It is one of the most inestimable privileges of Art, that amidst all the
cares and contentions of the world, amidst strife and war and carnage,
its glorious realm is undisturbed, its peace unbroken, and its followers
free to follow their own wayward fancies, without let or hindrance.
Your great practical intelligences, your men of committees and corn and
railroads and ship-canals, sneer at the fictitious life--for so does
it seem to them--of the mere painter or musician. They have a sort of
pitying estimate for capacities only exercised upon the ideal, and look
down with a very palpable contempt upon those whose world is a gallery
or an orchestra. After all, this division of labor is a wise and happy
provision, carrying with it many and varied benefits, and making of that
strange edifice of mankind a far more pleasing and harmonious structure
than we should otherwise have seen it. The imagination is to the actual,
in the world of active life, what flowers are to nutritious herbs
and roots. It is the influence that adorns, elevates, and embellishes
existence. That such gifts have been confided to certain individuals
is in itself a sufficient evidence, just as we see in the existence
of flowers that pleasure has its place assigned in the grand scheme of
creation, and that the happiness which flows from gratified sense has
not been denied us.
In that petty world which lived beneath the roof of Cro' Martin Castle,
all the eager passions and excitements of political intrigue were now
at work. My lady was full of plans for future greatness; Repton was
scheming and suggesting, and thwarting everybody in turn; and even
Martin himself, engulfed in the “Maelstrom” of the crisis, was roused
into a state of semi-preparation that amounted to a condition of almost
fever. As for Massingbred, whatever he really did feel, his manner
affected a most consummate indifference to all that went forward; nor
did the mention of his father's appointment to high office elicit from
him anything beyond a somewhat contemptuous opinion of the new party
in power. While, therefore, secret counsels were held, letters read
and written, conferences conducted in every room, one little space was
devoid of all these embarrassments and anxieties, and that was an oval
chamber, lighted from the top, and originally destined for a summer
ball-room, but now appropriated to Mr. Crow's use for the completion of
the Grand Historical, which had lately been transferred from Kilkieran
to its place there.
The unlucky masterpiece was doomed to many a difficulty. The great
events in prospect had totally banished all thought of “art” from Lady
Dorothea's mind. The fall of a recent administration was a far more
imminent circumstance than the abdication of a king a few centuries
back. Martin, of course, had enough on his head, without the cares of
mock royalty. Mary was overwhelmed with occupations. The floods and
a threatened famine were casualties not to be overlooked; and she was
absent every day from dawn to late night; while, to complete the list
of defaulters, young Nelligan--the future Prince of Orange of the
picture--was gone!
Men deplore their past youth, their bygone buoyancy of heart, their old
loves and extinct friendships; but of all departed pleasures, there is a
peculiar poignancy about one, and that is an artist's grief over a “lost
sitter.” You ladies and gentlemen whose thumbs have never closed on
a palette, nor whose fingers have never felt the soft influence of
varnish, may smile at such a sorrow, but take my word for it, it is a
real and tangible affliction.
The waving locks, the noble brow; the deep square orbits, and the finely
cut chin are but the subtle suggestions out of which inspirations are
begotten, and poetic visions nurtured. The graceful bearing and the
noble port, the tender melancholy or the buoyant gladness, have each
in turn struck some chord of secret feeling in the artist's breast,
revealing to him new ideas of beauty, and imparting that creative power
which displays itself in new combinations.
Poor Simmy Crow was not a Titian nor a Vandyke, but unhappily the
sorrows of genius are very often experienced by those who are not gifted
with its greatness; and the humble aspirant of excellence can catch
every malady to which the triumphant in all the wild enthusiasm of his
powers is exposed. He sat down before his canvas, as some general might
before a fortified town which had resisted all his efforts of attack. He
was depressed and discouraged.
The upper part of the young student's head was already half finished,
and there was enough done to impart a kind of promise of success,--that
glorious vista which opens itself so often in imagination to those whose
world is but their own fancy. He half thought he could finish it from
memory; but before he had proceeded many minutes, he laid down the
brush in despair. It seemed like a fatality that something must always
interpose to bar the road to success. One time it was sickness, then
it was poverty; a disparaging criticism had even done it; and now, when
none of these threatened, there arose a new impediment. “Ah! Simmy,
Simmy,” he exclaimed aloud, “you were born under an unkindly planet.
That's the secret of it all!”
“I confess I cannot concur in that opinion,” said a low, soft voice
behind him. He started up, and beheld Kate Henderson, who, leaning
on the back of a chair, continued to gaze steadfastly at the canvas,
perfectly regardless of his astonishment. “There is a great deal to
admire in that picture!” said she, as though talking to herself.
Simmy crept stealthily back, and stationed himself behind her, as if to
hear her remarks, while viewing the picture from the same point.
“You have grouped your figures admirably,” continued she, now addressing
him, “and your management of the light shows a study of Rembrandt.”
“Very true, ma'am--miss, I mean. I have copied nearly all his great
pieces.”
“And the drapery--that robe of the King's--tells me that you have
studied another great master of color--am I right, sir, in saying Paul
Veronese?”
Simmy Crow's face glowed till it became crimson, while his eyes sparkled
with intense delight.
“Oh, dear me!” he exclaimed, “is n't it too much happiness to hear this?
and only a minute ago I was in black despair!”
“Mine is very humble criticism, sir; but as I have seen good pictures--”
“Where? In the galleries abroad?” broke in Crow, hurriedly.
“All over Germany and Italy. I travelled with those who really cared
for and understood art. But to come back to yours--that head is a noble
study.”
“And that's exactly what I'm grieving over,--he's gone.”
“Young Mr. Nelligan?”
“Himself. He started this morning for Oughterard.”
“But probably to return in a day or two.”
Crow looked stealthily around to see if he were not likely to be
overheard, and then, approaching Kate, said in a whisper,--
“I don't think he 'll ever cross the doors again.”
“How so? has he received any offence?”
“I can't make out what it is,” said Simmy, with a puzzled look, “but he
came to my room late last night, and sat down without saying a word; and
at last, when I questioned him if he were ill, he said suddenly,--
“'Have you found, Mr. Crow, that in your career as an artist, you have
been able to withdraw yourself sufficiently from the ordinary events
of life as to make up a little world of your own, wherein you lived
indifferent to passing incidents?'
“'Yes,' said I, 'I have, whenever I was doing anything really worth the
name.'
“'And at such times,' said he, again, 'you cared nothing, or next to
nothing, for either the flatteries or the sarcasms of those around you?”
“'I could n't mind them,' said I, 'for I never so much as heard them.'
“'Exactly what I mean,' said he, rapidly. 'Intent upon higher ambitions,
you were above the petty slights of malice or envy, and with your
own goal before you, were steeled against the minor casualties of the
journey. Then why should not I also enjoy the immunity? Can I not summon
to my aid a pride like this, or am I to be discouraged and disgraced to
my own heart by a mere impertinence?'
“I stared at him, not guessing what he could mean.
“'Rather quit the spot with which it is associated,--quit it forever,'
muttered he to himself, as he paced the room, while his face grew
deathly pale.
“'As for me,' said I, for I wanted to say something--anything, in
short--just to take his attention a little off of himself, 'whenever the
world goes hard with me, I just step into my studio, lock the door, and
sit down before a fresh canvas. I throw in a bit of brown, with a dash
of bluish gray over it,--half sky, half atmosphere,--and I daub away
till something like an effect--maybe a sunset, maybe a sullen-looking
seashore, maybe a long, low prairie swell--rises before me. I don't try
for details, I don't even trace an outline, but just throw in an effect
here and there, and by good luck it often comes right, in some fine
harmony of color, that's sure to warm up my heart and cheer my spirits;
for, as there are sounds that, swelling up, fill the whole nature of man
with ecstasy, there are combinations of color and tint that enter the
brain by the eye, and just produce the same sense of delight.'”
“And how did he accept your consolation?” asked she, smiling
good-naturedly.
“I don't well know if he listened to me,” said Simmy, sorrowfully; “for
all he said afterwards was,--
“'Well, Mr. Crow, good-bye. I hope you 'll come to see me when you visit
Dublin. You 'll easily find out my chambers in the college.'
“Of course I said, 'I'd be delighted;' and there we parted.”
“Poor fellow!” said Kate, but in an accent so peculiar it would have
been very difficult to pronounce whether the words were of kindness or
of disparagement.
“And your Prince, Mr. Crow?” said she, changing her tone to one of real
or affected interest; “what's to be done now that Mr. Nelligan has left
us?”
“I'm thinking of making a background figure of him, miss,” said Simmy.
“Burnt sienna reduces many an illustrious individual to an obscure
position.”
“But why not ask Mr. Massingbred to take his place--you've seen him?”
“Only passing the window, miss. He is a handsome young man, but that
same look of fashion, the dash of style about him, is exactly what
destroys the face for _me_, I feel I could make nothing of it; I 'd
be always thinking of him standing inside the plate-glass window of a
London club, or cantering along the alleys of the Park, or sipping his
iced lemonade at Tortoni's. There's no poetizing your man of gold chains
and embroidered waistcoats!”
“I half suspect you are unjust in this case,” said she, with one of her
dubious smiles.
“I'm only saying what the effect is upon myself, miss,” said Crow.
“But why not make a compromise between the two?” said she. “I believe
the great painters--Vandyke, certainly--rarely took the studies from a
single head. They caught a brow here, and a mouth there, harmonizing the
details by the suggestions of their own genius. Now, what if, preserving
all this here,”--and she pointed to the head and eyes,--“you were to
fill up the remainder, partly from imagination, partly from a study.”
And as she spoke she took the brush from his hand, and by a few light
and careless touches imparted a new character to the face.
“Oh, go on! that's admirable,--that's glorious!” exclaimed Crow, wild
with delight.
[Illustration: 276]
“There is no necessity to lose the expression of haughty sorrow in the
eye and brow,” continued she; “nor does it interfere with the passing
emotion he may be supposed unable to control, of proud contempt for that
priestly influence which has dominated over the ambition of a king.”
And now, as though carried away by the theme, she continued to paint as
rapidly as she spoke, while Crow busied himself in preparing the colors
upon the palette.
“My hardihood is only intended to encourage you, Mr. Crow,” said she,
“by showing that if one like me can point the road, the journey need not
be deemed a difficult one.” As she retired some paces to contemplate the
picture, she casually glanced through a low glass door which opened upon
the lawn, and where, under the shelter of a leafy beech, a young country
girl was standing; her blue cloth cloak, with the hood thrown over her
head, gave a certain picturesque character to the figure, which nearer
inspection more than confirmed, for her features were singularly fine,
and her large, soft blue eyes beamed with a gentle earnestness that
showed Kate she was there with a purpose.
Opening the door at once, Kate Henderson approached her, and asked what
she wanted.
With an air of half pride, half shame, the country girl drew herself up,
and stared full and steadfastly at the speaker, and so continued till
Kate repeated her question.
“Sure you're not Miss Mary?” replied she, by questioning her in turn.
“No, but if I can be of any use to you--”
“I don't think you can,” broke she in, with a manner almost haughty;
“it's somebody else I 'm wanting.”
“If you wish to see Miss Martin, I 'll go and fetch her,” said Kate.
“I did n't say it was her I wanted to see,” replied she, with a calm and
almost severe composure.
“Maybe her Ladyship?” asked Kate, far more interested than repelled by
the other's manner.
“It's none of them at all,” rejoined she. “I came here to speak to one
that I know myself,” added she, after a long pause; “and if he isn't
gone, I want to see him.”
“Oh, I think I can guess now,” said Kate, smiling. “It is the Counsellor
from Dublin, Mr. Repton.”
“It is no such thing,” said the girl, promptly.
“Then it must be Mr. Crow, here.”
An indignant toss of the head gave the negative to this surmise.
“I have gone through all our names here,” said Kate; “and except Mr.
Massingbred--”
“And there's the very one I want,” said the girl, boldly.
“Step in here and rest yourself, and I 'll send for him,” said Kate; and
with such persuasive courtesy were the words uttered, that almost, as it
seemed, against her very will the girl followed her into the studio
and sat down. While Mr. Crow proceeded in search of Massingbred, Kate
Henderson, resuming brush and palette, returned to her painting; not,
however, on the grand canvas of the “Historical,” but dexterously
interposing a piece of fresh board, she seized the opportunity to sketch
the beautiful head then before her, while occupying the girl's attention
with the objects around.
Notwithstanding her intense astonishment at all she saw, the country
girl never uttered a word, nor vouchsafed a single question as to the
paintings; she even tried to moderate the eager pleasure they afforded
by an endeavor not to admire them. Touched by the native pride of this
struggle,--for struggle it was,--the features had assumed a look of
haughty composure that well became the character of her beauty, and
Kate caught up the expression so rapidly that her sketch was already
well-nigh completed when Massing-bred entered.
“My dear Mistress Joan,” cried he, shaking her cordially by both hands,
“how glad I am to see you again! It was but this very moment I was
inquiring how I could go over and pay you a visit.”
Hurriedly as these words were uttered, and in all the apparent fervor
of hearty sincerity, they were accompanied by a short glance at Kate
Henderson, who was about to leave the room, that plainly said, “Remain
where you are, there is no mystery here.”
“I thank yer honer kindly,” said Joan Landy, “but it's no good coming,
he is n't there.”
“Not there!--how and why is that?”
“Sure _you_ ought to know better than me,” said she, fixing her large
eyes full upon him. “Ye left the house together, and _he_ never came
back since.”
“Oh, perhaps I can guess,” said Jack, pausing for a moment to reflect.
“He might have deemed it safer to keep out of the way for a day or two.”
“It's no good deceivin' me, sir,” said she, rising from her seat; “tell
me the whole truth. Where is he?”
“That is really more than I can say, my dear Mistress Joan. We parted in
Oughterard.”
“And you never saw him after?”
“Never, I assure you.”
“And you never tried to see him?--you never asked what became of him?”
“I concluded, indeed I was certain, that he returned home,” said Jack,
but not without some confusion.
“Ay, that was enough for you,” said she, angrily. “If you were a poor
labor in' man, you 'd not desert him that had you under his roof and
gave you the best he had; but because ye 're a gentleman--”
“It is precisely for that reason I can't suffer you to think so meanly
of me,” cried Jack. “Now just hear me for one moment, and you'll see how
unjust you've been.” And, drawing his chair closer to hers, he narrated
in a low and whispering voice the few events of their morning at
Oughterard, and read for her the short note Magennis had written to him.
“And is that all?” exclaimed Joan, when he concluded.
“All, upon my honor!” said he, solemnly.
“Oh, then, wirra! wirra!” said she, wringing her hands sorrowfully, “why
did I come here?--why did n't I bear it all patient? But sure my heart
was bursting, and I could not rest nor sleep, thinking of what happened
to him! Oh, yer honer knows well what he is to _me!_” And she covered
her face with her hands.
“You have done nothing wrong in coming here,” said Jack, consolingly.
“Not if he never hears of it,” said she, in a voice tremulous with fear.
“That he need never do,” rejoined Jack; “though I cannot see why he
should object to it. But come, Mrs. Joan, don't let this fret you;
here's a young lady will tell you, as I have, that nobody could possibly
blame your natural anxiety.”
“What would a young lady know about a poor creature like _me?_”
exclaimed Joan, dejectedly. “Sure, from the day she's born, she never
felt what it was to be all alone and friendless!”
“You little guess to whom you say that,” said Kate, turning round and
gazing on her calmly; “but if the balance were struck this minute, take
my word for it, you 'd have the better share of fortune.”
Jack Massingbred's cheek quivered slightly as he heard these words,
and his eyes were bent upon the speaker with an intense meaning. Kate,
however, turned haughtily away from the gaze, and coldly reminded him
that Mrs. Joan should have some refreshment after her long walk.
“No, miss,--no, yer honer; many thanks for the same,” said Joan, drawing
her cloak around her. “I couldn't eat a bit; my heart's heavy inside me.
I 'll go back now.”
Kate tried to persuade her to take something, or, at least, to rest a
little longer; but she was resolute, and eager to return.
“Shall we bear you company part of the way, then?” said Jack, with a
look of half entreaty towards Kate.
“I shall be but too happy,” said Kate, while she turned the nearly
completed sketch to the wall, but not so rapidly as to prevent
Massingbred's catching a glimpse of it.
“How like!” exclaimed he, but only in a whisper audible to himself. “I
didn't know that this also was one of your accomplishments.”
A little laugh and a saucy motion of her head was all her reply, while
she went in search of her bonnet and shawl. She was back again in a
moment, and the three now issued forth into the wood.
For all Jack Massingbred's boasted “tact,” and his assumed power of
suiting himself to his company, he felt very ill at ease as he walked
along that morning. “His world” was not that of the poor country girl at
his side, and he essayed in vain to find some topic to interest her. Not
so Kate Henderson. With all a woman's nice perception, and quite without
effort, she talked to Joan about the country and the people, of whose
habits she knew sufficient not to betray ignorance; and although Joan
felt at times a half-suspicious distrust of her, she grew at length to
be pleased with the tone of easy familiarity used towards her, and the
absence of anything bordering on superiority.
Joan, whose instincts and sympathies were all with the humble class from
which she sprung, described in touching language the suffering condition
of the people, the terrible struggle against destitution maintained for
years, and daily becoming more difficult and hopeless. It was like a
shipwrecked crew reduced to quarter-rations, and now about to relinquish
even these!
“And they are patient under all this?” asked Kate, with that peculiar
accent so difficult to pronounce its meaning.
“They are, indeed, miss,” was the answer.
“Have they any hope? What do they promise themselves as the remedy for
these calamities?”
“Sorrow one of 'em knows,” said she, with a sigh. “Some goes away to
America, some sinks slowly under it, and waits for God's time to leave
the world; and a few--but very few--gets roused to anger, and does
something to be transported or put in jail.”
“And Miss Martin,--does she not relieve a good deal of this misery? Is
she not of immense benefit by her exertions here?”
“Arrah, what can a young lady do, after all? Sure it's always them that
talks most and best gets over her. Some are ashamed, and some are too
proud to tell what they 're suffering; and I believe in my heart, for
one that 's relieved there are twenty more angry at seeing how lucky he
was.”
They walked along now for some time in silence, when Joan, stopping
short, said, “There's the house, miss; that's the place I live in.”
“That house far away on the mountain side?”
“Yes, miss; it's four miles yet from this.”
“But surely you haven't to walk all that way?”
“What signifies it? Is n't my heart lighter than when I came along this
morning? And now I won't let you come any farther, for I'll take a short
cut here across the fields.”
“May I go and see you one of these days?” asked Kate.
Joan grew crimson to the very roots of her hair, and turned a look on
Massingbred, as though to say, “You ought to answer this for me.” But
Jack was too deep in his own thoughts even to notice the appeal.
“I can scarcely ask _you_ to come to _me_,” said Kate, quickly
perceiving a difficulty, “for I 'm not even a visitor at Cro' Martin.”
“I 'm sure I hope it 's not the last time we 'll meet, miss; but
maybe,”--she faltered, and a heavy tear burst forth, and rolled slowly
along her cheek,--“maybe you oughtn't to come and see me.”
Kate pressed her hand affectionately, without speaking, and they parted.
“Is Joan gone?” asked Massingbred, raising his head from an attitude of
deep revery. “When did she leave us?”
“There she goes yonder,” said Kate, pointing. “I fear me her spirits are
not as light as her footsteps. Are her people very poor?”
“Her father was a herd, I believe,” said he, carelessly; “but she does
n't live at home.”
“Is she married, then?”
“I 'm not sure that she is; but at least she believes that she is.”
“Poor thing!” said Kate, calmly, while, folding her arms, she continued
to gaze after the departing figure of the country girl. “Poor thing!”
repeated she once more, and turned to walk homewards.
Massingbred fixed his eyes upon her keenly as she uttered the words; few
and simple as they were, they seemed to reveal to him something of
the nature of her who spoke them. A mere exclamation--a syllable--will
sometimes convey “whole worlds of secret thought and feeling,” and it
was evidently thus that Massingbred interpreted this brief expression.
“There was nothing of scorn in that pity,” thought he. “I wish she had
uttered even one word more! She is a strange creature!”
And it was thus speaking to himself that he walked along at her side.
“This wild and desolate scene is not very like that of which we talked
the other night,--when first we met,--Miss Henderson.”
“You forget that we never met,” said she, calmly.
“True, and yet there was a link between us even in those few flowers
thrown at random.”
“Don't be romantic, Mr. Massingbred; do not, I pray you,” said she,
smiling faintly. “You _know_ it's not your style, while it would be
utterly thrown away upon _me_, I am aware that fine gentlemen of your
stamp deem this the fitting tone to assume towards 'the governess;' but
I 'm really unworthy of it.”
“What a strange girl you are!” said he, half thinking aloud.
“On the contrary, how very commonplace!” said she, hastily.
“Do you like this country?” asked Massingbred, with an imitation of her
own abrupt manner.
“No,” said she, shortly.
“Nor the people?”
“Nor the people!” was the answer.
“And is your life to be passed amongst them?”
“Perhaps,” said she, with a slight gesture of her shoulders. “Don't you
know, Mr. Massingbred,” added she, with more energy, “that a woman has
no more power to shape her destiny than a leaf has to choose where it
will fall? If I were a man,--you, for instance,--I would think and act
differently.”
“I should like to hear what you would do if in my place,” said Jack,
with a degree of deep interest in the remark.
“To begin, I'll tell you what I would not do,” said she, firmly. “I 'd
not waste very good abilities on very small objects; I 'd neither have
small ambitions nor small animosities. You have both.”
“As how?” asked he, frankly, and with no touch of irritation.
“Am I to be candid?”
“Certainly.”
“Even to rudeness?”
“Cut as deeply as you like,” said he, smiling.
“Then here goes: For the 'small ambition' I speak of, it was displayed
yesterday at dinner, when, in rivalry with that old lawyer, you
condescended to play agreeable, to out-talk him, out-quote, and
out-anecdote him. It is true you succeeded; but what a poor success it
was! how inadequate to the forces that were mustered to effect it!”
“And now for the other count of the indictment,” said he, with a half
smile.
“First, do you plead guilty to this one?” asked she.
“Yes; with an 'extenuating circumstance.'”
“What is that?”
“Why, that _you_ were present,” said Jack, with a glance of more than
mere passing gallantry.
“Well,” said she, after a pause, “I _did_ take some of the display to
my own share. I saw that you did n't care to captivate the young lady of
the house, and that my Lady bored you.”
“Insufferably!” exclaimed Jack, with energy.
“Your manner showed it,” said she, “even more than such polish ought to
have betrayed.”
“But I 'm sure I never exhibited any signs of my martyrdom,” said he; “I
stood my torture well.”
“Not half so heroically as you fancied I noticed your weariness before
the dinner was half over, as I detected your splenetic dislike to young
Mr. Nelligan--”
“To young Nelligan?--then he has told you--”
“Stop,--be cautious,” broke she in, hurriedly; “don't turn evidence
against yourself. _He_ has told me nothing.”
“Then what do you know?”
“Nothing; I only surmise.”
“And what is your surmise?”
“That he and you had met before,--that you had even been intimate,--and
now, from some misunderstanding, you had ceased to be friends. Mind, I
don't want confessions; I don't seek to learn your secrets.”
“But you shall hear this from me,” said Massingbred, with earnestness;
“and perhaps you, so ready to blame me for some things, may see reason
to think well of me in this.” He then related, briefly, but simply,
the history of his acquaintance with Nelligan; he dwelt, not without
feeling, upon the passages of their student-life, and at last spoke of
his chance visit to Oughterard, and the accident by which he became old
Nelligan's guest. “What can you make of Joseph's conduct,” cried he;
“or how explain his refusal to meet me at his father's table? One of two
reasons there must be. He either discredits me in the character of his
friend, or shrinks, with an ignoble shame, from appearing there in his
real position,--the son of the country shopkeeper! I scarcely know if I
'd not prefer he should have been actuated by the former motive; though
more offensive to me, in _him_ it were more manly.”
“Why not have asked him which alternative he accepted?” asked Kate.
“Because the opportunity to wound him deeply--incurably--first presented
itself. I knew well that nothing would hurt him like the cool assumption
of not recognizing him, and I determined not to lose my vengeance.”
“I'm a woman,” said Kate, “and I'd not have stooped to _that!_”
It was rarely that Massingbred's emotions gave any evidence of their
working; but now his cheek grew crimson, as he said, “A man can only
measure a man's indignation.”
“You are angry without cause,” said she, calmly; “you wish me to
pronounce a verdict on an act, and are displeased because I think
differently from you. How right I was in my guess that small animosities
were amongst your failings! You seek now to quarrel with _me!_”
Massingbred walked along for some moments without speaking, and then
said, “You knew Nelligan formerly?”
“Yes, we were playfellows together as children; lovers, I believe, a
little later on--”
“And now?” broke he in.
“And now very good friends, as the world uses that phrase. At all
events,” added she, after a brief pause, “enough his friend to be able
to say that you have wronged him by your suspicions. Joe Nelligan--or
I'm much mistaken--may feel the inequality of his position as a
something to overcome, a barrier to be surmounted; not as a disability
to contest the prizes of life even with such as Mr. Massingbred.”
“It is _you_ now would quarrel with _me_,” said Jack, retorting her own
words upon her. “And yet,” he added, in a lower tone, “I would wish to
have you my friend.”
“So you can, upon one condition,” replied she, promptly.
“I accept, whatever it be. Name it.”
“That you be your own friend; that you address yourself to the business
of life seriously and steadily, resolving to employ your abilities as a
means of advancement, not as a mere instrument for amusement; determine,
in fact, to be something besides a _dilettante_ and an idler.”
“Is it a bargain, then, if I do this?” asked he, eagerly.
“Yes; I promise you the high and mighty boon of _my_ friendship,”
replied she, with mock solemnity.
“And so we seal our contract,” said he, pressing her hand to his lips,
but with an air of such respectful gallantry that the action implied
nothing bordering on a liberty.
“And now I leave you,” said she, as she opened the wicket-gate of a
small flower-garden; “such conferences as ours must not be repeated,
or they might be remarked upon. Good-bye.” And without waiting for his
reply, she passed on into the garden, while Massingbred stood gazing
after her silently and thoughtfully.