near member of one’s family seemed a very heavy price even for that. Still, if the young lady liked him, singular as the choice might appear, other objections need not be insurmountable. The Martins were very unlikely ever to make Ireland their residence again, they would see little or nothing of this same Scanlan connection, “and, after all,” thought Jack, “if we can only keep the disagreeables of this life away from daily intercourse, only knowing them through the post-office and at rare intervals, the compact is not a bad one.”

Massingbred would have liked much to consult Miss Henderson upon the question itself, and also upon his manner of treating it; but to touch upon the point of a marriage of inequality with her, would have been dangerous ground. It was scarcely possible he could introduce the topic without dropping a word, or letting fall a remark she could not seize hold of. It was the theme, of all others, in which her sensitiveness was extreme; nor could he exactly say whether she sneered at a mésalliance, or at the insolent tone of society regarding it.

Again he bethought him of the ungraciousness of the task he had assumed, if, as was most probable, Lady Dorothea should feel Mr. Scanlan’s pretensions an actual outrage. “She’ll never forgive me for stating them, that’s certain,” said he; “but will she do so if I decline to declare them, or worse still, leave them to the vulgar interpretation Scanlan himself is sure to impart to them?” While he thus hesitated and debated with himself, now altering a phrase here, now changing a word there, Captain Martin entered the room, and threw himself into a chair with a more than ordinary amount of weariness and exhaustion.

“The governor’s worse to-day, Massingbred,” said he, with a sigh.

“No serious change, I hope?” said Jack.

“I suspect there is, though,” replied the other. “They sent for me from Lescour’s last night, where I was winning smartly. Just like my luck always, to be called away when I was ‘in vein,’ and when I got here, I found Schubart, and a French fellow whom I don’t know, had just bled him. It must have been touch and go, for when I saw him he was very ill – very ill indeed – and they call him better.”

“It was a distinct attack, then, – a seizure of some sort?” asked Massingbred.

“Yes, I think they said so,” said he, lighting his cigar.

“But he has rallied, has n’t he?”

“Well, I don’t fancy he has. He lifts his eyes at times, and seems to look about for some one, and moves his lips a little, but you could scarcely say that he was conscious, though my mother insists he is.”

“What does Schubart think?”

“Who minds these fellows?” said he, impatiently. “They’re only speculating on what will be said of themselves, and so they go on: ‘If this does not occur, and the other does not happen, we shall see him better this evening.’”

“This is all very bad,” said Massingbred, gloomily – “It’s a deuced deal worse than you know of, old fellow,” said Martin, bitterly.

“Perhaps not worse than I suspect,” said Massingbred.

“What do you mean by that?”

Massingbred did not reply, but sat deep in thought for some time. “Come, Martin,” said he, at last, “let us be frank; in a few hours it may be, perhaps, too late for frankness. Is this true?” And he handed to him Merl’s pocket-book, open at a particular page.

Martin took it, and as his eyes traced the lines a sickly paleness covered his features, and in a voice scarcely stronger than an infant’s, he said, “It is so.”

“The whole reversionary right?”

“Every acre – every stick and stone of it – except,” added he, with a sickly attempt at a smile, “a beggarly tract, near Kiltimmon, Mary has a charge upon.”

“Read that, now,” said Jack, handing him his recently written letter. “I was about to send it without showing it to you; but it is as well you saw it.”

While Martin was reading, Massingbred never took his eyes from him. He watched with all his own practised keenness the varying emotions the letter cost; but he saw that, as he finished, selfishness had triumphed, and that the prospect of safety had blunted every sentiment as to the price.

“Well,” said Jack, “what say you to that?”

“I say it’s a right good offer, and on no account to be refused. There is some hitch or other – I can’t say what, but it exists, I know – which ties us up against selling. Old Repton and the governor, and I think my mother, too, are in the secret; but I never was, so that Scanlan’s proposal is exactly what meets the difficulty.”

“But do you like his conditions?” asked Jack.

“I can’t say I do. But what ‘s that to the purpose? One must play the hand that is dealt to them; there ‘s no choice! I know that, as agent over the property, he ‘ll make a deuced good thing of it for himself. It will not be five nor ten per cent will satisfy Master Maurice.”

“Yes; but there is another condition, also,” said Jack, quietly.

“About Mary? Well, of course it’s not the kind of thing one likes. The fellow is the lowest of the low; but even that’s better, in some respects, than a species of half gentility, for he actually has n’t one in the world belonging to him. No one ever heard of his father or mother, and he’s not the fellow to go in search of them.”

“I confess that is a consideration,” said Massingbred, with a tone that might mean equally raillery or the reverse, “so that you see no great objection on that score?”

“I won’t say I ‘d choose the connection; but ‘with a bad book it’s at least a hedge,’ – eh, Massy, is n’t it?”

“Perhaps so,” said the other, dryly.

“It does n’t strike me,” said Martin, as he glanced his eye again over the letter, “that you have advocated Scanlan’s plan. You have left it without, apparently, one word of comment. Does that mean that you don’t approve of it?”

“I never promised him I would advocate it,” said Jack.

“I have no doubt, Massingbred, you think me a deuced selfish fellow for treating the question in this fashion; but just reflect a little, and see how innocently, as I may say, I was led into all these embarrassments. I never suspected how deep I was getting. Merl used to laugh at me if I asked him how we stood; he always induced me to regard our dealings as trifles, to be arranged to-day, to-morrow, or ten years hence.”

“I am not unversed in that sort of thing, unluckily,” said Massingbred, interrupting him. “There is another consideration, however, in the present case, to which I do not think you have given sufficient weight.”

“As to Mary, my dear fellow, the matter is simple enough. Our consent is a mere form. If she liked Scanlan, she ‘d marry him against all the Martins that ever were born; and if she did n’t, she ‘d not swerve an inch if the whole family were to go to the stake for it. She ‘s not one for half measures, I promise you; and then, remember, that though she is one ‘of us,’ and well born, she has never mingled with the society of her equals; she has always lived that kind of life you saw yourself, – taking a cast with the hounds one day, nursing some old hag with the rheumatism the next. I ‘ve seen her hearing a class in the village school, and half an hour after, breaking in a young horse to harness. And what between her habits and her tastes, she is really not fit for what you and I would call the world.” As Massingbred made no reply, Martin ascribed his silence to a part conviction, and went on: “Mind, I ‘m not going to say that she is not a deuced deal too good for Maurice Scanlan, who is as vulgar a hound as walks on two legs; but, as I said before, Massy, we haven’t much choice.”

“Will Lady Dorothea be likely to view the matter in this light?” asked Jack, calmly.

“That is a mere matter of chance. She ‘s equally likely to embrace the proposal with ardor, or tell a footman to kick Scanlan out of the house for his impertinence; and I own the latter is the more probable of the two, – not, mark you, from any exaggerated regard for Mary, but out of consideration to the insult offered to herself.”

“Will she not weigh well all the perils that menace the estate?”

“She’ll take a short method with them, – she’ll not believe them.”

“Egad! I must say the whole negotiation is in a very promising state!” exclaimed Jack, as he arose and walked the room. “There is only one amongst us has much head for a case of difficulty.”

“You mean Kate Henderson?” broke in Martin.

“Yes.”

“Well, we ‘ve lost her just when we most needed her.”

“Lost her! How – what do you mean?”

“Why, that she is gone – gone home. She started this morning before daybreak. She had a tiff with my mother last night. I will say the girl was shamefully treated, – shamefully! My Lady completely forgot herself. She was in one of those blessed paroxysms in which, had she been born a Pasha, heads would have been rolling about like shot in a dockyard, and she consequently said all manner of atrocities; and instead of giving her time to make the amende, Kate beat a retreat at once, and by this time she is some twenty miles on her journey.”

Massingbred walked to the window to hide the emotion these tidings produced; for, with all his self-command, the suddenness of the intelligence had unmanned him, and a cold and sickly feeling came over him. There was far more of outraged and insulted pride than love in the emotions which then moved him. The bitter thought of the moment was, how indifferent she felt about him, – how little he weighed in any resolve she determined to follow. She had gone without a word of farewell, – perhaps without a thought of him. “Be it so,” said he to himself; “there has been more than enough of humiliation to me in our intercourse. It is time to end it! The whole was a dream, from which the awaking was sure to be painful. Better meet it at once, and have done with it.” There was that much of passion in this resolve that proved how far more it came from wounded pride than calm conviction; and so deeply was his mind engrossed with this feeling, that Martin had twice spoken to him ere he noticed his question.

“Do you mean, then, to show that letter to my mother?”

“Ay; I have written it with that object Scanlan asked me to be his interpreter, and I have kept my pledge. – And did she go alone, – unaccompanied?”

“I fancy so; but, in truth, I never asked. The doctors were here, and all that fuss and confusion going on, so that I had really little head for anything. After all, I suspect she’s a girl might be able to take care of herself, – should n’t you say so?”

Massingbred was silent for a while, and then said: “You ‘ll have to be on the alert about this business of yours, Martin; and if I can be of service to you, command me. I mean to start for London immediately.”

“I ‘ll see my mother at once, then,” said he, taking up Massingbred’s letter.

“Shall I meet you in about an hour, in the Lichtenthal Avenue?”

“Agreed,” said he; and they parted.

We have no need, nor have we any right, to follow Massingbred as he strolled out to walk alone in an alley of the wood. Irresolution is an intense suffering to men of action; and such was the present condition of his mind. Week after week, month after month, had he lingered on in companionship with the Martins, till such had become the intimacy between them that they scrupled not to discuss before him the most confidential circumstances, and ask his counsel on the most private concerns. He fancied that he was “of them;” he grew to think that he was, somehow, part and parcel of the family, little suspecting the while that Kate Henderson was the link that bound him to them, and that without her presence they resolved themselves into three individuals for whom he felt wonderfully little of interest or affection. “She is gone, and what have I to stay for?” was the question he put to himself; and for answer he could only repeat it.

CHAPTER XXV. A COMPROMISE

There are many who think that our law of primogeniture is a sad hardener of the heart, – estranging the father from the son, widening petty misunderstandings to the breadth of grievances, engendering suspicions where there should be trustfulness, and opening two roads in life to those who should rightfully have trod one path together. If one half of this be the price we pay for our “great houses,” the bargain is a bad one! But even taking a wide margin for exaggeration, – allowing much for the prejudices of those who assail this institution, – there is that which revolts against one’s better nature, in the ever-present question of money, between the father and his heir. The very fact that separate rights suggest separate interests is a source of discord; while the inevitable law of succession is a stern defiance to that sense of protection on one side, and dependence on the other, that should mark their relations to each other.

Captain Martin was not devoid of affection for his family. He had, it is true, been very little at home, but he did not dislike it, beyond the “boredom” of a rather monotonous kind of life. He was naturally of a plastic temperament, however, and he lived amongst a set whose good pleasure it is to criticise all who belong to them with the very frankest of candor. One told how his governor, though rolling in wealth, kept him on a most beggarly allowance, illustrating, with many an amusing story, traits of avarice that set the table in a roar. Another exhibited his as such a reckless spendthrift that the family estate would never cover the debts. There was a species of rivalry on seeing who should lay most open to public view details and incidents purely belonging to a family. It was even a principle of this new school to discuss, and suffer others to discuss before them, the class and condition of life of their parents in a tone of mockery and derision, whenever the occasion might admit it; and the son of the manufacturer or the trader listened to allusions to his birth and parentage, and even jested upon them himself, in a spirit more flattering to his philosophy than to his pride.

Martin had lived amidst all this for years. He had been often complimented upon the “jolly good thing he was to have one of these days;” he had been bantered out of many a wise and prudent economy, by being reminded of that “deuced fine property nobody could keep him out of.” “What can it signify to you old fellow, a few hundreds more or less. You must have fifteen thousand a year yet. The governor can’t live forever, I take it.” Others, too, as self-invited guests, speculated on all the pleasures of a visit to Cro’ Martin; and if at first the young man heard such projects with shame and repugnance, he learned at last to listen to them with indifference, perhaps with something less!

Was it some self-accusing on this score that now overwhelmed him as he sat alone in his room, trying to think, endeavoring to arouse himself to action, but so overcome that he sat there only half conscious, and but dimly discerning the course of events about him? At such moments external objects mingle their influences with our thoughts, and the sound of voices, the tread of footsteps, the mere shutting of a door, seem to blend themselves with our reveries, and give somewhat of reality to our dreamy fancies. A large clock upon the mantelpiece had thus fixed his attention, and he watched the minute-hand as though its course was meting out the last moments of existence. “Ere it reach that hour,” thought he, fixing his gaze upon the dial, “what a change may have come over all my fortunes!” Years – long years – seemed to pass over as he waited thus; scenes of childhood, of infancy itself, mingled with the gay dissipations of his after-life; school days and nights at mess, wild orgies of the play-table and sad wakings on the morrow, all moved through his distracted brain, till at length it was only by an effort that he could shake off these flitting fancies and remember where he was.

He at once bethought him that there was much to be done. He had given Massingbred’s letter to his mother, entreating a prompt answer, but two hours had now elapsed and she had not sent her reply. There was a struggle between his better nature and his selfishness whether to seek her. The thought of that sick-room, dark and silent, appalled him. “Is it at such a time I dare ask her to address her mind to this? and yet hours are now stealing over which may decide my whole fate in life.” While he thus hesitated, Lady Dorothea entered the room. Nights of anxiety and watching, the workings of a spirit that fought inch by inch with fortune, were deeply marked upon her features. Weariness and fatigue had not brought depression on her, but rather imparted a feverish lustre to her eyes, and an expression of haughty energy to her face.

“Am I to take this for true,” said she, as, seating herself in front of him, she held out Massingbred’s letter, – “I mean, of course, what relates to yourself?”

He nodded sorrowfully, but did not speak.

“All literally the fact?” said she, speaking slowly, and dwelling on every word. “You have actually sold the reversion of the estate?”

“And am beggared!” said he, sternly.

Lady Dorothea tried to speak. She coughed, cleared her throat, made another effort, but without succeeding; and then, in a slightly broken voice, said, “Fetch me a glass of water. No, sit down; I don’t want it.” The blood again mounted to her pale cheeks, and she was herself again.

“These are hard terms of Scanlan’s,” said she, in a dry, stern tone. “He has waited, too, till we have little choice remaining. Your father is worse.”

“Worse than when I saw him this morning?”

“Weaker, and less able to bear treatment. He is irritable, too, at that girl’s absence. He asks for her constantly, and confuses her in his mind with Mary.”