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CHAPTER IV. A VERY GREAT FAVOR

Amongst the embarrassments of story-telling there is one which, to be appreciated, must have been experienced; it is, however, sufficiently intelligible to claim sympathy even by indicating, – we mean the difficulty a narrator has in the choice of those incidents by which his tale is to be marked out, and the characters who fill it adequately depicted.

It is quite clear that a great number of events must occur in the story of every life of which no record can be made; some seem too trivial, some too irrelevant for mention, and yet, when we come to reflect upon real life itself, how many times do we discover that what appeared to be but the veriest trifles were the mainsprings of an entire existence, and the incidents which we deemed irrelevant were the hidden links that connected a whole chain of events? How easy, then, to err in the selection! This difficulty presents itself strongly to us at present; a vast number of circumstances rise before us from which we must refrain, lest they should appear to indicate a road we are not about to travel; and, at the same time, we feel the want of those very events to reconcile what may well seem contradictions in our history.

It not unfrequently happens that an apology is just as tiresome as the offence it should excuse; and so, without further explanation, we proceed. Lady Dorothea soon found herself as much sought after as she had previously been neglected. The Duchesse de Luygnes was the great leader of fashion at Paris; and the marked attentions by which she distinguished her Ladyship at once established her position. Of course her unquestionable claim to station, and her own high connections rendered the task less difficult; while it imparted to Lady Dorothea’s own manner and bearing that degree of dignity and calm which never accompany an insecure elevation.

With such refinement of delicacy, such exquisite tact, was every step managed that her Ladyship was left to suppose every attention she received sprung out of her own undeniable right to them, and to the grace and charm of a manner which really had had its share of success some five-and-thirty years before. The gloomy isolation she had passed through gave a stronger contrast to the enjoyment of her present life; and for the first time for years she regained some of that courtly elegance of address which in her youth had pre-eminently distinguished her. The change had worked favorably in her temper also; and Martin perceived, with astonishment, that she neither made injurious comparisons between the present and the past, nor deemed the age they lived in one of insufferable vulgarity. It would scarcely have been possible for Lady Dorothea not to connect her altered position with the friendship between Kate Henderson and her former pupil; she knew it, and she felt it. All her self-esteem could not get over this consciousness; but it was a humiliation reserved for her own heart, since nothing in Kate’s manner indicated even a suspicion of the fact. On the contrary, never had she shown herself more submissive and dependent. The duties of her office, multiplied as they were tenfold by her Ladyship’s engagements, were all punctually acquitted, and with a degree of tact and cleverness that obtained from Lady Dorothea the credit of a charming note-writer. Nor was she indifferent to the effect Kate produced in society, where her beauty and fascination had already made a deep impression.

Reserving a peculiar deference and respect for all her intercourse with Lady Dorothea, Kate Henderson assumed to the world at large the ease and dignity of one whose station was the equal of any. There was nothing in her air or bearing that denoted the dependant; there was rather a dash of haughty superiority, which did not scruple to avow itself and bid defiance to any bold enough to question its claims. Even this was a secret flattery to Lady Dorothea’s heart; and she saw with satisfaction the success of that imperious tone which to herself was subdued to actual humility.

Lady Dorothea Martin and her beautiful companion were now celebrities at Paris; and, assuredly, no city of the world knows how to shower more fascinations on those it favors. Life became to them a round of brilliant festivities. They received invitations from every quarter, and everywhere were met with that graceful welcome so sure to greet those whose airs and whose dress are the ornaments of a salon. They “received” at home, too; and her Ladyship’s Saturdays were about the most exclusive of all Parisian receptions. Tacitly, at least, the whole management and direction of these “Evenings” was committed to Kate. Martin strictly abstained from a society in every way distasteful to him. The Captain had come to care for nothing but play, so that the Club was his only haunt; and it was the rarest of all events to see him pass even a few minutes in the drawing-room. He had, besides, that degree of shrinking dislike to Kate Henderson which a weak man very often experiences towards a clever and accomplished girl. When he first joined his family at Paris, he was struck by her great beauty and the elegance of a manner that might have dignified any station, and he fell partly in love, – that is to say, as much in love as a captain of hussars could permit himself to feel for a governess. He condescended to make small advances, show her petty attentions, and even distinguish her by that flattering stare, with his glass to his eye, which he had known to be what the poet calls “blush-compelling” in many a fair cheek in provincial circles.

To his marvellous discomfiture, however, these measures were not followed by any success. She never as much as seemed aware of them, and treated him with the same polite indifference, as though he had been neither a hussar nor a lady-killer. Of course he interpreted this as a piece of consummate cunning; he had no other measure for her capacity than would have been suited to his own. She was a deep one, evidently bent on drawing him on, and entangling him in some stupid declaration, and so he grew cautious. But, somehow, his reserve provoked as little as his boldness. She did not change in the least; she treated him with a quiet, easy sort of no-notice, – the most offensive thing possible to one bent upon being impressive, and firmly persuaded that he need only wish, to be the conqueror.

Self-worship was too strong in him to suffer a single doubt as to his own capacity for success, and therefore the only solution to the mystery of her manner was its being an artful scheme, which time and a little watching would surely explain. Time went on, and yet he grew none the wiser; Kate continued the same impassive creature as at first. She never sought, – never avoided him. She met him without constraint, – without pleasure, too. They never became intimate, while there was no distance in their intercourse; till at last, wounded in his self-esteem, he began to feel that discomfort in her presence which only waits for the slightest provocation to become actual dislike.

With that peevishness that belongs to small minds, he would have been glad to have discovered some good ground for hating her; and a dozen times a day did he fancy that he had “hit the blot,” but somehow he always detected his mistake erelong; and thus did he live on in that tantalizing state of uncertainty and indecision which combines about as much suffering as men of his stamp are capable of feeling.

If Lady Dorothea never suspected the degree of influence Kate silently exercised over her, the Captain saw it palpably, and tried to nourish the knowledge into a ground for dislike. But somehow she would no more suffer herself to be hated than to be loved, and invariably baffled all his attempts to “get up” an indignation against her. By numberless devices – too slight, too evanescent to be called regular coquetry – she understood how to conciliate him, even in his roughest moods, while she had only to make the very least possible display of her attractions to fascinate him in his happier moments. The gallant hussar was not much given to self-examination. It was one of the last positions he would have selected; and yet he had confessed to his own heart that, though he ‘d not like to marry her himself, he ‘d be sorely tempted to shoot any man who made her his wife.

Lady Dorothea and Kate Henderson were seated one morning engaged in the very important task of revising the invitation-book, – weeding out the names of departed acquaintance, and canvassing the claims of those who should succeed them. The rigid criticism as to eligibility showed how great an honor was the card for her Ladyship’s “Tea.” While they were thus occupied, Captain Martin entered the room with an open letter in his hand, his air and manner indicating flurry, if not actual agitation.

“Sorry to interrupt a privy council,” said he, “but I’ve come to ask a favor, – don’t look frightened; it’s not for a woman, my Lady, – but I want a card for your next Saturday, for a male friend of mine.”

“Kate has just been telling me that ‘our men’ are too numerous.”

“Impossible. Miss Henderson knows better than any one that the success of these things depends on having a host of men, – all ages, all classes, all sorts of people,” said he, indolently.

“I think we have complied with your theory,” said she, pointing to the book before her. “If our ladies are chosen for their real qualities, the men have been accepted with a most generous forbearance.”

“One more, then, will not damage the mixture.”

“Of course, Captain Martin, it is quite sufficient that he is a friend of yours – that you wish it – ”

“But it is no such thing, Miss Henderson,” broke in Lady Dorothea. “We have already given deep umbrage in many quarters – very high quarters, too – by refusals; and a single mistake would be fatal to us.”

“But why need this be a mistake?” cried Captain Martin, peevishly. “The man is an acquaintance of mine, – a friend, if you like to call him so.”

“And who is he?” asked my Lady, with all the solemnity of a judge.

“A person I met at the Cape. We travelled home together – saw a great deal of each other – in fact – I know him as intimately as I do – any officer in my regiment,” said the Captain, blundering and faltering at every second word.

“Oh! then he is one of your own corps?” said her Ladyship.

“I never said so,” broke he in. “If he had been, I don’t fancy I should need to employ much solicitation in his behalf; the – they are not usually treated in that fashion!”

“I trust we should know how to recognize their merits,” said Kate, with a look which sorely puzzled him whether it meant conciliation or raillery.

“And his name?” asked my Lady. “His name ought to be decisive, without anything more!”

“He’s quite a stranger here, knows nobody, so that you incur no risk as to any impertinent inquiries, and when he leaves this, to-morrow or next day, you ‘ll never see him again.” This the Captain said with all the confusion of an inexpert man in a weak cause.

“Shall I address his card, or will you take it yourself, Captain Martin?” said Kate, in a low voice.

“Write Merl, – Mr. Herman Merl,” said he, dropping his own voice to the same tone.

“Merl!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, whose quick hearing detected the words. “Why, where on earth could you have made acquaintance with a man called Merl?”

“I have told you already where and how we met; and if it be any satisfaction to you to know that I am under considerable obligations – heavy obligations – to this same gentleman, perhaps it might incline you to show him some mark of attention.”

“You could have him to dinner at your Club, – you might even bring him here, when we’re alone, Harry; but really, to receive him at one of our Evenings! You know how curious people are, what questions they will ask: – ‘Who is that queer-looking man?’ – I ‘m certain he is so. – ‘Is he English?’ – ‘Who does he belong to?’ – ‘Does he know any one?’”

“Let them ask me, then,” said Martin, “and I may, perhaps, be able to satisfy them.” At the same moment he took up from the table the card which Kate had just written, giving her a look of grateful recognition as he did so.

“You ‘ve done this at your own peril, Miss Henderson,” said Lady Dorothea, half upbraidingly.

“At mine, be it rather,” said the Captain, sternly.

“I accept my share of it willingly,” said Kate, with a glance which brought a deep flush over the hussar’s cheek, and sent through him a strange thrill of pleasure.

“Then I am to suppose we shall be honored with your own presence on this occasion, – rare favor that it is,” said her Ladyship.

“Yes, I ‘ll look in. I promised Merl to present him.”

“Oh, you need n’t!” said she, peevishly. “Half the men merely make their bow when they meet me, and neither expect me to remember who they are or to notice them. I may leave your distinguished friend in the same category.”

A quick glance from Kate – fleeting, but full of meaning – stopped Martin as he was about to make a hasty reply. And, crumpling up the card with suppressed passion, he turned and left the room.

“Don’t put that odious name on our list, Miss Henderson,” said Lady Dorothea; “we shall never have him again.”

“I ‘m rather curious to see him,” said Kate. “All this discussion has imparted a kind of interest to him, not to say that there would seem something like a mystery in Captain Martin’s connection with him.”

“I confess to no such curiosity,” said my Lady, haughtily. “The taste to be amused by vulgarity is like the passion some people have to see an hospital; you may be interested by the sight, but you may catch a malady for your pains.” And with this observation of mingled truth and fallacy her Ladyship sailed proudly out of the room in all the conscious importance of her own cleverness.

CHAPTER V. A LETTER FROM HOME

While this discussion was going on, Martin was seated in his own room, examining the contents of his letter-bag, which the post had just delivered to him. A very casual glance at his features would have discovered that the tidings which met his eye were very rarely of a pleasant character. For the most part the letters were importunate appeals for money, subscriptions, loans, small sums to be repaid when the borrower had risen above his present difficulties, aids to effect some little enterprise on whose very face was failure. Then there were the more formal demands for sums actually due, written in the perfection of coercive courtesy, subjecting the reader to all the tortures of a moral surgical operation, a suffering actually increased by the very dexterity of the manipulator. Then came, in rugged hand and gnarled shape, urgent entreaties for abatements and allowances, pathetic pictures of failing crops, sickness and sorrow! Somewhat in contrast to these in matter – most strikingly unlike them in manner – was a short note from Mr. Maurice Scanlan. Like a rebutting witness in a cause, he spoke of everything as going on favorably; prices were fair, the oat crop a reasonable one. There was distress, to be sure, but who ever saw the West without it? The potatoes had partially failed; but as there was a great deal of typhus and a threat of cholera, there would be fewer to eat them. The late storms had done a good deal of mischief, but as the timber thrown down might be sold without any regard to the entail, some thousand pounds would thus be realized; and as the gale had carried away the new pier at Kilkieran, there would be no need to give a bounty to the fishermen who could not venture out to sea. The damage done to the house and the conservatories at Cro’ Martin offered an opportunity to congratulate the owner on the happiness of living in a milder climate; while the local squabbles of the borough suggested a pleasant contrast with all the enjoyments of a life abroad.

On the whole, Mr. Scanlan’s letter was rather agreeable than the reverse, since he contrived to accompany all the inevitable ills of fortune by some side-wind consolations, and when pushed hard for these, skilfully insinuated in what way “things might have been worse.” If the letter did not reflect very favorably on either the heart or brain that conceived it, it well suited him to whom it was addressed. To screen himself from whatever might irritate him, to escape an unpleasant thought or unhappy reflection, to avoid, above all things, the slightest approach of self-censure, was Martin’s great philosophy; and he esteemed the man who gave him any aid in this road. Now newspapers might croak their dark predictions about the coming winter, prophesy famine, fever, and pestilence; Scanlan’s letter, “written from the spot,” by “one who enjoyed every opportunity for forming a correct opinion,” was there, and he said matters were pretty much as usual. The West of Ireland had never been a land of milk and honey, and nobody expected it ever would be, – the people could live in it, however, and pay rents too; and as Martin felt that he had no undue severity to reproach himself with, he folded up the epistle, saying that “when a man left his house and property for a while, it was a real blessing to have such a fellow as Scanlan to manage for him;” and truly, if one could have his conscience kept for a few hundreds a year, the compact might be a pleasant one. But even to the most self-indulgent this plan is impracticable; and so might it now be seen in Martin’s heightened color and fidgety manner, and that even he was not as much at ease within as he wished to persuade himself he was.

Amid the mass of correspondence, pamphlets and newspapers, one note, very small and neatly folded, had escaped Martin’s notice till the very last; and it was only as he heaped up a whole bundle to throw into the fire that he discovered this, in Mary’s well-known hand. He held it for some time ere he broke the seal, and his features assumed a sadder, graver cast than before. His desertion of her – and he had not blinked the word to himself – had never ceased to grieve him; and however disposed he often felt to throw upon others the blame which attached to himself here, he attempted no casuistry, but stood quietly, without one plea in his favor, before his own heart.

The very consciousness of his culpability had prevented him writing to her as he ought; his letters were few, short, and constrained. Not all the generous frankness of hers could restore to him the candid ease of his former intercourse with her; and every chance expression he used was conned over and canvassed by him, lest it might convey some sentiment, or indicate some feeling foreign to his intention. At length so painful had the task become that he had ceased writing altogether, contenting himself with a message through Kate Henderson, – some excuse about his health, fatigue, – and so forth, ever coupled with a promise that he would soon be himself again, and as active a correspondent as she could desire.

To these apologies Mary always replied in a kindly spirit. Whatever sorrow they might have cost her she kept for herself; they never awakened one expression of impatience, not a word of reproach. She understood him thoroughly, – his easy indolence of disposition, his dislike to a task, his avoidance of whatever was possible to defer; more even than all these, his own unforgiveness of himself for his part towards her. To alleviate, so far as she might, the poignancy of the last, was for a while the great object of all her letters; and so she continued to expatiate on the happy life she was leading, her contentment with the choice she had made of remaining there, throwing in little playful sallies of condolence at her uncle’s banishment, and jestingly assuring him how much happier he would be at home!

In whatever mood, however, she wrote, there was a striking absence of whatever could fret or grieve her uncle throughout all her letters. She selected every pleasant topic and the favorable side of every theme to tell of. She never forgot any little locality which he had been partial to, or any of the people who were his favorites; and, in fact, it might have seemed that the great object she had in view was to attach him more and more to the home he had left, and strengthen every tie that bound him to his own country. And all this was done lightly and playfully, and with a pleasant promise of the happiness he should feel on the day of his return.

These letters were about the pleasantest incidents in Martin’s present life; and the day which brought him one was sure to pass agreeably, while he made vigorous resolutions about writing a reply, and sometimes got even so far as to open a desk and ruminate over an answer. It so chanced that now a much longer interval had occurred since Mary’s last letter, and the appearance of the present note, so unlike the voluminous epistle she usually despatched, struck him with a certain dismay. “Poor Molly,” said he, as he broke the seal, “she is growing weary at last; this continued neglect is beginning to tell upon her. A little more, and she ‘ll believe – as well she may – that we have forgotten her altogether.”

The note was even briefer than he had suspected. It was written, too, in what might seem haste, or agitation, and the signature forgotten. Martin’s hand trembled, and his chest heaved heavily as he read the following lines: —

“Cro’ Martin, Wednesday Night

“Dearest Uncle, – You will not suffer these few lines to remain unanswered, since they are written in all the pressure of a great emergency. Our worst fears for the harvest are more than realized; a total failure in the potatoes – a great diminution in the oat crop; the incessant rains have flooded all the low meadows, and the cattle are almost without forage, while from the same cause no turf can be cut, and even that already cut and stacked cannot be drawn away from the bogs. But, worse than all these, typhus is amongst us, and cholera, they say, coming. I might stretch out this dreary catalogue, but here is enough, more than enough, to awaken your sympathies and arouse you to action. There is a blight on the land; the people are starving – dying. If every sense of duty was dead within us, if we could harden our hearts against every claim of those from whose labor we derive ease, from whose toil we draw wealth and leisure, we might still be recalled to better things by the glorious heroism of these poor people, so nobly courageous, so patient are they in their trials. It is not now that I can speak of the traits I have witnessed of their affection, their charity, their self-denial, and their daring – but now is the moment to show them that we, who have been dealt with more favorably by fortune, are not devoid of the qualities which adorn their nature.

“I feel all the cruelty of narrating these things to you, too far away from the scene of sorrow to aid by your counsel and encourage by your assistance; but it would be worse than cruelty to conceal from you that a terrible crisis is at hand, which will need all your energy to mitigate.

“Some measures are in your power, and must be adopted at once. There must be a remission of rent almost universally, for the calamity has involved all; and such as are a little richer than their neighbors should be aided, that they may be the more able to help them. Some stores of provisions must be provided to be sold at reduced rates, or even given gratuitously. Medical aid must be had, and an hospital of some sort established. The able-bodied must be employed on some permanent work; and for these, we want power from you and some present moneyed assistance. I will not harrow your feelings with tales of sufferings. You have seen misery here – enough, I say – you have witnessed nothing like this, and we are at but the beginning.

“Write to me at once yourself – this is no occasion to employ a deputy – and forgive me, dearest uncle, for I know not what faults of presumption I may have here committed. My head is confused; the crash of misfortunes has addled me, and each succeed so rapidly on each other, that remedies are scarcely employed than they have to be abandoned. When, however, I can tell the people that it is their own old friend and master that sends them help, and bids them to be of good cheer, – when I can show them that, although separated by distance, your heart never ceases to live amongst them, – I know well the magic working of such a spell upon them, and how, with a bravery that the boldest soldier never surpassed, they will rise up against the stern foes of sickness and famine, and do battle with hard fortune manfully.

“You have often smiled at what you deemed my exaggerated opinion of these poor people, – my over-confidence in their capacity for good. Oh – take my word for it – I never gave them credit for one half the excellence of their natures. They are on their trial now, and nobly do they sustain it!

“I have no heart to answer all your kind questions about myself, – enough that I am well; as little can I ask you about all your doings in Paris. I ‘m afraid I should but lose temper if I heard that they were pleasant ones; and yet, with my whole soul, I wish you to be happy; and with this,

“Believe me your affectionate

“Mr. Repton has written me the kindest of letters, full of good advice and good sense; he has also enclosed me a check for £100, with an offer of more if wanted. I was low and depressed when his note reached me, but it gave me fresh energy and hope. He proposed to come down here if I wished; but how could I ask such a sacrifice, – how entreat him to face the peril?”

“Tell Captain Martin I wish to speak to him,” said Martin, as he finished the perusal of this letter. And in a few minutes after, that gallant personage appeared, not a little surprised at the summons.

“I have got a letter from Mary here,” said Martin, vainly endeavoring to conceal his agitation as he spoke, “which I want to show you. Matters are in a sad plight in the West. She never exaggerates a gloomy story, and her account is very afflicting. Read it.”

The Captain lounged towards the window, and, leaning listlessly against the wall, opened the epistle.

“You have not written to her lately, then?” asked he, as he perused the opening sentence.

“I am ashamed to say I have not; every day I made a resolution; but somehow – ”

“Is all this anything strange or new?” broke in the Captain. “I ‘m certain I have forty letters from my mother with exactly the same story. In fact, before I ever broke the seal, I ‘d have wagered an equal fifty that the potatoes had failed, the bogs were flooded, the roads impassable, and the people dying in thousands; and yet, when spring came round, by some happy miracle they were all alive and merry again!”

“Read on,” said Martin, impatiently, and barely able to control himself at this heartless commentary.

“Egad! I ‘d have sworn I had read all this before, except these same suggestions about not exacting the rents, building hospitals, and so forth; that is new. And why does she say, ‘Don’t write by deputy’? Who was your deputy?”

“Kate Henderson has written for me latterly.”

“And I should say she ‘s quite equal to that sort of thing; she dashes off my mother’s notes at score, and talks away, too, all the time she ‘s writing.”

“That is not the question before us,” said Martin, sternly.

“When I sent for you to read that letter, it was that you might advise and counsel me what course to take.”

“If you can afford to give away a year’s income in the shape of rent, and about as much more in the shape of a donation, of course you ‘re quite free to do it. I only wish that your generosity would begin at home, though; for I own to you I ‘m very hard-up at this moment.” This the Captain spoke with an attempted jocularity which decreased with every word, till it subsided into downright seriousness ere he finished.

“So far from being in a position to do an act of munificence, I am sorely pressed for money,” said Martin.

The Captain started; the half-smile with which he had begun to receive this speech died away on his lips as he asked, “Is this really the case?”

“Most truly so,” said Martin, solemnly.

“But how, in the name of everything absurd – how is this possible? By what stratagem could you have spent five thousand a year at Cro’ Martin, and your estate was worth almost three times as much? Giving a very wide margin for waste and robbery, I ‘d say five thousand could not be made away with there in a twelvemonth.”

“Your question only shows me how carelessly you must have read my letters to you, in India,” said Martin; “otherwise you could not have failed to see the vast improvements we have been carrying out on the property, – the roads, the harbors, the new quarries opened, the extent of ground covered by plantation, – all the plans, in fact, which Mary had matured – ”

“Mary! Mary!” exclaimed the Captain. “And do you tell me that all these things were done at the instigation of a young girl of nineteen or twenty, without any knowledge, or even advice – ”

“And who said she was deficient in knowledge?” cried Martin. “Take up the map of the estate; see the lands she has reclaimed; look at the swamps you used to shoot snipe over bearing corn crops; see the thriving village, where once the boatmen were starving, for they dared not venture out to sea without a harbor against bad weather.”

“Tell me the cost of all this. What’s the figure?” said the Captain; “that’s the real test of all these matters, for if your income could only feed this outlay, I pronounce the whole scheme the maddest thing in Christendom. My mother’s taste for carved oak cabinets and historical pictures is the quintessence of wisdom in comparison.”

Martin was overwhelmed and silent, and the other went on, – “Half the fellows in ‘ours’ had the same story to tell, – of estates wasted, and fine fortunes squandered in what are called improvements. If the possession of a good property entails the necessity to spend it all in this fashion, one is very little better than a kind of land-steward to one’s own estate; and, for my part, I ‘d rather call two thousand a year my own, to do what I pleased with, than have a nominal twenty, of which I must disburse nineteen.”