The celebrated money-lender and bill-discounter of Dublin in the times
we speak of, was a certain Mr. Fagan, popularly called “The Grinder,”
from certain peculiarities in his dealings with those who stood in need
of his aid. He had been, and indeed so had his father before him, a
fruit-seller, in a quarter of the city called Mary's Abbey,--a trade
which he still affected to carry on, although it was well known that the
little transactions of the front shop bore no imaginable proportion
to the important events which were conducted in the small and gloomy
back-parlor behind it.
It was a period of unbounded extravagance. Few even of the wealthiest
lived within their incomes. Many maintained a style and pretension
far beyond their fortunes, the first seeds of that crop of ruin whose
harvest we are now witnessing. By large advances on mortgage, and great
loans at moments of extreme pressure, the Grinder had amassed an
immense fortune, at the same time that he possessed a very considerable
influence in many counties, in whose elections he took a deep although
secret interest.
If money-getting and money-hoarding was the great passion of his
existence, it was in reality so in furtherance of two objects, on which
he seemed to have set his whole heart. One of these was the emancipation
of the Catholics; the other, the elevation of his only child, a
daughter, to rank and station, by means of a high marriage.
On these two themes his every thought was fixed; and however closely
the miser's nature had twined itself around his own, all the thirst for
gain, all the greed of usury, gave way before these master-passions.
So much was he under their guidance that no prospect of advantage ever
withdrew him from their prosecution; and he who looked for the Grinder's
aid, must at least have appeared to him as likely to contribute towards
one or other of these objects.
Strange as it may seem to our modern notions, the political ambition
seemed easier of success than the social. With all their moneyed
embarrassments, the higher classes of Ireland refused to stoop to an
alliance with the families of the rich plebeians, and were much more
ready to tamper with their conscience on questions of state, than to
abate a particle of their pride on a matter of family connection. In
this way, Mr. Fagan could command many votes in the House from those who
would have indignantly refused his invitation to a dinner.
In pursuit of this plan, he had given his daughter the best education
that money could command. She had masters in every modern language, and
in every fashionable accomplishment. She was naturally clever and quick
of apprehension, and possessed considerable advantages in person and
deportment. Perhaps an overweening sense of her own importance, in
comparison with those about her, imparted a degree of assumption to her
manner, or perhaps this was instilled into her as a suitable lesson for
some future position; but so was it, that much of the gracefulness of
her youth was impaired by this fault, which gradually settled down into
an almost stern and defiant hardiness of deportment,--a quality little
likely to be popular in high society.
A false position invariably engenders a false manner, and hers was
eminently so. Immeasurably above those with whom she associated, she saw
a great gulf between her and that set with whose habits and instincts
she had been trained to assimilate. To condescend to intimacy with her
father's guests, was to undo all the teachings of her life; and yet
how barren seemed every hope of ascending to anything higher! No young
proprietor had attained his majority for some years back, without being
canvassed by the Grinder as a possible match for his daughter. He
well knew the pecuniary circumstances of them all. To some he had
lent largely; and yet somehow, although his emissaries were active in
spreading the intelligence that Bob Fagan's daughter would have upwards
of three hundred thousand pounds.
It seemed a point of honor amongst this class that none should descend
to such a union, nor stoop to an alliance with the usurer. If, in the
wild orgies of after-dinner in the mad debauchery of the mess-table,
some reckless spendthrift would talk of marrying Polly Fagan, a burst of
mockery and laughter was certain to hail the proposition. In fact, any
alternative of doubtful honesty, any stratagem to defeat a creditor,
seemed a more honorable course than such a project.
There were kind friends--mayhap amongst them were some disappointed
suitors--ready to tell Polly how she was regarded by this set; and this
consciousness on her part did not assuredly add to the softness of a
manner that each day was rendering her more cold and severe; and, from
despising those of her own rank, she now grew to hate that above her.
It so chanced that my father was one of those on whom Fagan had long
speculated for a son-in-law. There was something in the careless ease
of his character that suggested the hope that he might not be very
difficult of persuasion; and, as his habits of expense required large
and prompt supplies, the Grinder made these advances with a degree of
liberality that could not fail to be flattering to a young heir.
On more than one occasion, the money was paid down before the lawyers
had completed the documents; and this confidence in my father's honor
had greatly predisposed him in Fagan's favor. The presumptuous idea of
an alliance with him would have, of course, routed such impressions, but
this never occurred to my father. It is very doubtful that he could have
brought himself to believe the thing possible. So secret had been my
father's marriage that none, even of his most intimate friends, knew
of it till within a short time before he arrived in Ireland. The great
outlay at Castle Carew of course attracted its share of gossip, but all
seemed to think that these were the preparations for an event not yet
decided on. This also was Fagan's reading of it; and he watched with
anxious intensity every step and detail of that costly expenditure in
which his now last hope was centred.
“He must come to me for all this; I alone can be the paymaster here,”
was his constant reflection, as he surveyed plans which required a
princely fortune to execute, and which no private income could possibly
have supported by a suitable style of living. “A hundred thousand pounds
will pay for all,” was the consolatory thought with which he solaced
himself for this extravagance.
The frequent calls for money, the astounding sums demanded from time to
time, did indeed alarm Fagan. The golden limit of a hundred thousand had
long been passed, and yet came no sign of retrenchment; on the contrary,
the plans for the completion of the Castle were on a scale of even
greater magnificence.
It was to assure himself as to the truth of these miraculous narratives,
to see with his own eyes the splendors of which he had heard so much,
that Fagan once undertook a journey down to Castle Carew. For reasons
the motives of which may be as well guessed as described, he was
accompanied by his daughter. Seeming to be engaged on a little tour
of the county, they arrived at the village inn at nightfall, and the
following morning readily obtained the permission to visit the grounds
and the mansion.
Perhaps there is no higher appreciation of landscape beauty than that of
him who emerges from the dark and narrow street of some busy city,--from
its noise, and smoke, and din,--from its vexatious cares and harassing
duties, and strolls out, of a bright spring morning, through the grassy
fields and leafy lanes of a rural country; there is a repose, a sense of
tranquil calm in the scene, so refreshing to those whose habitual rest
comes of weariness and exhaustion. No need is there of the painter's
eye nor the poet's fancy to enjoy to the utmost that rich combination of
sky, and wood, and glassy lake.
There may be nothing of artistic excellence in the appreciation, but the
sense of pleasure, of happiness even, is to the full as great.
It was in such a mood that Fagan found himself that morning slowly
stealing along a woodland-path, his daughter at his side; halting
wherever a chance opening afforded a view of the landscape, they walked
leisurely on, each, as it were, respecting the other's silence. Not that
their secret thoughts were indeed alike,--far from it! The daughter had
marked the tranquil look, the unembarrassed expression of those features
so habitually agitated and careworn: she saw the sense of relief even
one day, one single day of rest, had brought with it. Why should it not
be always thus? thought she. He needs no longer to toil and strive.
His might be a life of quietude and peace. Our fortune is far above our
wants, beyond even our wishes. We might at last make friendships, real
friendships, amongst those who would look on us as equals and neighbors,
not as usurers and oppressors.
While such was passing in the daughter's mind, the father's thoughts
ran thus: Can she see these old woods, these waving lawns, these
battlemented towers, topping the great oaks of centuries, and yet not
wish to be their mistress? Does no ambition stir her heart to think,
These might be mine? He scanned her features closely, but in her
drooping eyelids and pensive look he could read no signs of the spirit
he sought for.
“Polly,” said he, at length, “this is finer, far finer than I expected;
the timber is better grown, the demesne itself more spacious. I hardly
looked for such a princely place.”
“It is very beautiful,” said she, pensively.
“A proud thing to be the owner of, Polly,--a proud thing! This is
not the home of some wealthy citizen; these trees are like blazons of
nobility, girl.”
“One might be very happy here, father,” said she, in the same low voice.
“The very thought of my own mind, Polly,” cried he, eagerly. “The
highest in the land could ask for nothing better. The estate has been in
his family for four or five generations. The owner of such a place has
but to choose what he would become. If he be talented, and with capacity
for public life, think of him in Parliament, taking up some great
question, assailing some time-worn abuse,--some remnant of that
barbarous code that once enslaved us,--and standing forward as the
leader of an Irish party. How gracefully patriotism would sit on one
who could call this his own! Not the sham patriotism of your envious
plebeian, nor the mock independence of the needy lawyer, but the sturdy
determination to make his country second to none. There 's the Castle
itself,” cried he, suddenly, as they emerged into an open space in front
of the building; and, amazed at the spacious and splendid edifice before
them, they both stood several minutes in silent admiration.
“I scarcely thought any Irish gentleman had a fortune to suit this,”
said she, at length.
“You are right, Polly; nor has Carew himself. The debts he will have
incurred to build that Castle will hamper his estate, and cripple him
and those that are to come after him. Nothing short of a large sum of
ready money, enough to clear off every mortgage and incumbrance at once,
could enable this young fellow to save them. Even then, his style
should not be the spendthrift waste they say he is fond of. A princely
household he might have, nobly maintained, and perfect in all its
details, but with good management, girl. You must remember that, Polly.”
She started at this direct appeal to herself; and, as her cheeks grew
crimson with conscious shame, she turned away to avoid his glance,--not
that the precaution was needed, for he was far too much immersed in his
own thoughts to observa her. Polly had on more than one occasion seen
through the ambitious schemes of her father. She had detected many
a deep-laid plot he had devised to secure for her that eminence and
station he longed for. Deep and painful were the wounds of her offended
pride at the slights, the insults of these defeated plans. Resentments
that were to last her lifetime had grown of them, and in her heart a
secret grudge towards that class from which they sprung. Over and over
had she endeavored to summon up courage to tell him that, to her, these
schemes were become hateful; that all dignity, all self-respect,
were sacrificed in this unworthy struggle. At last came the moment of
hardihood; and in a few words, at first broken and indistinct, but more
assured and distinct as she went on, she said that she, at least, could
never partake in his ambitious views.
“I have seen you yourself, father, after a meeting with one of
these--these high and titled personages, come home pale, careworn, and
ill. The contumely of their manner had so offended you that you sat down
to your meal without appetite. You could not speak to me; or, in a few
words you dropped, I could read the bitter chagrin that was corroding
your heart. You owned to me, that in the very moment of receiving favors
from you, they never forgot the wide difference of rank that separated
you,--nay more, that they accepted your services as a rightful homage
to their high estate, and made you feel a kind of serfdom in your very
generosity.”
“Why all this? To what end do you tell me these things, girl?” cried he,
angrily, while his cheek trembled with passion.
“Because if I conceal them longer,--if I do not speak them,--they will
break my heart,” said she, in an accent of deepest emotion; “because the
grief they give me has worn me to very wretchedness. Is it not clear
to you, father, that they wish none of us,--that our blood is not their
blood, nor our traditions their traditions?”
“Hold--stop--be silent, I say, or you will drive me distracted,” said
he, grasping her wrist in a paroxysm of rage.
“I will speak out,” said she, resolutely. “The courage I now feel
may, perhaps, never return to me. There is nothing humiliating in our
position, save what we owe to ourselves; there is no meanness in our
rank in life, save when we are ashamed of it! Our efforts to be what we
were not born to be, what we ought not to be, what we cannot be,--these
may, indeed, make us despicable and ridiculous, for there are things in
this world, father, that not even gold can buy.”
“By Heaven, that is not true!” said he, fiercely. “There never yet was
that in rank, honor, and distinction that was not ticketed with its own
price! Our haughtiest nobility--the proudest duke in the land--knows
well what his alliance with a plebeian order has done for him. Look
about you, girl. Who are these marchionesses, these countesses,
who sweep past us in their pride? The daughters of men of my own
station,--the wealthy traders of the country--”
“And what is their position, father? A living lie. What is their haughty
carriage? The assumption of a state they were not born to,--the insolent
pretension to despise all amidst which they passed their youth, their
earliest friendships, their purest, best days. Let them, on the other
hand, cling to these; let them love what has grown into their natures
from infancy,--the home, the companions of their happy childhood,--and
see how the world will scoff at their vulgarity, their innate
degeneracy, their low-born habits: vulgar if generous, vulgar when
saving; their costly tastes a reproach, their parsimony a sneer.”
There was a passionate energy in her tone and manner, which, heightening
the expression of her handsome features, made her actually beautiful;
and her father half forgot the opposition to his opinions, in his
admiration of her. As he still gazed at her, the sharp sound of a
horse's canter was heard behind them; and, on turning round, they saw
advancing towards them a young man, mounted on a blood horse, which he
rode with all the careless ease of one accustomed to the saddle; his
feet dangling loosely out of the stirrups, and one hand thurst into the
pocket of his shooting-jacket.
“Stand where you are!” he cried, as the father and daughter were about
to move aside, and give him room to pass; and immediately after he
rushed his horse at the huge trunk of a fallen beech-tree, and cleared
it with a spring.
“He 'll be perfect at timber, when he gets a little cooler in temper,”
said he, turning on his saddle; and then, recognizing Fagan, he reined
short in, and called out, “Halloo, Tony! who ever expected to see you
here?--Miss Polly, your servant. A most unexpected pleasure this,” added
he, springing from his saddle, and advancing towards them with his hat
off.
“It is not often I indulge myself with a holiday, Mr. MacNaghten,” said
Fagan, as though half ashamed of the confession.
“So much the worse for you, Fagan, and for your handsome daughter
here,--not to speak of the poor thriftless devils, like myself, who are
the objects of your industrious hours. Eh, Tony, is n't that true?” and
he laughed heartily at his impudent joke.
“And if it were not for such industry, sir,” said the daughter, sternly,
“how many like you would be abroad to-day?”
[Illustration: 052]
“By Jove, you are quite right, Miss Polly. It is exactly as you say.
Your excellent father is the providence of us younger sons; and I, for
one, will never prove ungrateful to him. But pray let us turn to another
theme. Shall I show you the grounds and the gardens? The house is
in such a mess of confusion that it is scarcely worth seeing. The
conservatory, however, and the dairy are nearly finished; and if you can
breakfast on grapes and a pineapple, with fresh cream to wash them down,
I 'll promise to entertain you.”
“We ask for nothing better, Mr. MacNaghten,” said Fagan, who was not
sorry to prolong an interview that might afford him the information he
sought for.
“Now for breakfast, and then for sight-seeing,” said Dan, politely
offering his arm to the young lady, and leading the way towards the
house.