To do the honors of another man's house is a tremendous test of tact.
In point of skill or address, we know of few things more difficult. The
ease which sits so gracefully on a host becomes assurance when practised
by a representative; and there is a species of monarchy about the
lord of a household that degenerates into usurpation in the hands of a
pretender. It is not improbable, then, Dan MacNaghten's success in
this trying part was mainly attributable to the fact that he had never
thought of its difficulty. He had gone through a fine property in a
few years of dissipation, during which he had played the entertainer so
often and so well that nothing seemed to him more natural than a seat
at the head of a table, nor any task more simple or agreeable than to
dispense its hospitalities.
The servants of the Castle were well accustomed to obey him, and when
he gave his orders for breakfast to be speedily laid out in the
conservatory, they set about the preparations with zeal and activity.
With such promptitude, indeed, were the arrangements made that by
the time MacNaghten had conducted his guests to the spot, all was in
readiness awaiting them.
The place was admirably chosen, being a central point in the
conservatory, from which alleys branched out in different directions;
some opening upon little plots of flowers or ornamental shrubbery,
others disclosing views of the woodland scenery or the distant mountains
beyond it. The table was spread beside a marble basin, into which a
little group of sportive Titans were seen spouting. Great Nile lilies
floated on the crystal surface, and gold and silver fish flashed and
glittered below. The board itself, covered with luscious fruit, most
temptingly arranged amidst beautiful flowers, displayed, besides,
some gorgeous specimens of Sèvres and Saxony, hastily taken from their
packing-cases, while a large vase of silver, richly chased, stood in the
centre, and exhibited four views of the Castle, painted in medallions on
its sides.
“If you'll sit here, Miss Polly,” said MacNaghten, “you'll have a
prettier view, for you'll see the lake, and catch a peep, too, of the
Swiss Cottage on the crag above it. I must show you the cottage after
breakfast. It was a bit of fancy of my own,--copied, I am free to
confess, from one I saw in the Oberland.--Fagan, help yourself; you 'll
find these cutlets excellent. Our friend Carew has made an admirable
choice of a cook.”
“You treat us in princely fashion, sir,” said Fagan, whose eyes glanced
from the splendor before him to his daughter, and there tried to read
her thoughts.
“You gave me no time for that; had you told me you were coming down, I
'd have tried to receive you properly. As it is, pray make up your mind
to stay a day or two,--Carew will be so delighted; nothing flatters him
so much as to hear praise of this place.”
“Ah, sir, you forget that men like myself have but few holidays.”
“So much the worse, Fagan; remember what the adage says about all
work and no play. Not, by Jove, but I 'm sure that the converse of the
proposition must have its penalty, too; for if not, I should have been a
marvellously clever fellow.--Ay, Miss Polly, my life has been all play.”
“A greater fault than the other, sir, and with this addition, too, that
it makes proselytes,” said she, gravely; “my father's theory finds fewer
followers.”
“And you not one of them?” said MacNaghten, rapidly; while he fixed a
look of shrewd inquiry on her.
“Assuredly not,” replied she, in a calm and collected tone.
“By Jove, I could have sworn to it,” cried he, with a burst of
enthusiastic delight. “There, Fagan, you see Miss Polly takes my side,
after all.”
“I have not said so,” rejoined she, gravely. “Gain and waste are nearer
relatives than they suspect.”
“I must own that I have never known but one of the family,” said Dan,
with one of those hearty laughs which seemed to reconcile him to any
turn of fortune.
Fagan all this time was ill at ease and uncomfortable; the topic annoyed
him, and he gladly took occasion to change it by an allusion to the
wine.
“And yet there are people who will tell you not to drink champagne for
breakfast,” exclaimed Dan, draining his glass as he spoke; “as if any
man could be other than better with this glorious tipple. Miss Polly,
your good health, though it seems superfluous to wish you anything.”
She bowed half coldly to the compliment, and Fagan added hurriedly, “We
are at least contented with our lot in life, Mr. MacNaghten.”
“Egad, I should think you were, Tony, and no great merit in the
resignation, after all. Put yourself in my position, however,--fancy
yourself Dan MacNaghten for one brief twenty-four hours. Think of
a fellow who began the world--ay, and that not so very long ago
either--with something over five thousand a-year, and a good large sum
in bank, and who now, as he sits here, only spends five shillings
when he writes his name on a stamp; who once had houses and hounds and
horses, but who now sits in the rumble, and rides a borrowed hack. If
you want to make a virtue of your contentment, Fagan, change places with
me.”
“But would you take mine, Mr. MacNaghten? Would you toil, and slave, and
fag,--would you shut out the sun, that your daily labor should have no
suggestive temptings to enjoyment,--would you satisfy yourself that the
world should be to you one everlasting struggle, till at last the very
capacity to feel it otherwise was lost to you forever?”
“That's more than I am able to picture to myself,” said MacNaghten,
sipping his wine. “I 've lain in a ditch for two hours with a broken
thigh-bone, thinking all the time of the jolly things I 'd do when I 'd
get well again; I 've spent some very rainy weeks in a debtor's prison,
weaving innumerable enjoyments for the days when I should be at liberty;
so that as to any conception of a period when I should not be able to be
happy, it 's clean and clear beyond me.”
Polly's eyes were fixed on him as he spoke, and while their expression
was almost severe, the heightened color of her cheeks showed that she
listened to him with a sense of pleasure.
“I suppose it's in the family,” continued Dan, gayly. “My poor father
used to say that no men have such excellent digestion as those that have
nothing to eat.”
“And has it never occurred to you, sir,” said Polly, with a degree of
earnestness in her voice and manner,--“has it never occurred to you
that this same buoyant temperament could be turned to other and better
account than mere “--she stopped, and blushed, and then, as if by an
effort, went on--“mere selfish enjoyment? Do you not feel that he who
can reckon on such resources but applies them to base uses when he
condescends to make them the accessories of his pleasures? Is there
nothing within your heart to whisper that a nature such as this was
given for higher and nobler purposes; and that he who has the spirit
to confront real danger should not sit down contented with a mere
indifference to shame?”
“Polly, Polly!” cried her father, alike overwhelmed by the boldness and
the severity of her speech.
“By Jove, the young lady has given me a canter,” cried MacNaghten, who,
in spite of all his good temper, grew crimson; “and I only wish the
lesson had come earlier. Yes, Miss Polly,” added he, in a voice of more
feeling, “it 's too late now.”
“You must forgive my daughter, Mr. MacNaghten,--she is not usually so
presumptuous,” said Fagan, rising from the table, while he darted
a reproving glance towards Polly; “besides, we are encroaching most
unfairly on your time.”
“Are you so?” cried Dan, laughing. “I never heard it called mine before!
Why, Tony, it's yours, and everybody's that has need of it. But if you
'll not eat more, let me show you the grounds. They are too extensive
for a walk, Miss Polly, so, with your leave, we 'll have something to
drive; meanwhile I'll tell the gardener to pluck you some flowers.”
Fagan waited till MacNaghten was out of hearing, and then turned angrily
towards his daughter.
“You have given him a sorry specimen of your breeding, Polly; I thought,
indeed, you would have known better.”
“You forget already, then, the speech with which he accosted us,” said
she, haughtily; “but my memory is better, sir.”
“His courtesy might have effaced the recollection, I think,” said Fagan,
testily.
“His courtesy! Has he not told you himself that every gift he possesses
is but an emanation of his selfishness? The man who can be anything so
easily, will be nothing if it cost a sacrifice.”
“I don't care what he is,” said Fagan, in a low, distinct voice, as
though he wanted every word to be heard attentively. “For what he has
been, and what he will be, I care just as little. It is where he moves,
and lives, and exerts influence,--these are what concern me.”
“Are the chance glimpses that we catch of that high world so attractive,
father?” said she, in an accent of almost imploring eagerness. “Do
they, indeed, requite us for the cost we pay for them? When we leave the
vulgar circle of our equals, is it to hear of generous actions, exalted
sentiments, high-souled motives; or is it not to find every vice that
stains the low pampered up into greater infamy amongst the noble?”
“This is romance and folly, girl. Who ever dreamed it should be
otherwise? Nature stamped no nobility on gold, nor made copper plebeian.
This has been the work of men; and so of the distinctions among
themselves, and it will not do for us to dispute the ordinance. Station
is power, wealth is power; he who has neither, is but a slave; he who
has both, may be all that he would be!”
A sudden gesture to enforce caution followed these words; and at
the same time MacNaghten's merry voice was heard, singing as he came
along,--
“'Kneel down there, and say a prayer,
Before my hounds shall eat you.'
'I have no prayer,' the Fox replied,
'For I was bred a Quaker.'
“All right, Miss Polly. Out of compliment to you, I suppose, Kitty
Dwyer, that would never suffer a collar over her head for the last six
weeks, has consented to be harnessed as gently as a lamb; and my own
namesake, 'Dan the Smasher,' has been traced up, without as much as one
strap broken. They 're a little pair I have been breaking in for Carew;
for he's intolerably lazy, and expects to find his nags trained to
perfection. Look at them, how they come along,--no bearing reins, no
blinkers. That 's what I call a very neat turn-out.”
The praise was, assuredly, not unmerited, as two highbred black ponies
swept past with a beautiful phaeton, and drew up at the door of the
conservatory.
The restless eyes, the wide-spread nostrils and quivering flanks of
the animals, not less than the noiseless caution of the grooms at their
heads, showed that their education had not yet been completed; and so
Fagan remarked at once.
“They look rakish,--there's no denying it!” said Mac-Naghten; “but they
are gentleness itself. The only difficulty is to put the traps on them;
once fairly on, there's nothing to apprehend. You are not afraid of
them, Miss Polly?” said he, with a strong emphasis on the “you.”
“When you tell me that I need not be, I have no fears,” said she,
calmly.
“I must be uncourteous enough to say that I do not concur in the
sentiment,” said Fagan; “and, with your leave, Mr. MacNaghten, we will
walk.”
“Walk! why, to see anything, you'll have twelve miles a-foot. It must
n't be thought of, Miss Polly,--I cannot hear of it!” She bowed, as
though in half assent; and he continued: “Thanks for the confidence; you
shall see it is not misplaced. Now, Fagan--”
“I am decided, Mr. MacNaghten; I'll not venture; nor will I permit my
daughter to risk her life.”
“Neither would I, I should hope,” said MacNaghten; and, although the
words were uttered with something of irritation, there was that in the
tone that made Polly blush deeply.
“It's too bad, by Jove!” muttered he, half aloud, “when a man has so
few things that he really can do, to deny his skill in the one he knows
best.”
“I am quite ready, sir,” said Polly, in that tone of determination which
she was often accustomed to assume, and against which her father rarely
or never disputed.
“There now, Fagan, get up into the rumble. I 'll not ask you to be the
coachman. Come, come,--no more opposition; we shall make them impatient
if we keep them standing much longer.”
As he spoke, he offered his arm to Polly, who, with a smile,--the first
she had deigned to give him,--accepted it, and then, hastily leading her
forward, he handed her into the carriage. In an instant MacNaghten was
beside her. With the instinct of hot-tempered cattle, they no sooner
felt a hand upon the reins than they became eager to move forward, and,
while one pawed the ground with impatience, the other, retiring to the
very limit of the pole-strap, prepared for a desperate plunge.
“Up with you, Fagan; be quick--be quick!” cried Dan. “It won't do to
hold them in. Let them go, lads, or they 'll smash everything!” and the
words were hardly out, when, with a tremendous bound, that carried
the front wheels off the road, away they went. “Meet us at the other
gate,--they 'll show you the way,” cried MacNaghten, as, standing up,
he pointed with his whip in the direction he meant. He had no time
for more; for all his attention was now needed to the horses, as, each
exciting the other, they dashed madly on down the road.
“This comes of keeping them standing,” muttered Dan; “and the scoundrels
have curbed them up too tight. You're not afraid, Miss Polly? By Jove,
that was a dash,--Kitty showed her heels over the splash-board. Look at
that devil Dan,--see how he 's bearing on the pole-piece!--an old trick
of his.”
A tremendous cut on his flank now drove him almost furious, and the
enraged animal set off at speed.
“We must let them blow themselves, Miss Polly. It all comes of their
standing so long. You're not afraid?--Well, then, they may do their
worst.”
By this time the pace had become a tearing gallop, and seeing that
nothing short of some miles would suffice to tame them down, MacNaghten
turned their heads in the direction of a long avenue which led towards
the sea.
It was all in vain that Fagan fastened through the flower-garden, and
across a private shrubbery; when he reached the “gate,” there was no
sign of the phaeton. The cuckoo and the thrush were the only voices
heard in the stillness; and, at intervals, the deep booming of the sea,
miles distant, told how unbroken was the silence around. His mind was
a conflict of fear and anger; terrible anxieties for his daughter were
mixed up with passion at this evidence of her wayward nature, and he
walked along, reproaching himself bitterly for having accepted the
civilities of MacNaghten.
Fagan's own schemes for a high alliance for his daughter had made him
acquainted with many a counterplot of adventurers against himself.
He well knew what a prize Polly Fagan was deemed amongst the class of
broken-down and needy spendthrifts who came to him for aid. Often and
often had he detected the first steps of such machinations, till at
length he had become suspectful of everything and everybody. Now,
MacNaghten was exactly the kind of man he most dreaded in this respect.
There was that recklessness about him that comes of broken fortune; he
was the very type of a desperate adventurer, ready to seize any chance
to restore himself to fortune and independence. Who could answer for
such a man in such an emergency?
Driven almost mad with these terrors, he now hastened his steps,
stopping at times to listen, and at times calling on his daughter in the
wildest accents. Without knowing whither he went, he soon lost himself
in the mazes of the wood, and wandered on for hours in a state bordering
upon distraction. Suspicion had so mastered his reason that he had
convinced himself the whole was a deliberate scheme,--that MacNaghten
had planned all beforehand. In his disordered fancies, he did not
scruple to accuse his daughter of complicity, and inveighed against her
falsehood and treachery in the bitterest words.
And what was Dan MacNaghten doing all this time? Anything, everything,
in short, but what he was accused of! In good truth, he had little time
for love-making, had such a project even entered his head, so divided
were his attentions between the care of the cattle and his task of
describing the different scenes through which they passed at speed,--the
prospect being like one of those modern inventions called dissolving
views,--no sooner presenting an object than superseding it by another.
In addition to all this, he had to reconcile Miss Polly to what seemed
a desertion of her father; so that, what with his “cares of coachman,
cicerone, and consoler,” as he himself afterwards said, it was clean
beyond him to slip in even a word on his own part. It is no part of my
task to inquire how Polly enjoyed the excursion, or whether the dash of
recklessness, so unlike every incident of her daily life, did not repay
her for any discomfort of her father's absence: certain is it that when,
after about six miles traversed in less than half an hour, they returned
to the Castle, her first sense of apprehension was felt by not finding
her father to meet her. No sooner had MacNaghten conducted her to the
library than he set out himself in search of Fagan, having despatched
messengers in all directions on the same errand. Dan, it must be owned,
had far rather have remained to reassure Miss Polly, and convince her
that her father's absence would be but momentary; but he felt that it
was a point of duty with him to go--and go he did.
It chanced that, by dint of turning and winding, Fagan had at length
approached the Castle again, so that MacNaghten came up with him within
a few minutes after his search began. “Safe, and where?” were the only
words the old man could utter as he grasped the other's arm. Dan, who
attributed the agitation to but one cause, proceeded at once to reassure
him on the score of his daughter's safety, detailing, at the same time,
the circumstances which compelled him to turn off in a direction the
opposite of that he intended. Fagan drank in every word with eagerness,
his gray eyes piercingly fixed on the speaker all the while. Great
as was his agitation throughout, it became excessive when MacNaghten
chanced to allude to Polly personally, and to speak of the courage she
displayed.
“She told you that she was not afraid?--she said so to yourself?” cried
he, eagerly.
“Ay, a dozen times,” replied Dan, freely. “It was impossible to have
behaved better.”
“You said so,--you praised her for it, I have no doubt,” said the other,
with a grim effort at a smile.
“To be sure I did, Tony. By Jove, you've reason to be proud of her.
I don't speak of her beauty,--that every one can see; but she's a
noble-minded girl. She would grace any station in the land.”
“She heard you say as much with pleasure, I 'm certain,” said Fagan,
with a smile that was more than half a sneer.
“Nay, faith, Tony, I did not go so far. I praised her courage. I told
her that not every man could have behaved so bravely.”
MacNaghten paused at this.
“And then--and then, sir,” cried Fagan, impatiently.
Dan turned suddenly towards him, and, to his amazement, beheld a
countenance tremulous with passionate excitement.
“What then, sir? Tell me what then? I have a right to ask, and I will
know it. I 'm her father, and I demand it.”
“Why, what in Heaven's name is the matter?” exclaimed MacNaghten. “I
have told you she is safe,--that she is yonder.”
“I speak not of that, sir; and you know it,” cried Fagan, imperiously.
“The dissimulation is unworthy of you. You ought to be a man of honor.”
“Egad, good temper would be the best quality for me just now,” said the
other, with a smile; “for you seem bent on testing it.”
“I see it all,” cried Fagan, in a voice of anguish. “I see it all. Now
hear me, Mr. MacNaghten. You are one who has seen much of the world, and
will readily comprehend me. You are a man reputed to be kind-hearted,
and you will not pain me by affecting a misunderstanding. Will you leave
this to-morrow, and go abroad, say for a year or two? Give me your hand
on it, and draw on me for one thousand pounds.”
“Why, Tony, what has come over you? Is it the air of the place has
disordered your excellent faculties? What can you mean?”
“This is no answer to my question, sir,” said Fagan, rudely.
“I cannot believe you serious in putting it,” said MacNaghten, half
proudly. “Neither you nor any other man has the right to make such a
proposal to me.”
“I say that I have, sir. I repeat it. I am her father, and by one dash
of my pen she is penniless to-morrow. Ay, by Heaven, it is what I will
do if you drive me to it.”
“At last I catch your meaning,” said MacNaghten, “and I see where your
suspicions have been pointing at. No, no; keep your money. It might be a
capital bargain for me, Tony, if I had the conscience to close with it;
and if you knew but all, you 've no right to offer so much temptation.
That path will bring you to the Castle. You 'll find Miss Polly in the
library. Good-bye, Fagan.”
And without waiting for a reply, MacNaghten turned abruptly away, and
disappeared in the wood.
Fagan stood for a second or two deep in thought, and then bent his steps
towards the Castle.