All the projects which Mr. Scanlan had struck out for Merl's occupation
on the following day were marred by the unfavorable weather. It blew
fiercely from the westward, driving upon shore a tremendous sea, and
sending white masses of drift and foam far inland. The rain, too, came
down in torrents. The low-lying clouds, which scarcely reached more than
half-way up the mountain sides, seemed as if rent asunder at times,
and from them came a deluge, filling all the watercourses, and swelling
rivulets to the size of mighty torrents. The unceasing roll of thunder,
now near, now rumbling along in distant volleys, swelled the wild
uproar, and helped to make up a scene of grand but desolate meaning.
What could well be drearier than that little line of cabins that formed
the village of Kilkieran, as with strongly barricaded doors, and
with roofs secured by ropes and spars, they stood exposed to the full
violence of the wild Atlantic! Not a man, not a living thing was to be
seen. The fishermen were all within doors, cowering in gloomy indolence
over the scanty turf fires, and brooding darkly on the coming winter.
With a thorough conviction of all the dreariness of this scene, Mr.
Merl stood at the window and looked out. He had been all his life too
actively engaged in his pursuits of one kind or other to know much about
what is called “being bored.” Let rain fall ever so heavily, a cab could
take him down to “'Change,”--the worst weather never marred a sale of
stock, and Consols could rise even while the mercury was falling. The
business-life of a great city seems to care little for weather, and
possibly they whose intent faculties are bent on gain, scarcely remember
whether the sun shines upon their labors.
Merl felt differently now; the scene before him was wilder and gloomier
than anything he had ever beheld. Beyond and behind the village steep
mountains rose on every side, of barren and rugged surface,--not a
vestige of any culture to be seen; while on the road, which led along a
narrow gorge, nothing moved. All was dreary and deserted.
“I suppose you'll keep the roof over you to-day, Mr. Merl?” said
Scanlan, as he entered the room, buttoned up to the chin in a coarse
frieze coat, while his head was protected by a genuine “sou'-wester” of
oilskin.
“And are _you_ going out in such weather?” asked Merl.
“'Needs must,' sir, as the proverb says. I have to be at the assizes
at Oughterard this morning, to prosecute some scoundrels for cutting
brambles in the wood; and I want to serve notices on a townland about
eight miles from this; and then I 'll have to go round by Cro' Martin
and see Miss Mary. That's not the worst of it,” added he, with an
impudent leer, “for she's a fine girl, and has the prettiest eyes in the
kingdom.”
“I have a letter for her,” said Merl,--“a letter of introduction from
Captain Martin. I suppose I might as well send it by you, and ask if I
might pay my respects to-morrow or next day?”
“To be sure; I'll take it with pleasure. You'll like her when you see
her. She's not a bit like the rest: no pride, no stand-off,--that
is, when she takes a fancy; but she is full of life and courage for
anything.”
“Ah, yes,--the Captain said we should get on very well together,”
drawled out Merl.
“Did he, though!” cried Scanlan, eagerly. Then as suddenly checking
his anxiety, he added: “But what does _he_ know about Miss Mary? Surely
they're as good as strangers to each other. And for the matter of that,
even when he was here, they did n't take to each other,--she was always
laughing at the way he rode.”
“Wasn't he in the dragoons?” asked Merl, in a half-rebutting tone.
“So he was; but what does that signify? Sure it's not a cavalry seat,
with your head down and your elbows squared, will teach you to cross
country,--at least, with Mary Martin beside you. You'll see her one of
these day yourself, Mr. Merl. May I never, if you don't see her now!”
cried Scanlan, suddenly, as he pointed to the road along which a horse
was seen coming at speed, the rider breasting the storm fearlessly, and
only crouching to the saddle as the gusts swept past. “What in the name
of all that's wonderful brings her here?” cried Maurice. “She wasn't
down at Kilkieran for four months.”
“She'll stop at this inn here, I suppose?” said Merl who was already
performing an imaginary toilet for her visit.
“You may take your oath she'll not!” said Scanlan half roughly; “she
'd not cross the threshold of it! She 's going to some cabin or other.
There she goes,--is n't that riding?” cried he, in animation. “Did you
ever see a horse held neater? And see how she picks the road for him!
Easy as she's sitting, she 'd take a four-foot wall this minute, without
stirring in her saddle.”
“She hasn't got a nice day for pleasuring!” said the Jew, with a vulgar
cackle.
“If ye call it pleasure,” rejoined Scanlan, “what she's after; but I
suspect there's somebody sick down at the end of the village. There, I
'm right; she's pulling up at Mat Landy's,--I wonder if it's old Mat is
bad.”
“You know him?” asked Merl.
“To be sure I do. He 's known down the coast for forty miles. He
saved more men from shipwreck himself than everybody in the barony put
together; but his heart is all but broke about a granddaughter that ran
away. Sure enough, she's going in there.”
“Did you see Miss Mary?” cried Crow, entering suddenly. “She's just gone
down the beach. They say there's a case now down there.”
“A case--of what?” said Merl.
“Cholera or typhus, as it may be,” said Crow, not a little surprised at
the unmistakable terror of the other's face.
“And she's gone to see it!” exclaimed the Jew.
“To do more than see it. She 'll nurse the sick man, and bring him
medicine and whatever he wants.”
“And not afraid?”
“Afraid!” broke in Crow. “I'd like to know what she's afraid of. Ask Mr.
Scanlan what would frighten her.” But Mr. Scanlan had already slipped
noiselessly from the room, and was already on his way down the shore.
“Well,” said Merl, lighting his cigar, and drawing an arm-chair close
to the fire, “I don't see the advantage of all that. She could send
the doctor, I suppose, and make her servants take down to these people
whatever she wanted to send them. What especial utility there is in
going herself, I can't perceive.”
“I'll tell you, then,” said Crow. “It's more likely the doctor is busy
this minute, ten or fifteen miles away,--for the whole country is down
in sickness; but even if he was n't, if it were not for her courage in
going everywhere, braving danger and death every hour, there would be
a general flight of all that could escape. They'd rush into the
towns,--where already there's more sickness than they know how to deal
with. She encourages some,--she shames more; and not a few are proud
to be brave in such company, for she is an angel,--that's her name,--an
angel.”
“Well, I should like to see her,” drawled out Merl, as he smoothed down
his scrubby mustachios.
“Nothing easier, then,” rejoined Crow. “Put on your coat and hat, and we
'll stroll down the beach till she comes out; it can't be very long, for
she has enough on her hands elsewhere.”
The proposition of a “stroll” in such weather was very little to Mr.
Merl's taste; but his curiosity was stronger than even his fear of a
drenching, and having muffled and shawled himself as if for an Arctic
winter, they set out together from the inn.
“And you tell me,” said he, “that the Martins used to live
here,--actually pass their lives in this atrocious climate?”
“That they did,--and the worst mistake they ever made was to leave it,”
said Crow.
“I confess you puzzle me,” said Merl.
“Very possibly I do, sir,” was the calm reply; “but you'd have
understood me at once had you known this country while they resided at
Cro' Martin. It was n't only that the superfluities of their wealth ran
over, and filled the cup of the poor man, but there was a sense of hope
cherished, by seeing that however hard the times, however adverse the
season, there was always 'his Honor,' as they called Mr. Martin, whom
they could appeal to for aid or for lenient treatment.”
“Very strange, very odd, all this,” said Merl, musing. “But all that I
hear of Ireland represents the people as if in a continual struggle for
mere existence, and actually in a daily state of dependence on the will
of somebody above them.”
“And if that same condition were never to be exaggerated into downright
want, or pushed to an actual slavery, we could be very happy with it,”
said Crow, “and not thank you, or any other Englishman that came here,
to disturb it.”
“I assure you I have no ambition to indulge in any such interference,”
said Merl, with a half-contemptuous laugh.
“And so you're not thinking of settling in Ireland?” asked Crow, in some
surprise.
“Never dreamed of it!”
“Well, the story goes that you wanted to buy an estate, and came down to
have a look at this property here.”
“I'd not live on it if Martin were to make me a present of it
to-morrow.”
“I don't think he will,” said Crow, gravely. “I am afraid he could n't,
if he wished it.”
“What, do you mean on account of the entail?” asked Merl.
“Not exactly.” He paused, and after some silence said, “If the truth
were told, there's a great deal of debt on this property,--more than any
one suspects.”
“The Captain's encumbrances?” asked Merl, eagerly.
“His grandfather's and his great-grandfather's! As for the present man,
they say that he's tied up some way not to sell, except for the sake of
redeeming some of the mortgages. But who knows what is true and what is
false about all this?”
Merl was silent; grave fears were crossing his mind how far his claims
were valid; and terrible misgivings shot across him lest the Captain
might have been paying him with valueless securities.
“I gather from what you say,” said he, at last, “that it would be rather
difficult to make out a title for any purchaser of this estate.”
“Don't be afraid of that, sir. They'll make you out a fair title.”
“I tell you again, I'd not take it as a present,” said Merl, half
angrily.
“I see,” said Crow, nodding his head sententiously. And then fixing his
eyes steadily on him, he said, “You are a mortgagee.”
Merl reddened,--partly anger, partly shame. Indeed, the feeling that
such a capacity as Mr. Crow's should have pushed him hard, was anything
but complimentary to his self-esteem.
“I don't want to pry into any man's affairs,” said Crow, easily. “Heaven
knows it's mighty little matter to Simmy Crow who lives in the big house
there. I 'd rather, if I had my choice, be able to walk the wood with my
sketch-book and brushes than be the richest man that ever was heartsore
with the cares of wealth.”
“And if a friend--a sincere, well-wishing friend--were to bind himself
that you should enjoy this same happiness you speak of, Mr. Crow, what
would you do in return?”
“Anything he asked me,--anything, at least, that a fair man could ask,
and an honest one could do.”
“There's my hand on it, then,” said Merl. “It's a bargain.”
“Ay, but let us hear the conditions,” said Crow. “What could I possibly
serve you in, that would be worth this price?”
“Simply this: that you'll answer all my inquiries, so far as you know
about this estate; and where your knowledge fails, that you'll endeavor
to obtain the information for me.”
“Maybe I could tell you nothing at all--or next to nothing,” said Crow.
“Just ask me, now, what's the kind of question you 'd put; for, to tell
truth, I 'm not over bright or clever,--the best of me is when I've a
canvas before me.”
Merl peered stealthily at the speaker over the great folds of the shawl
that enveloped his throat; he was not without his misgivings that the
artist was a “deep fellow,” assuming a manner of simplicity to draw him
into a confidence. “And yet,” he thought, “had he really been shrewd
and cunning, he 'd never have blurted out his suspicion as to my being
a mortgagee. Besides,” said he to himself, “there, and with that fact,
must end all his knowledge of me.” “You can dine with me to-day, Mr.
Crow, can't you?”
“I 'm engaged to the stranger in No. 4,--the man I'm making the drawings
for.”
“But you could get off. You could ask him to excuse you by saying that
something of importance required you elsewhere?”
“And dine in the room underneath?” asked Crow, with a comical look of
distress at this suggestion.
“Well, let us go somewhere else. Is there no other inn in the
neighborhood?”
“There's a small public-house near the gate of Cro' Martin, to be sure.”
“Then we'll dine there. I'll order a chaise at four o'clock, and we 'll
drive over together. And now, I 'll just return to the house, for this
wading here is not much to my taste.”
Mr. Merl returned gloomily to the house, his mind too deeply occupied
with his own immediate interests to bestow any thought upon Mary Martin.
The weather assuredly offered but little inducement to linger out of
doors, for, as the morning wore on, the rain and wind increased in
violence, while vast masses of mist swept over the sea and were carried
on shore, leaving only, at intervals, little patches of the village to
be seen,--dreary, storm-beaten, and desolate! Merl shuddered, as he cast
one last look at this sad-colored picture, and entered the inn.
Has it ever been your ill-fortune, good reader, to find yourself alone
in some dreary, unfrequented spot, the weather-bound denizen of a sorry
inn, without books or newspapers, thrown upon the resources of your own
thoughts, so sure to take their color from the dreary scene around them?
It is a trying ordeal for the best of tempers. Your man of business
chafes and frets against the inactivity; your man of leisure sorrows
over monotony that makes idleness a penalty. He whose thoroughfare in
life is the pursuit of wealth thinks of all those more fortunate than
himself then hurrying on to gain, while he who is the mark of the
world's flatteries and attentions laments over the dismal desolation of
an uncompanionable existence.
If Mr. Merl did not exactly occupy any one of these categories, he
fancied, at least, that he oscillated amidst them all. It was, indeed,
his good pleasure to imagine himself a “man upon town,” who played a
little, discounted a little, dealt a little in old pictures, old china,
old cabinets, and old plate, but all for mere pastime,--something, as he
would say, “to give him an interest in it;” and there, certainly, he was
right. Nothing so surely imparted an “interest” in Mr. Merl's eyes as
having an investment. Objects of art, the greatest triumphs of genius,
landscape the richest eye ever ranged over, political events that would
have awakened a sense of patriotism in the dullest and coldest, all came
before him as simple questions of profit and loss.
If he was not actually a philosopher, some of his views of life were
characterized by great shrewdness. He had remarked, for instance, that
the changeful fashions of the world are ever alternating; and that not
only dress and costume and social customs undergo mutations, but that
objects of positive sterling value are liable to the same wayward
influences. We are all modern to-day, to-morrow we may be “Louis
Quatorze,” the next day “Cinque Centi” in our tastes. Now we are
mad after Italian art, yesterday the Dutch school was in vogue. Our
galleries, our libraries, our houses, our gardens, all feel the caprices
of these passing moods. There was but one thing that Mr. Merl had
perceived never changed, and that was the estimation men felt for money.
Religions might decay, and states crumble, thrones totter, and kings be
exiled, Cuyps might be depreciated and marquetry be held in mean esteem;
but gold was always within a fraction at least of four pounds eleven
shillings the ounce!
He remarked, too, that men gradually grow tired of almost everything;
the pursuits of the young are not those of the middle-aged, still less
of advanced life. The books which we once cried over are now thrown down
with languor; the society we imagined perfection we now smile at for its
very absurdities. We see vulgarity where we once beheld vigor; we detect
exaggeration where we used to attribute power. There is only one theme
of which our estimation never varies,--wealth! Mr. Merl had never yet
met the man nor the woman who really despised it; nay, he had seen kings
trafficking on 'Change. He had known great ministers deep speculators
on the Bourse; valiant admirals, distinguished generals, learned judges,
and even divines, had bought and sold with him, all eager in the pursuit
of gain, and all employing, to the best of their ability, the high
faculties of their intelligence to assist them in making crafty
bargains.
If these experiences taught him the universal veneration men feel
for wealth, they also conveyed another lesson, which was, the extreme
gullibility of mankind. He met every day men who ruled cabinets and
commanded fleets,--the reputed great of the earth,--and saw them easier
victims in his hand than the commonest capacity in “Leadenhall Street.”
They had the earliest information, but could not profit by it; they
never understood the temper on 'Change, knew nothing of the variations
of the money-barometer, and invariably fell into snares that your city
man never incurred. Hence Mr. Merl came to conceive a very low general
opinion of what he himself called “the swells,” and a very high one of
Herman Merl.
If we have dwelt upon these traits of this interesting individual in
this place, it is simply to place before our reader's mind the kind
of lucubrations such a man might be disposed to indulge in. In fact,
story-tellers like ourselves have very little pretension to go beyond
the narrow limit; and having given to the reader the traits of a
character, they must leave their secret working more or less to his
ingenuity. So much, however, we are at liberty to declare, that Mr. Merl
was terribly bored, and made no scruple of confessing it.
“What the deuce are you staring at? Is there anything really to be seen
in that confounded dreary sea?” cried he, as Crow stood shading his eyes
from the lightning flashes, and intently gazing on the scene without.
“That's one of the effects Backhuysen was so fond of!” exclaimed Crow,
eagerly,--“a sullen sea, lead-colored and cold, with a white curl just
crisping the top of the waves, over it a dreary expanse of dark sky,
low-lying and black, till you come near the horizon, where there is a
faint line of grayish white, just enough to show that you are on the
wide, wide ocean, out of sight of land, and nothing living near, except
that solitary sea-gull perched upon the breakers there. There's real
poetry in a bit like that; it sets one a thinking over the desolation of
those whose life is little better than a voyage on such a sea!”
“Better be drowned at once,” broke in Merl, impatiently.
Crow started and looked at him; and had Merl but seen that glance, so
scornful and contemptuous was it, even his self-esteem might have felt
outraged. But he had not remarked it; and as little did he guess what
was then passing in the poor artist's mind, as Crow muttered to himself,
“I know one that will not be your guest to-day, if he dines on a cold
potato, or does n't dine at all.”
“Did I tell you,” cried he, suddenly, “that there's no horses to be
had?”
“No horses!” exclaimed Merl; “how so?”
“There's a great trial going on at the assizes to-day, and Mr. Barry is
gone on to Oughterard to hear it, and he has the only pair of posters in
the place.”
“What a confounded hole!” burst out Merl, passionately. “That I ever
should have set my foot in it! How are we to get through the day here?
Have you thought of anything to be done?”
“_I'll_ go down and find out how poor Landy is,” said Crow; “for Miss
Mary's horse is still at the door, and he must be very bad, indeed, or
she wouldn't delay so long.”
“And what if it should turn out the cholera, or typhus, or something as
bad?”
“Well?” said Crow, interrogatively; for he could not guess the drift of
the suggestion.
“Simply this, my worthy friend,” resumed Merl,--“that I have no fancy
for the pleasure of your company at dinner after such an excursion as
you speak of.”
“I was just going to say that myself,” said Crow. “Good-bye!” And before
Merl could interpose a word, he was gone.