Most travelled reader, have you ever stood upon the plateau at the foot
of the Alten-Schloss in Baden, just before sunset, and seen the golden
glory spread out like a sheen over the vast plain beneath you, with
waving forests, the meandering Rhine, and the blue Vosges mountains
beyond all? It is a noble landscape, where every feature is bold, and
throughout which light and shade alternate in broad, effective masses,
showing that you are gazing on a scene of great extent, and taking in
miles of country with your eye. It is essentially German, too, in its
characteristics. The swelling undulations of the soil, the deep, dark
forests, the picturesque homesteads, with shadowy eaves and carved
quaint balconies, the great gigantic wagons slowly toiling through the
narrow lanes, over which the “Lindens” spread a leafy canopy,--all are
of the Vaterland.
Some fancied resemblance--it was in reality no more--to a view from a
window at Cro' Martin had especially endeared this spot to Martin, who
regularly was carried up each evening to pass an hour or so, dreaming
away in that half-unconsciousness to which his malady had reduced him.
There he sat, scarcely a remnant of his former self, a leaden dulness
in his eye, and a massive immobility in the features which once were
plastic with every passing mood that stirred him. The clasped hands and
slightly bent-down head gave a character of patient, unresisting meaning
to his figure, which the few words he dropped from time to time seemed
to confirm.
At a little distance off, and on the very verge of the cliff, Kate
Henderson was seated sketching; and behind her, occasionally turning to
walk up and down the terraced space, was Massingbred, once more in full
health, and bearing in appearance the signs of his old, impatient humor.
Throwing away his half-smoked cigar, and with a face whose expression
betokened the very opposite of all calm and ease of mind, he drew nigh
to where she sat, and watched her over her shoulder. For a while she
worked away without noticing his presence. At last she turned slightly
about, and looking up at him, said, “You see, it's very nearly
finished.”
[Illustration: 232]
“Well, and what then?” asked he, bluntly.
“Do you forget that I gave you until that time to change your opinion?
that when I was shadowing in this foreground I said, 'Wait 'till I have
done this sketch, and see if you be of the same mind,' and you agreed?”
“This might be very pleasant trifling if nothing were at stake, Miss
Henderson,” said he; “but remember that I cannot hold all my worldly
chances as cheaply as _you_ seem to do them.”
“Light another cigar, and sit down here beside me,--I don't dislike
smoke, and it may, perchance, be a peace calumet between us; and let us
talk, if possible, reasonably and calmly.”
He obeyed like one who seemed to feel that her word was a command, and
sat down on the cliff at her side.
“There, now,” said she, “be useful; hold that color-case for me, and
give me your most critical counsel. Do you like my sketch?”
“Very much indeed.”
“Where do you find fault with it? There must be a fault, or your
criticism is worth nothing.”
“Its greatest blemish in my eyes is the time it has occupied you. Since
you began it you have very rarely condescended to speak of anything
else.”
“A most unjust speech, and an ungrateful one. It was when throwing in
those trees yonder, I persuaded you to recall your farewell address to
your borough friends; it was the same day that I sketched that figure
there, that I showed you the great mistake of your present life. There
is no greater error, believe me, than supposing that a Parliamentary
success, like a social one, can be achieved by mere brilliancy. Party
is an army, and you must serve in the ranks before you can wear your
epaulets.”
“I have told you already,--I tell you again,--I 'm tired of the theme
that has myself alone for its object.”
“Of whom would you speak, then?” said she, still intently busied with
her drawing.
“You ask me when you know well of whom,” said he, hurriedly. “Nay, no
menaces; I could not if I would be silent. It is impossible for me any
longer to continue this struggle with myself. Here now, before I leave
this spot, you shall answer me--” He stopped suddenly, as though he had
said more than he intended, or more than he well knew how to continue.
“Go on,” said she, calmly. And her fingers never trembled as they held
the brush.
“I confess I do envy that tranquil spirit of yours,” said he, bitterly.
“It is such a triumph to be calm, cold, and impassive at a moment when
others feel their reason tottering and their brain a chaos.”
“There is nothing so easy, sir,” said she, proudly. “All that I can
boast of is not to have indulged in illusions which seem to have a charm
for _you_. You say you want explicit-ness. You shall have it. There was
one condition on which I offered you my friendship and my advice. You
accepted the bargain, and we were friends. After a while you came and
said that you rued your compact; that you discovered your feelings for
me went further; that mere friendship, as you phrased it, would not
suffice--”
“I told you, rather,” broke he in, “that I wished to put that feeling to
the last test, by linking your fortune with my own forever.”
“Very well, I accept that version. You offered to make me your wife, and
in return, I asked you to retract your words,--to suffer our relations
to continue on their old footing, nor subject me to the necessity of an
explanation painful to both of us. For a while you consented; now you
seem impatient at your concession, and ask me to resume the subject. Be
it so, but for the last time.”
Massingbred's cheeks grew deadly pale, but he never uttered a word.
After a second's pause, she resumed: “Your affections are less engaged
in this case than you think. You would make me your wife just as you
would do anything else that gave a bold defiance to the world, to show
a consciousness of your own power, to break down any obstacle, and make
the prejudices or opinions of society give way before you. You have
energy and self-esteem enough to make this succeed. Your wife--albeit
the steward's daughter--the governess! would be received, invited,
visited, and the rest of it; and so far as _you_ were concerned the
triumph would be complete. Now, however, turn a little attention to the
other side of the medal. What is to requite _me_ for all this courtesy
on sufferance, all this mockery of consideration? Where am I to find my
friendships, where even discover my duties? You only know of one kind
of pride, that of station and social eminence. I can tell you there is
another, loftier far,--the consciousness that no inequality of position
can obliterate, what I feel and know in myself of superiority to those
fine ladies whose favorable notice you would entreat for me. Smile at
the vanity of this declaration if you like, sir, but, at least, own
that I am consistent; for I am prouder in the independence of my present
dependence than I should be in all the state of Mr. Massingbred's wife.
You can see, therefore, that I could not accept this change as the great
elevation you would deem it. You would be stooping to raise one who
could never persuade herself that she was exalted. I am well aware that
inequality of one sort or another is the condition of most marriages.
The rank of one compensates for the wealth of the other. Here it is
affluence and age, there it is beauty and poverty. People treat the
question in a good commercial spirit, and balance the profit and loss
like tradesfolk; but even in this sense our compact would be impossible,
since _you_ would endow me with what has no value in my eyes, and _I_,
worse off still, have absolutely nothing to give in return.”
“Give me your love, dearest Kate,” cried he, “and, supported by that,
you shall see that I deserve it. Believe me, it is your own proud spirit
that exaggerates the difficulties that would await us in society.”
“I should scorn myself if I thought of them,” broke she in, haughtily;
“and remember, sir, these are not the words of one who speaks in
ignorance. I, too, have seen that great world, on which your affections
are so fixed. I have mixed with it, and know it. Notwithstanding all
the cant of moralists, I do not believe it to be more hollow or
more heartless than other classes. Its great besetting sin is not of
self-growth, for it comes of the slavish adulation offered by those
beneath it,--the grovelling worship of the would-be fine folk, who
would leave friends and home and hearth to be admitted even to the
antechambers of the great. They who offer up this incense are in my eyes
far more despicable than they who accept the sacrifice; but I would not
cast my lot with either. Do not smile, sir, as if these were high-flown
sentiments; they are the veriest commonplaces of one who loves
commonplace, who neither seeks affections with coronets nor friendships
in gold coaches, but who would still less be of that herd--mute,
astonished, and awe-struck--who worship them!”
“You deem me, then, deficient in this same independence of spirit?”
cried Massingbred, half indignantly.
“I certainly do not accept your intention of marrying beneath you as a
proof of it. Must I again tell you, sir, that in such cases it is the
poor, weak, patient, forgotten woman pays all the penalty, and that, in
the very conflict with the world the man has his reward?”
“If you loved me, Kate,” said he, in a tone of deep sorrow, “it is not
thus you would discuss this question.”
She made no reply, but bending down lower over her drawing, worked away
with increased rapidity.
“Still,” cried he, passionately, “I am not to be deterred by a defeat.
Tell me, at least, how I can win that love, which is to me the great
prize of life. You read my faults, you see my shortcomings clearly
enough; be equally just, then, to anything there is of good or hopeful
about me. Do this, Kate, and I will put my fate upon the issue.”
“In plain words,” said she, calmly, “you ask me what manner of man I
would consent to marry. I 'll tell you. One who with ability enough
to attain any station, and talents to gain any eminence, has lived
satisfied with that in which he was born; one who has made the
independence of his character so felt by the world that his actions have
been regarded as standards, a man of honor and of his word; employing
his knowledge of life, not for the purposes of overreaching, but for
self-correction and improvement; well bred enough to be a peer, simple
as a peasant; such a man, in fact, as could afford to marry a governess,
and, while elevating her to his station, never compromise his own with
his equals. I don't flatter myself,” said she, smiling, “that I 'm
likely to draw this prize; but I console myself by thinking that I could
not accept aught beneath it as great fortune. I see, sir, the humility
of my pretensions amuses you, and it is all the better for both of us if
we can treat these things jestingly.”
“Nay, Kate, you are unfair--unjust,” broke in Mas-singbred.
“Mr. Martin begins to feel it chilly, Miss Henderson,” said a servant at
this moment. “Shall we return to the hotel?”
“Yes, by all means,” said she, rising hastily. The next instant she
was busily engaged shawling and muffling the sick man, who accepted her
attentions with the submissive-ness of a child.
“That will do, Molly, thank you, darling,” said he, in a feeble voice;
“you are so kind, so good to me.”
“The evening is fresh, sir, almost cold,” said she.
“Yes, dear, the climate is not what it used to be. We have cut down
too many of those trees, Molly, yonder.” And he pointed with his thin
fingers towards the Rhine. “We have thinned the wood overmuch, but
they'll grow again, dear, though I shall not be here to see them.”
“He thinks I am his niece,” whispered Kate, “and fancies himself at Cro'
Martin.”
“I suppose they'll advise my trying a warm country, Molly, a milder
air,” muttered he, as they slowly carried him along. “But home, after
all, is home; one likes to see the old faces and the old objects around
them,--all the more when about to leave them forever!” And as the last
words came, two heavy tears stole slowly along his cheeks, and his
pale lips quivered with emotion. Now speaking in a low, weak voice to
himself, now sighing heavily, as though in deep depression, he was borne
along towards the hotel. Nor did the gay and noisy groups which thronged
the thoroughfares arouse him. He saw them, but seemed not to heed them.
His dreary gaze wandered over the brilliant panorama without interest or
speculation. Some painful and difficult thoughts, perhaps, did all these
unaccustomed sights and sounds bring across his mind, embarrassing him
to reconcile their presence with the scene he fancied himself beholding;
but even these impressions were faint and fleeting.
As they turned to cross the little rustic bridge in front of the hotel,
a knot of persons moved off the path to make way for them, one of whom
fixed his eyes steadily on the sick man, gazing with the keen scrutiny
of intense interest; then suddenly recalling himself to recollection, he
hastily retreated within the group.
“You are right,” muttered he to one near him, “he _is_ 'booked;' my bond
will come due before the month ends.”
“And you'll be an estated gent, Herman, eh?” said a very dark-eyed,
hook-nosed man at his side.
“Well, I hope I shall act the part as well as my neighbors,” said Mr.
Merl, with that mingled assurance and humility that made up his manner.
“Was n't that Massingbred that followed them,--he that made the famous
speech the other day in Parliament?”
“Yes,” said Merl. “I 've got a bit of 'stiff' with his endorsement in my
pocket this minute for one hundred and fifty.”
“What's it worth, Merl?”
“Perhaps ten shillings; but I 'd not part with it quite so cheaply.
He'll not always be an M.P., and we shall see if he can afford to
swagger by an old acquaintance without so much as a 'How d' ye do?'”
“There, he is coming back again,” said the other. And at the same moment
Massingbred walked slowly up to the spot, his easy smile upon his face,
and his whole expression that of a careless, unburdened nature.
“I just caught a glimpse of you as I passed, Merl,” said he, with a
familiar nod; “and you were exactly the man I wanted to see.”
“Too much honor, sir,” said Merl, affecting a degree of haughty distance
at the familiarity of this address.
Massingbred smiled at the mock dignity, and went on; “I have something
to say to you. Will you give me a call this evening at the Cour de Bade,
say about nine or half-past?”
“I have an engagement this evening.”
“Put it off, then, that's all, Master Merl, for mine is an important
matter, and very nearly concerns yourself.”
Merl was silent. He would have liked much to display before his friends
a little of the easy dash and swagger that he had just been exhibiting,
to have shown them how cavalierly he could treat a rising statesman and
a young Parliamentary star of the first order; but the question crossed
him, Was it safe? what might the luxury cost him? “Am I to bring that
little acceptance of yours along with me?” said he, in a half whisper,
while a malicious sparkle twinkled in his eye.
“Why not, man? Certainly, if it gives you the least pleasure in life;
only don't be later than half-past nine.” And with one of his sauciest
laughs Massingbred moved away, leaving the Jew very far from content
with “the situation.”
Merl, however, soon rallied. He had been amusing his friends, just
before this interruption, with a narrative of his Irish journey: he now
resumed the theme. All that he found faulty, all even that he deemed new
or strange or unintelligible in that unhappy country, he had dressed up
in the charming colors of his cockney vocabulary, and his hearers were
worthy of him! There is but little temptation, however, to linger in
their company, and so we leave them.