The morning was bright and sunny, the air sharp, crisp, and bracing,
as the heavy travelling-carriage which conveyed Mr. Martin and Lady
Dorothea rolled smoothly along the trimly kept approach to Cro' Martin.
Many a beautiful glade, many a lovely vista opened on them as they
passed along deep-bosomed woods and gently swelling slopes, dotted over
with cattle, stretched away on either side; while far in the distance
could be seen the battlemented towers of the princely residence.
The lover of nature might have felt intense pleasure at a scene so
abounding in objects of beauty. A painter would have lingered with
delight over effects of light and shade, glorious displays of color, and
graceful groupings of rocks and trees and gnarled stumps. A proud man
might have exulted in the selfish enjoyment of feeling that these were
all his own; while a benevolent one would have revelled in the thought
of all the channels through which such wealth might carry the blessings
of aid and charity.
Which of these feelings predominated now in the minds of those who,
snugly encased in furs, occupied the respective corners of the
ample coach? Shall we own it? Not any of them. A dreamy, unremarking
indifference was the sentiment of each; and they sat silently gazing
on a prospect which suggested nothing, nor awoke one passing emotion in
their hearts. Had any one been there to express his admiration of the
landscape,--praised the trees, the cattle, or the grassy slopes,--Martin
might have heard him with pleasure, and listened even with interest to
his description. My Lady, too, might not unwillingly have lent an ear
to some flattery of the splendid demesne of which she was mistress,
and accepted as half homage the eulogy of what was hers. None such was,
however, there; and so they journeyed along, as seemingly unconscious as
though the scene were wrapped in midnight darkness.
Martin had known the spot, and every detail of it, from his boyhood. The
timber, indeed, had greatly grown,--graceful saplings had become stately
trees, and feathery foliage deepened into leafy shade; but he himself
had grown older, too, and his sense of enjoyment, dulled and deadened
with years, saw nothing in the scene to awaken pleasure. As for Lady
Dorothea, she had reasoned herself into the notion that the walls of her
own grounds were the boundaries of a prison, and had long convinced
herself that she was a suffering martyr to some mysterious sense of
duty. From the drowsy languor in which they reclined they were both
aroused, as the pace of the carriage gradually diminished from a smooth
brisk trot to an uneven jolting motion, the very reverse of agreeable.
“What have they done? Where are they going?” said Lady Dorothea,
peevishly.
And Martin called out from the window, in tones even less gentle. “Oh,
it's the new approach; the road is not quite completed,” said he, half
sulkily, as he resumed his place.
“Another of Miss Martin's clever devices, which, I must say, I never
concurred in.”
“Why, you always professed to hate the old road by the stables.”
“So I did; but I never agreed to passing round the back of the house,
and thus destroying the privacy of the flower-garden,--the only spot I
may dare to call my own. Oh, dear! I shall be shaken to death. Have
they broken the carriage? I 'm certain they 've smashed the spring at my
side!”
Martin gave a cold, supercilious smile, the only reply to these words.
“They 've only broken a trace, I perceive,” said he, casting a hurried
glance through the window, as the carriage came to a dead stop.
“You are equanimity itself, sir, this morning,” said her Ladyship, in
a voice almost tremulous with anger. “I wonder if this admirable temper
will befriend you when you shall see the cost of this precious piece of
road-making?”
“It employs the people,” said he, coolly.
“Employs the people! How I hate that cant phrase! Can't they employ
themselves on their own farms? Have n't they digging and draining, and
whatever it is, to do of their own? Must they of necessity depend on
us for support, and require that we should institute useless works to
employ them?”
As if to offer a living commentary on her speech, a number of half-fed
and less than half-clad men now drew near, and in accents of a most
servile entreaty begged to offer their services. Some, indeed, had
already busied themselves to repair the broken harness, and others
were levelling the road, carrying stones to fill up holes, and in
every possible manner endeavoring to render assistance; but all were
vociferous in asserting that the delay would not be above a minute or
two; that the road was an elegant one, or would be soon, and that it was
a “raal blessing” to see her Ladyship and the master looking so well. In
fact, they were thankful and hopeful together; and, notwithstanding the
evidences of the deepest destitution in their appearance, they wore an
air of easy, jaunty politeness, such as many a professional diner-out
might have envied. Lady Dorothea was in no mood to appreciate such
traits; indeed, if the truth must be told, they rather ruffled than
soothed her. Martin saw nothing in them; he was too much accustomed to
the people to be struck with any of their peculiarities, and so he lay
back in silent apathy, and took no notice of them.
With all their alacrity and all their good-will--and there was no lack
of either--there was yet such a total absence of all system and order,
that their efforts were utterly useless. Some tugged away manfully
to raise stones too heavy to lift; others came rudely in contact with
fellows heavily laden, and upset them. The sturdy arms that spoked the
hind wheels were resolutely antagonized by as vigorous struggles to move
the fore ones. Every one shouted, cried, cursed, and laughed, by turns;
and a more hopeless scene of confusion and uproar need not be conceived.
Nor was Lady Dorothea herself an inactive spectator; for, with her head
from the carriage-window, she directed a hundred impossible measures,
and sat down at last, overcome with rage and mortification at their
blunders.
The tumult was now at the highest, and the horses, terrified by the
noise around them, had commenced plunging and rearing fearfully, when
Mary Martin came galloping up to the spot at full speed.
“Let go that bridle, Hogan,” cried she, aloud; “you are driving that
horse mad. Loose the leaders' traces; unbuckle the reins, Patsey; the
wheelers will stand quietly. There, lead them away. Speak to that mare;
she 's trembling with fear. I told you not to come by this road, Barney;
and it was only by accident that I saw the wheel-tracks. A thousand
pardons, Aunt Dora, for this mishap. Barney misunderstood my orders. It
will be all right in a moment. Once over this bad spot, the road is hard
and level.”
“Having no taste, nor any genius for adventures, Miss Martin,” began
her Ladyship--But Mary did not await the remainder of the speech; for,
turning her horse sharply round, and beckoning to some of the people
to follow her, she was away across the lawn at a smart canter. Having
arrived at a small wooden bridge over a river, she ordered the men to
lift some of the planking, by the aid of which they soon constructed
a firm and safe passage for the carriage; and as her presence was the
signal for quiet obedience and prompt action, in less than ten minutes
the difficulty was surmounted, the horses reharnessed, and all in
readiness to proceed on their way.
Martin looked on in silent satisfaction, not offering a single
suggestion, or even seeming to feel interested in the events, but
enjoying, with all a lazy man's pleasure, the activity displayed around
him. Not so Lady Dorothea. If she did not like “an adventure,” she
loved “a grievance.” Whatever ministered to her selfishness, even in the
remotest degree, was grateful to her. Mary's opportune arrival had now
converted what might have passed for a calamity into a mere momentary
inconvenience; and she could not conceal her discontent. “Your heroines
are a perfect torment; at least, to us souls of commoner clay. They live
only for disasters.”
“I must say that Mary extricated us from what might have become one,”
said Martin, dryly.
“We are indebted to her, however, for the possibility. This detestable
road, which I promise you I 'll never come again, is entirely her own
invention. I hope, Miss Martin,” added she, from the window, “that the
other approach is to be kept in repair,--at least, for me.” But Mary
did not hear the appeal, for she was bandaging the arm of a poor country
fellow, who had been sorely cut.
“There, drive on, Barney,” cried Lady Dorothea. “I shall be taken ill
if I stay here. Really, Mr. Martin, your niece's accomplishments are
the least feminine one can conceive.” And improving this theme, she
continued the entire way till the carriage drew up at the door of the
castle.
“Yes, sir,” said she, as she descended, “that heavy sigh shows you are
indeed greatly to be pitied. No martyrdom ever exceeded yours. I am
quite aware of all my imperfections, and can at least fancy everything
you could say of me and my temper. What did you say, Collins?” said she,
addressing the obsequious-looking servant, who, with an air of gloomy
joy, very respectful,--but meant to mean more,--had whispered something
in her ear.
“A young lady, did you say, Collins?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“Then you were very wrong, Collins. You meant to say a young person.”
“Yes, my Lady,--a young person, like a lady.”
“Not in the least, except to such appreciation as yours. Where is she?”
“In your Ladyship's library.”
“Did she come alone?”
“No, my Lady. Mr. Henderson drove her over in his car, and said he 'd
pass this way again in the evening.”
And now her Ladyship swept proudly by, scarcely noticing the bowing
servants who had formed into a line along the hall, and who endeavored
to throw into their sorrowful faces as much of joy as might consist with
the very deepest humility. Nor was she more condescending to old Catty,
who stood courtesying at the top of the stairs, with a basket of keys on
her arm that might have served to lock up all Newgate.
“How cold every place feels! Collins, are you sure the rooms are
properly aired?” cried she, shuddering. “But I suppose it's the climate.
Have another stove put there,” said she, pointing to an impossible
locality.
“Yes, my Lady,” replied Collins.
“And warmer carpets on these passages.”
“Yes, my Lady; it shall be done to-morrow.”
“No, sir; to-day.”
“Yes, my Lady; this afternoon.”
“I don't remember if the windows are double along here.”
“Yes, my Lady, they are all double towards the north.”
“Then they fit badly, for I feel the draught acutely here. It's like the
keen air of a mountain;” and Collins gave a slight sympathetic shudder,
and really looked cold. A somewhat haughty glance from her Ladyship,
however, as quickly reproved him, for Collins ought to have known
that it was not by such as himself changes of temperature could be
appreciable. And now she passed on and entered that part of the
mansion peculiarly her own, and where, it must be owned, her spirit of
fault-finding would have been at a loss what to condemn.
Lady Dorothea's library occupied an angle of the building; and from this
circumstance, included within its precincts an octagonal tower, the view
from which comprised every varied character of landscape. This favored
spot was fitted up in the most luxurious taste,--with rarest gems of
art, and cabinet pictures of almost fabulous value,--to supply
which foreign dealers and connoisseurs had been for years back in
correspondence with her Ladyship. Now it was some rare treasure of
carved ivory, or some sculptured cup of Benvenuto, that had been
discovered accidentally, and which, despite the emulous zeal of princes
and cardinals to obtain, was destined for herself. Now it was some
choice mosaic of which but one other specimen existed, and that in the
Pope's private collection at the Quirinal. Such was her ardor in this
pursuit of excellence, that more than once had every object of this
precious chamber been changed, to give place to something more costly,
more precious, and rarer. For about two years back, however, the
resources of the old world seemed to offer nothing worthy of attention,
and the vases, the “statuettes,” the bronzes, the pictures, and
medallions had held their ground undisturbed.
Such was the sanctity of this spot, that in showing the house to
strangers it was never opened, nor, without a special order from Lady
Dorothea,--a favor somewhat more difficult to obtain than a firman from
the Sultan,--could any one be admitted within its walls. The trusty
servant in whose charge it was, was actually invested with a species of
sacred character in the household, as one whose feet had passed the
threshold of the tabernacle. Our reader may then picture to himself
something of Lady Dorothea's varied sensations--for, indeed, they were
most mingled--as she heard a slight cough from within the chamber, and,
drawing nearer, perceived a female figure seated in front of one of the
windows, calmly regarding the landscape.
With a degree of noise and bustle sufficient to announce her approach,
Lady Dorothea entered the tower; while the stranger, rising, retired one
step, and courtesied very deeply. There was in all the humility of the
obeisance a certain degree of graceful dignity that certainly struck
her Ladyship; and her haughty look and haughtier tone were some little
modified as she asked by what accident she found her there.
“My intrusion was a pure accident, my Lady,” replied the other, in a
low, soft voice; “mistaking the door by which I had entered a room, I
wandered on through one after another until I found myself here. I beg
your Ladyship to believe that nothing was further from my thoughts than
to obtrude upon your privacy.”
“Your name?” began her Ladyship; and then, as suddenly correcting
herself, she said, “You are Miss Henderson, I suppose?”
“Yes, my Lady,” she replied, with a slight bend of the head.
“I sent for you,” said Lady Dorothea, in a half-careless tone, while she
turned over some books on the table, as if in search of something,--“I
sent for you, partly at the request of your mother--”
“My stepmother, my Lady,” interposed the girl, calmly.
Lady Dorothea stared at her for a second or two, as though to say, how
had she dared to correct her; but either that the reproof had not met
its full success, or that she did not care to pursue it, she added, “At
the request of your friends, and partly out of curiosity.” And here
Lady Dorothea raised her glass to her eye, and quietly surveyed her,--an
examination which, it must be owned, none could have borne with more
unshaken fortitude; not the slightest tremor of a limb, not the faintest
change of color betokening that the ordeal was a painful one.
“I do see that you have been educated in France,” said her Ladyship,
with a smile of most supercilious import, while a courtesy from the
young girl admitted the fact.
“Were you brought up in Paris?” asked she, after a pause.
“For four years, my Lady.”
“And the remainder of the time, where was it passed?”
“We travelled a great deal, my Lady, in Germany and Italy.”
“'We,'--who were the 'we' you speak of? Please to bear in mind that I
know nothing of your history.”
“I forgot that, my Lady. I thought my stepmother had, perhaps, informed
your Ladyship.”
“Of nothing whatever, child,” said she, haughtily, “save of your having
a foreign education, and wishing, or hoping, to find some engagement
as a governess or a teacher;” and the last words were drawled out
languidly, as though they were suggestive of all that was wearisome and
a bore. “So you must be good enough to explain who 'we' were.”
“The Duchesse de Luygnes and her family, my Lady.”
“You travelled with them; and in what capacity, pray?”
“I was called companion to the Princesse de Courcelles, the eldest
daughter of the Duchess, my Lady.”
“Companion!--why, you must have been a mere child at the time?”
“A mere child, my Lady; but they took me from the Pensionnat, to speak
English with the young Princess.”
“And then they took the charge of your education, I conclude?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“And to what extent--or rather, in what direction; I mean, what object
had they in view in choosing your studies?”
“They gave me the same masters as to the young Princess, my Lady; and I
was instructed in all respects as she was.”
“And treated like her also, I conclude?” said Lady Dorothea, with a
sneering smile.
“Madame la Duchesse was ever most kind to me,” said the girl, half
proudly.
“Kind--yes, of course--kind, if you conducted yourself properly and to
her satisfaction. A person of her condition would be kind; but I trust
this did not proceed so far as to spoil you? I hope it never made you
forget your station?”
“I trust it did not, my Lady.”
“With what part of the establishment did you live? Where did you dine?”
“With the Princess, my Lady; except on _fête_ days, when we were invited
to the table of the Duchess.”
“I never heard of anything more absurd,--outrageously absurd. Why, are
you aware, young woman, that these same friends of yours have done you
irreparable mischief? They have, so to say, ruined your entire future;
for how can I, and others in my station, avail myself of your services,
with such habits and expectations as these?”
“Certainly not expectations, my Lady. I never did or can expect such
condescension from another.”
“No matter; your head is filled with ideas unbefitting your condition,
usages, habits, associations, all foreign to a menial station. You
have been admitted to privileges the want of which would be felt as
hardships. In fact, as I said before, they have done you irreparable
injury. You must feel it yourself.”
A very faint smile, half in deprecation of the appeal, was the only
reply of the young girl.
“You are certain to feel it later on in life, if you are not sensible of
it at present, that I can vouch for, young woman,” said Lady Dorothea,
with all the firmness with which she could utter an unpleasant speech.
“Nothing but unhappiness ever resulted from such ill-judged indulgence.
Indeed, if your mother had mentioned the circumstances, I scarcely think
I should have sent for you”--she paused to see if any strong signs of
contrite sorrow displayed themselves in the young girl's features; none
such were there, and Lady Dorothea more sternly added,--“I may safely
say, I never should have asked to see you.”
When a speech meant to be severe has failed to inflict the pain it was
intended to produce, it invariably recoils with redoubled power upon him
who uttered it; and so Lady Dorothea now felt all the pang of her
own ungenerous sentiment. With an effort to shake off this unpleasant
sensation, she resumed,--
“I might go further, and observe that unless you yourself became
thoroughly penetrated with the fact, you must always prove very
unsuitable to the station you are destined to occupy in life. Do you
understand me?”
“I believe I do, my Lady,” was the calm reply.
“And also,” resumed she, still more dictatorially--“and also, that
acquiring this knowledge by yourself will be less painful to your
feelings than if impressed upon you by others. Do you fully apprehend
me?”
“I think so, my Lady.”
Now, although the tone and manner of the young girl were unexceptionable
in all that regards deference and respect, Lady Dorothea was not a
little provoked at her unbroken composure. There was no confusion, not
even a semblance of constraint about her. She replied to even sarcastic
questions without the faintest shadow of irritation, and exhibited
throughout the most perfect quietude and good breeding. Had the “young
person” been overwhelmed with shame, or betrayed into any access of
temper, her Ladyship's manner would have presented a pattern of haughty
dignity and gracefulness, and her rebukes would have been delivered in
a tone of queen-like superiority; but Miss Henderson afforded no
opportunity for these great qualities. She was deference itself; but
deference so self-possessed, so assured of its own safeguard, as to be
positively provoking.
“Under all these circumstances, therefore,” resumed Lady Dorothea, as if
having revolved mighty thoughts within her mind, “it appears to me you
would not suit me.”
But even this speech failed to call up one trait of disappointment, and
the young girl received it with only a deep courtesy.
“I'm sorry for it,” continued my Lady, “on your mother's account; your
education has of course cost her and your father many sacrifices, which
your duty requires you to repay.” She paused, as if asking for some
assent to this speech.
Another deep courtesy was the reply.
“There, that will do,” said Lady Dorothea, angrily; for any attempt to
provoke seemed an utter failure. “I think I have nothing more to
say. When I shall see your mother I can explain more fully to her.
Good-morning.”
“I wish your Ladyship good-morning,” said the girl, with a deep
obeisance, and in a voice of perfect deference, while she retired
towards the door. Before she had reached it, however, Lady Dorothea
again addressed her.
“You forgot, I think, to tell me why you left the Duchesse de Luygnes?”
“I left on the marriage of the Princess, my Lady.”
“Oh, I remember; she married a Russian, I think.”
“No, my Lady; she married the Duc de Mirecourt, French Ambassador at St.
Petersburg.”
“Ah, to be sure. I knew there was something Russian about it. And so
they sent you away then?”
“The Duchess most kindly invited me to accompany her, my Lady, but my
father desired I should return to Ireland.”
“And very properly,” said Lady Dorothea; “he took a most just view of
the case; your position would only have exposed you to great perils. I'm
sure you are not of my opinion, for distrust of yourself does not appear
one of your failings.”--It is possible that this ungenerous remark was
evoked by a very slight curl of the young girl's lip, and which, faint
as it was, did not escape her Ladyship's keen glances.--“Good-morning.”
Again had Miss Henderson gained the door; her hand was already on the
lock, when her Ladyship called out: “In the event of anything occurring
to me likely to suit you, I ought to know what you can teach; and mind,
don't bore me with a mere catalogue of hard names, but say what you
really know.”
“Some modern languages, my Lady, with music.”
“No Greek or Latin?” said Lady Dorothea, half sneer-ingly.
“Latin, perhaps; but though I can read some Greek, I could not venture
to teach it.”
“Nor Hebrew?”
“No, my Lady.”
“And the modern tongues,--which of them do you profess to know?”
“French, Italian, Spanish, and German.”
“And don't you draw?--they showed me what they called yours.”
“Yes, my Lady, but I cannot teach drawing.”
“And of course you are thoroughly versed in history. Have you studied
any scientific subjects?--mathematics, for instance.”
“Only a few of the French initial books, my Lady.”
“Why, you are quite an Admirable Crichton for acquirement. I feel really
abashed to find myself in such company.” But even this coarse speech
failed to irritate, and Lady Dorothea walked angrily towards the window
and looked out.
It so chanced that, through an opening of the wood, she caught sight
of a large assemblage of workpeople, who, headed by Miss Martin on
horseback, were on their way to the quarries; and as she looked, a
sudden thought flashed across her: “Why not retain the 'young person' as
a companion for her niece? How admirably would all this girl's
knowledge contrast with Mary's ignorance! What an unceasing source of
disparagement would their contact afford, at the very moment that
the arrangement might seem dictated by the very best and highest of
motives.”
It may doubtless appear to many, that the individual who could reason
thus must be animated by a most corrupt and depraved nature, but
unhappily the spiteful element in the human heart is one which never
measures its modes of attack, but suffers itself to be led on, from acts
of mere petty malice to actions of downright baseness and badness. Lady
Dorothea was not devoid of good traits, but once involved in a pursuit,
she totally forgot the object which originally suggested it, but engaged
all her zeal and all her ardor for success. She would have been shocked
at the bare possibility of actually injuring her niece; she would have
resented with indignation the mere mention of such; but yet she would
have eagerly grasped at whatever afforded a chance of dominating over
her. Mary's influence in the household--her rule over the peasantry of
the estate--was a perpetual source of annoyance to her Ladyship, and yet
she never knew how to thwart it, till now that chance seemed to offer
this means.
“You need not go back just yet: I 'll speak to Mr. Martin about you,”
said she, turning towards Miss Henderson; and, with a respectful
courtesy, the girl withdrew, leaving her Ladyship to her own somewhat
complicated reflections.
In less than half an hour after Lady Dorothea proceeded to Mr. Martin's
study, where a cabinet council was held, the substance of which our
reader can readily conceive; nor need he have any doubts as to the
decision, when we say that Lady Dorothea retired to her own room with a
look of satisfaction so palpably displayed that Mademoiselle Hortense,
her maid, remarked to herself, “Somebody or other was sure to pass a
_mauvais quart d'heure_ when _miladi_ goes to her room with an air of
such triumphant meaning as that.”