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

CHAPTER XVII. A COUNTRY-HOUSE

When Massingbred arrived at Cro’ Martin, he found Repton at the door awaiting him. “I find,” said he, “there is little need of introducing you here. Your father was an old acquaintance of Martin’s; they sat together for years in Parliament, and Lady Dorothea was related to your family. But here he comes.” And Martin approached, with his hand extended in cordial welcome. No one ever knew better how to do the honors of his house, nor could throw more graceful courtesy into the first steps of acquaintanceship. Massingbred, too, was well calculated to appreciate this gift. He had a most intense esteem for “manner,” and enjoyed even the necessity it imposed upon himself of exertion to please. With sincere satisfaction was it that he accepted an invitation to pass some days there, and at once despatched a servant to Magennis’s house for his trunks.

The adventure of the morning was alluded to but once, and then in a jocular strain, as an incident of no moment whatever; and Massingbred retired to his room to dress for dinner, wondering within himself if he should find the other members of the family as much to his liking as the worthy host had been.

A dinner-party was a rare event at Cro’ Martin. The isolation in which they lived was rarely broken by a visitor; and when, by rare accident, some solitary stranger did present himself with a letter of introduction, his stay was merely of a few hours. Now, however, the company included, in addition to the family, Repton, Massingbred, and Nelligan, besides Miss Henderson, who was on that day to appear at dinner. The quondam college friends had not met; neither had Miss Martin ever seen her governess; so that there was no small degree of anticipation as to how such elements would harmonize and agree.

When Massingbred entered the drawing-room, he found Miss Henderson there alone; and at once believing she could be no other than Miss Martin, he proceeded to introduce himself in the best manner he could. Her reception was perfect in ease and self-possession, and they soon found themselves engaged in a lively discussion as to the scenery, the people and their habits, of which they both appeared to have a very similar appreciation. Lady Dorothea next made her appearance; and, advancing towards Massingbred, welcomed him with what, for her, was the extreme of cordiality. “Your mother was a Caradoc, Mr. Massingbred, and the Caradocs are all of our family; so let me claim relationship at once.”

With all the pretensions of a very fine lady, Lady Dorothea knew how to unite very agreeable qualities, not the less successful in her captivations, that she never exercised them without a real desire to please; so that Massingbred soon saw how in the wilds of dreary Connemara there existed a little oasis of polish and civilization that would have done honor to the most splendid society of London or Paris.

Nor was Massingbred himself less pleasing to her. It was so long, so many, many years since she had met with one fresh from that great world which alone she valued!

Correspondence had kept her to a certain extent informed upon the changes and vicissitudes of society, – the births, deaths, marriages, separations, quarrels, and other disasters of those dear friends for whose griefs absence and time offer so many consolations! But then, the actual appearance, the coup d’oil of that world could only be imparted by an observer, imbued with all the spirit that gives observation its peculiar piquancy. This she found in him; and so agreeably exercised was it, that she actually heard dinner announced without attending, and only as she arose from her seat was reminded to present him to Miss Martin, by the brief phrase, “My niece, Mr. Massingbred;” while she took his arm, with a glance at Mr. Repton, that plainly said, “You are deposed.”

The passage to the dinner-room lay through three spacious and splendid rooms, which now were brilliantly lighted up, and lined with servants in rich liveries, – a degree of state Massingbred was not a little pleased at; partly suspecting that it was intended to do himself honor. As they moved slowly through the last of these, the door suddenly opened, and young Nelligan entered. He had returned late from a long ride, and heard nothing whatever of Massing-bred’s arrival. With an exclamation of “Jack – Massingbred!” he bounded forward. But the other showed no recognition of him; and directing Lady Dorothea’s attention to the richness of a picture-frame, passed calmly on into the dinner-room.

“You must bring up the rear alone, Nelligan,” said Martin, who had given his arm to Miss Henderson; and Joe followed, almost overwhelmed with mingled shame and amazement.

For an instant the possibility of mistake assuaged his sense of mortification; but no sooner did he find himself at table, and directly opposite to Massingbred, than he perceived there was no ground whatever for this consolation. It was, indeed, Massingbred, just as he had seen him the first day in the Commons Hall at dinner, and when his cold, supercilious manner had struck him so disagreeably.

What a terrible vengeance for all the superiority Nelligan had displayed over him in the Examination Hall was Massingbred’s present success; for success it was. With all that consummate readiness the habit of society imparts, Jack could talk well on a great variety of topics, and possessed, besides, that especial tact to make others so far participators in his observations that they felt a partnership in the agreeability. Lady Dorothea was perfectly charmed with him; it was the triumph, as it were, of one of her own set. His anecdotes – not very pointed or curious in themselves – had the marked characteristic of always referring to distinguished individuals; so that what was deficient in wit was more than compensated by the rank of the actors. Martin enjoyed his conversation with all his own complacent ease, and felt delighted with one who could play all the game without an adversary. Mary was pleased and astonished together – the pleasure being even less than the amazement – at all he seemed to know of life and the world, and how intimately one so young seemed to have mixed in society. As for Repton, he relished the other’s powers with the true zest of a pleasant talker; they were of different styles, and no disagreeable rivalry marred the appreciation.

Amidst all these silent or spoken testimonies sat poor Nelligan, overwhelmed with shame. Massingbred had refused to recognize him; and it was left to his own gloomy thoughts to search out the reason. At first Joe avoided meeting the other’s look; he dreaded he knew not what of impertinence or insult, to which the time and place could offer no reparation; but gradually he grew to perceive that Massingbred’s cold eye met his own without a spark of meaning; nor was there in voice, manner, or bearing, a single evidence of constraint or awkwardness to be detected.

Miss Henderson alone seemed to listen to him with easy indifference; and more than once, when Jack put forth his most showy pretensions, he was secretly mortified to see how little impression he had made on the dark beauty with the haughty smile. This was exactly the kind of defiance that Massingbred never declined, and he determined within himself to attempt the conquest. As the party returned to the drawing-room, he asked Lady Dorothea to present him more formally to the young lady whose acquaintance he had dared to obtrude upon before dinner; but she coldly said, —

“Oh, it’s no matter; she’s only the governess.” An explanation she deemed quite sufficient to subdue any rising feeling of interest regarding her.

“And the gentleman who sat next her at dinner?” asked he.

“A neighbor, – that is, the son of one of our borough people. I have not introduced him to you; for, of course, you are not likely to meet again. As you were remarking, awhile ago, society in England is gradually undergoing that change which in France was accomplished in a year or two.”

“With the aid of the guillotine and the ‘lanterne,’” said Jack, smiling.

“Just so; they used sharp remedies for a quick cure. But I own to you that I have not yet reconciled myself, nor do I see how I shall ever reconcile myself, to intimacy with a class not only whose habits and instincts, but whose very natures are adverse to our own. That young man now, for instance, they speak of him as quite a college wonder. I’m ashamed to say I don’t know wherein his great successes lie; but they tell me that he has distanced every competitor of his day, and stands alone in his preeminence, and yet we saw him to-day not venturing on a remark, nor even hazarding an opinion on the topics we talked of, and silent where he ought to have been heard with advantage.”

“Is he bashful?” said Jack, with a lazy drawl.

“I don’t think it’s that; at least, not altogether.”

“Supercilious, perhaps?”

“Oh! certainly not,” replied she, hastily. “The company in which he found himself is the best answer to that. He could not presume – ”

“It was, then, downright fear,” broke in Massingbred; “the terror that even clever men cannot even shake off when thrown amongst a class they’re unused to.”

“And very naturally so. I’m sure he must be puzzled to imagine why he is here. Indeed, we have only known him a few days back. It was one of Mr. Martin’s sudden caprices to ask him to Cro’ Martin. He fancied he ought to conciliate – I believe that’s the phrase in vogue – the borough people, and this young man’s father is the chief of them.” And now Lady Dorothea turned from the topic as one unworthy of further thought, and entered upon the more congenial theme of her own high relatives and connections in England. It was strange enough that Massing-bred’s remote alliance with her family was sufficient to induce an intimacy and familiarity with him which years of mere acquaintanceship could not have effected. That his grand-aunt had been a Conway, and his great-grandfather’s half-brother was married to a Jernyngham, were all a species of freemasonry by which he was admitted at once to the privilege of confidential discussion.

It was no small mortification to Massingbred to spend his evening in these genealogical researches; he had seen the two young girls move off into an adjoining room, from which at times the sound of a piano, and of voices singing, issued, and was half mad with impatience to be along with them. However, it was a penalty must be exacted, and he thought that the toll once paid he had secured himself against all demands for the future.

Not caring to participate in the many intricacies of those family discussions wherein the degrees of relationship of individuals seem to form the sole points of interest, we shall betake ourselves to the little blue drawing-room, where, seated at the piano together, the two young girls talked, while their fingers strayed along the notes as though affording a species of involuntary accompaniment to their words. Nelligan, it is true, was present; but, unnoticed by either, he sat apart in a distant corner, deep in his own brooding thoughts.

Mary had only made Miss Henderson’s acquaintance on that evening, but already they were intimate. It was, indeed, no common boon for her to obtain companionship with one of her own age, and who, with the dreaded characteristics of a governess, was in reality a very charming and attractive person. Miss Henderson sang with all the cultivated knowledge of a musician; and, while she spoke of foreign countries where she had travelled, lapsed at times into little snatches of melody, as it were, illustrative of what she spoke. The delight Mary experienced in listening was unbounded; and if at moments a sad sense of her own neglected education shot through her mind, it was forgotten the next instant in her generous admiration.

“And how are you, who have seen this bright and brilliant world you speak of,” said Mary, “to sit quietly down in this unbroken solitude, where all the interests are of the humblest and more ordinary kind?”

“You forget that I saw all these things, as it were, on sufferance,” replied she. “I was not born to them, nor could ever hope for more than a passing glance at splendors wherein I was not to share. And as for the quiet monotony here, an evening such as this, companionship like yours, are just as much above my expectations.”

“Oh, no, no!” cried Mary, eagerly. “You were as surely destined for a salon as I was for the rude adventures of my own wayward life. You don’t know what a strange existence it is.”

“I have heard, however!” said the other, calmly.

“Tell me – do tell me – what you have been told of me, and don’t be afraid of wounding my vanity; for, I pledge you my word, I do think of myself with almost all the humility that I ought.”

“I have heard you spoken of in the cabins of the poor as their only friend, their comforter, and their hope; the laborer knows you as his succor, – one by whose kind intervention he earns his daily bread; their children love you as their own chosen protector.”

“But it’s not of these things I ‘m speaking,” said Mary, rapidly. “Do they not call me self-willed, passionate, sometimes imperious?”

“Yes; and capricious at times!” said the other, slowly.

Mary colored, and her voice faltered as she said, —

“There they were unjust. The impracticable tempers I have to deal with – the untutored minds and undisciplined natures – often lead me into seeming contradictions.”

“Like the present, perhaps,” said Miss Henderson.

“How! the present?” said Mary.

“That, while claiming the merit of humility, you at once enter upon a self-defence.”

“Well, perhaps I am capricious!” said Mary, smiling.

“And haughty?” asked the other, slowly.

“I believe so!” said Mary, with a degree of dignity that seemed to display the sentiment while confessing to it.

“I have never heard a heavier accusation against Miss Martin than these,” said she, “and I have lived with those who rarely scruple how to criticise their betters.”

Mary was silent and thoughtful; she knew not how to interpret the mingled praise and censure she had just listened to.

“But tell me rather of yourself,” said Mary, as though willing to turn the topic of conversation. “I should like to hear your story.”

“At thirteen years of age – I believe even a year later – I was the playfellow of the young gentleman you see yonder,” said Kate Henderson, “but who, to-night, seems incapable of remembering anything or anybody.”

“Of Mr. Nelligan?” repeated Mary. And Joseph started as he heard his name, looked up, and again relapsed into revery.

“I ‘m not sure that we were not in love. I almost confess that I was, when my father sent me away to France to be educated. I was very sad – very, very sad – at being taken away from home and thrown amongst strangers, with none of whom I could even interchange a word; and I used to sit and cry for hours by myself, and write sorrowful love-letters to ‘dearest Joseph,’ and then imagine the answers to them; sometimes I actually wrote them, and would suffer agonies of anguish before I dared to break the seal and learn the contents. Meanwhile I was acquiring a knowledge of French, and knew a little of music, and used to sing in our choir at chapel, and learned to believe the world was somewhat larger than I had hitherto thought it, and that St. Gudule was finer than the mean little church at Oughterard; and worse still – for it was worse – that the sous-lieutenants and cadets of the Military College had a much more dashing, daring look about them than ‘poor Joseph;’ for so I now called him to myself, and gave up the correspondence soon after.

“Remember, Miss Martin, that I was but a child at this time – at least, I was little more than fourteen – but in another year I was a woman, in all the consciousness of certain attractions, clever enough to know that I could read and detect the weak points in others, and weak enough to fancy that I could always take advantage of them. This incessant spirit of casuistry, this passion for investigating the temper of those about you, and making a study of their natures for purposes of your own, is the essence of a convent life; you have really little else to do, and your whole bent is to ascertain why Sister Agnes blushes, or why Beatrice fainted twice at the Angelus. The minute anatomy of emotions is a very dangerous topic. At this very moment I cannot free myself from the old habit; and as I see young Mr. Nelligan there sitting with his head in his hand, so deep in thought as not to notice us, I begin to examine why is it he is thus, and on what is he now brooding?”

“And can you guess?” asked Mary, half eagerly.

“I could be certain, if I were but to ask him a question or two.”

“Pray do then, if only to convince me of your skill.”

“But I must be alone, and that is scarcely possible, – scarcely becoming.”

“Let us contrive some way, – think of something.”

“It is too late now; he is about to leave the room,” said Kate, cautiously. “How pale he looks, and how anxious his eye has become! I thought at first there was some constraint at meeting me here; he feared, perhaps – but no, that would be unworthy of him.”

She ceased, for Nelligan had now drawn nigh to where they sat, and stood as if trying to collect himself to say something.

“Do you sing, Mr. Nelligan?” asked Kate.

“No; I am ignorant of music,” said he, half abstractedly.

“But you like it?” asked Mary.

“Yes, I believe I do, – that is, it calms and quiets me. If I could understand it, it would do more.”

“Then why not understand it, since that is the way you phrase it?” asked Kate. “Everybody can be a musician to a certain degree of proficiency. There is no more ear required than you want to learn a language.”