Ay, sir, the knave is a deep one.
Old Play.
To save our reader the tedious task of following Mr. Linton's movements,
however necessary to our story some insight into them may be, we take
the shorter, and therefore pleasanter course, of submitting one of his
own brief notes to Roland Cashel, written some three days after his
arrival at Tubbermore:--
“Still here, my dear Cashel, still in this Tipperary
Siberia, where our devotion to your service has called and
still retains us,--and what difficulties and dangers have
been ours! What a land!--and what a people! Of a truth, I
no longer envy the rich, landed proprietor, as, in my
ignorance, I used to do some weeks back. To begin: Your
Château de Tubbermore, which seems a cross between a jail
and a county hospital without, and is a downright ruin
within, stands in a park of thistles and docks whose
luxuriant growth are a contemptuous reflection upon your
trees, which positively don't grow at all. So ingeniously
placed is this desirable residence, that although the
country, the river, and the mountains, offer some fine
landscape effects, not a vestige of any of them can be seen
from your windows. Your dining-room, late a nursery for an
interesting family of small pigs, looks out upon the
stables, picturesque as they are in fissured walls and
tumbling rafters; and one of the drawing-rooms--they call
it the blue room, a tint so likely to be caught up by the
spectators--opens upon a garden,--but what a garden! Fruit-
trees, there are none--stay, I am unjust, two have been left
standing to give support to a clothes-line, where the
amiable household of your care-taker, Mr. Cane, are
pictorially represented by various garments, crescendo from
the tunic of tender years to the full-grown 'toga.' But why
enumerate small details? Let me rather deal in negatives,
and tell you there is not a whole pane of glass in the
entire building, not a grate, few doors, little flooring,
and actually no roof. The slates, where there are such, are
so loose that the wind rattles among them like the keys of a
gigantic piano, and usually ends with a grand Freischutz
effect, which uncovers a room or two. The walls are
everywhere so rotten, that if you would break a loop-hole,
you throw down enough to drive a 'break' through; and as
for the chimneys, the jackdaw may plead the Statute of
Limitations, and defy to surrender a possession which
certainly dates from the past century! Perystell is in
despair; he goes about sticking his thumb through the
rotting timbers, and knocking down partitions with a tick of
his foot, and exclaiming against the ignorance of the last
age of architects, who, I take it, were pretty much like
their successors, save in the thefts committed from Greek
and Roman models. This is not tempting, nor the remedy for
it easy. Stone and mortar are as great luxuries here as ice-
cream at Calcutta; there are no workmen, or the few are
merely artificers in mud. Timber is an exotic, glass and
iron are traditions; so that if you desire to be an Irish
country gentleman, your pursuit of territorial ascendancy
has all the merit of difficulty. Now, _que faire?_ Shall we
restore, or, rather, rebuild, or shall we put forty pounds
of Dartford gunpowder in one of the cellars, and blow the
whole concern to him who must have devised it? Such is the
course I should certainly adopt myself, and only feel regret
at the ignoble service of the honest explosive.
“Perystell, like all his tribe, is a pedant, and begins by
asking for two years, and I won't say how many thousand
pounds. My reply is, 'Months and hundreds, _vice_ years and
thousands'--and so we are at issue. I know your anxiety to
receive the people you have invited, and I feel how
fruitless it would be to tell you with what apologies I, if
in your place, should put them off; so pray instruct me how
to act. Shall I commission Perystell to go to work in all
form, and meanwhile make a portion of the edifice habitable?
or shall I--and I rather admire the plan--get a corps of
stage artificers from Drury Lane, and dress up the house as
they run up a provincial theatre? I know you don't care
about cost, which, after all, is the only real objection to
the scheme; and if you incline to my suggestion about the
fireworks for a finish, it will be perfectly appropriate.
“'My own cottage'--so far, at least, as I could see of it
without intruding on the present occupant--is very pretty:
roses, and honeysuckle, and jasmines, and such-like
ruralities, actually enveloping it. It is well placed, too,
in a snug little nook, sheltered from the north, and with a
peep at the river in front,--just the sort of place where
baffled ambition and disappointment would retire to; and
where, doubtless, some of these days, Tom Linton, not being
selected by her Majesty as Chief Secretary for the Home
Office, will be announced in the papers to have withdrawn
from public life, 'to prosecute the more congenial career of
literature.' There is a delicious little boudoir, too,--such
is it at present, you or I would make it a smoking crib,--
looking over the Shannon, and with a fine bold mountain,
well wooded, beyond. I should like a gossip with you in that
bay-window, in the mellow hour, when confidence, which hates
candles, is at its full.
“Have I told you everything? I scarcely know, my head is so
full of roof-trees, rafters, joists, gables, and parapets.
Halt! I was forgetting a pretty--that is not the word--a
handsome girl, daughter or granddaughter of our tenant, Mr.
Corrigan, one of those saintly, virginal heads Raphael
painted, with finely pencilled eyebrows, delicate beyond
expression above; severe, in the cold, un-impassioned
character of the mouth and lips; clever, too, or, what
comes to nearly the same, odd and eccentric, being educated
by an old St. Omer priest who taught her Latin, French,
Italian, with a dash of theology, and, better than all, to
sing Provençal songs to her own accompaniment on the piano.
You 'll say, with such companionship, Siberia is not so bad
after all, nor would it, perhaps, if we had nothing else to
think of. Besides, she is as proud as an Austrian
archduchess, has the blood of, God knows how many, kings--
Irish, of course--in her veins, and looks upon me, Saxon
that I am, as a mountain-ash might do on a mushroom.”
There was no erasure but one, and that very slight, and seeming
unimportant; he had written Tubber-beg at the top of the letter, and,
perceiving it, had changed it to Tubber-more, the fact being that he had
already established himself as an inmate of the “Cottage,” and a
guest of Mr. Corrigan. We need not dwell on the arts by which Linton
accomplished this object, to which, indeed, Mr. Corrigan's hospitable
habits contributed no difficulty. The “doctor” alone could have
interposed any obstacle; and he, knowing the extent of Linton's power,
did not dare to do so, contenting himself to watch narrowly all his
proceedings, and warn his friend whenever warning could no longer be
delayed.
Without enjoying the advantages of a careful education, Linton's
natural quickness counterfeited knowledge so well that few, in every-day
intercourse, could detect the imposition. He never read a book through,
but he skimmed some thousands, and was thoroughly familiar with
that process so popular in our Universities, and technically termed
“cramming” an author. In this way, there were few subjects on which he
could not speak fairly,--a faculty to which considerable fluency and
an easy play of fancy lent great assistance. His great craft, however,
was--and whatever may be said on the subject, it would seem the peculiar
gift of certain organizations--that he was able, in an inconceivably
short time, to worm himself into the confidence of almost all with whom
he came in contact. His natural good sense, his singularly clear views,
his ever ready sympathy, but, more than all, the dexterity with which
he could affect acquaintance with topics he was all but totally ignorant
of, pointed him out as the very person to hear the secrets of a family.
Mr. Corrigan was not one to exact any great efforts of Linton's tact
in this walk; his long isolation from the world, Joined to a character
naturally frank, made him communicative and open; and before Linton had
passed a week under his roof, he had heard all the circumstances of the
old forfeiture, and the traditionary belief of the family that it had
been withdrawn under a special order of the King in council.
“You are quite right,” said Linton, one night, as this theme bad
been discussed for some hours, “never to have alluded to this in any
correspondence with Cashel. His hasty and excitable temper would have
construed the whole into a threat; and there is no saying how he might
have resented it.”
“I did not speak of it for a very different reason,” said old Corrigan,
proudly; “I had just accepted a favor--and a great one--at his hands,
and I would not tarnish the lustre of his noble conduct by even the
possibility of self-interest.”
Linton was silent; a struggle of some kind seemed working within him,
but he did not speak, and at last sauntered from the room, and passed
out into the little garden in front.
He had not gone far, when he heard a light footstep on the gravel behind
him. He turned, and saw Mary Leicester.
“I have followed you, Mr. Linton,” said she, in a voice whose agitation
was perceptible, “because I thought it possible that some time or other,
in your close intimacy with Mr. Cashel, you might allude to this topic,
and I know what distress such a communication would occasion to my
grandfather. Our claim--if the word be not inapplicable--can never be
revived; for myself, there is no condition of privation I would not
rather meet, than encounter the harassing vicissitudes of a struggle
which should embitter my poor dear grandfather's few years on earth. The
very mention of the theme is sure to render him irritable and unhappy.
Promise me, then, to avoid the subject as much as possible here, and
never to advert to it elsewhere.”
“Should I not be doing you a gross injustice by such a pledge?” said
Linton, mildly.
“I can endure that; I cannot support the alternative. Make me this
promise.”
“I make it, truly and solemnly; would it were in my power to pledge
myself to aught of real service to Miss. Leicester.”
“There is one such,” said Mary, after a pause, “and yet I am ashamed
to ask it,--ashamed of the presumption it would imply,--and yet I feel
acquitted to my own heart.”
“What is it?--only tell me how I can serve you,” said Linton,
passionately.
“I have scarce courage for the avowal,” said she, in a low, faint voice.
“It is not that my self-love can be wounded by any judgment that may be
pronounced; it is rather that I dread failure for itself. In a word,
Mr. Linton, certain circumstances of fortune have pressed upon my
grandfather's resources, some of which I am aware of--of others
ignorant. So much, however, do I know, that the comforts, so necessary
to his age and habits, have diminished one by one, each year seeing some
new privations, where increasing infirmity would demand more ease.
In this emergency, I have thought of an effort--you will smile at the
folly, perhaps, but be lenient for the motive--I have endeavored to make
some of the many reminiscences of his own early years contribute to his
old age, and have written certain short sketches of the time when, as a
youth, he served as a soldier of the body-guard of Louis XVI. I know
how utterly valueless they are in a literary point of view, but I have
thought that, as true pictures of a time now probably passed away never
to return again, they might have their interest Such is my secret.
My entreaty is, to ask of you to look at them, and, if not utterly
unworthy, to assist me regarding their publication.”
“I not only promise this, but I can pledge myself to the success,” said
Linton; “such recitals of life and manners as I have listened to from
Mr. Corrigan would be invaluable; we know so little in England--”
“Nay, let me stop you; they are written in French. My hope is to procure
their insertion in some French journal, as is the custom now-a-days.
Here they are,” said she, handing him a packet with a trembling hand. “I
have but to say, that if they be all I fear them, you will be too true a
friend to peril me by a rejection.” And without waiting for a reply, she
hurried back to the house.
Many minutes had not elapsed ere Linton found himself in his room,
with the open manuscript before him. It was quite true, he had not in
anticipation conceived a very high idea of Miss Leicester's efforts,
because his habit, like that of a great number of shrewd people, was to
regard all amateur performances as very inferior, and that only they who
give themselves wholly up to any pursuit attain even mediocrity. He had
not, however, read many pages ere he was struck by the evidence of
high ability. The style was everywhere simple, chaste, and elegant; the
illustrations natural and graceful; and the dialogue, when, occurring,
marked by all the epigrammatic smartness which characterized the era.
The sketches also had the merit of life-pictures,--real characters
of the day, being drawn with a vigor that only actual knowledge could
impart. All these excellences Linton could perceive and estimate; but
there were many very far above his power of appreciation. As it was, he
read on, fascinated by the interest the scenes inspired, nor ceased till
the last page was completed, when, throwing himself on his bed, he fell
soon asleep, and dreamed of Mary Leicester.
His very first care, on waking, was to resume the manuscript, and see
how far the impression first made might be corroborated by afterthought.
It was while reading, that the post had just arrived, bringing,
among other letters, one in Phillis's hand, which was, though brief,
significant:--
Sir,--There is no time to be lost. The K.'s are here every
day, and Lord C------ spends every morning here till three
or four O'C.
Mr. Meek has written to ask for Mr. C.'s interest in the
borough; what answer given, not known. Mr. C. would seem to
be again pressed for money. He was here twice yesterday. The
rumor is that Mr. C. will marry Miss O. K. immediately.
Pearse overheard Mr. K. warning Mr. C. against Mr. Linton as
a very dangerous intimate. Ld. C. F. said, when sitting here
yesterday, “I have known Master Tom some years, and never
knew the man he did not help to ruin with whom he had any
influence.” Mr. C. said something about being on his guard,
and “suspecting;” but the exact words were not heard. Lord
K. and Lady breakfasted with Mr. C. to-day, and stayed till
two. Lady K. swept down with her dress a Sevres jar in the
boudoir; heard Mr. C. say that he would not give the
fragments for the most precious vase in the Tuileries. Lord
K. asked what he said, and her Ladyship replied that Mr.
C.'s vase was unhappily the fellow of one in the Tuileries,
and looked confused at the accident. Mr. Linton is warned to
lose no time, as Mr. C. is hourly falling deeper into other
influences, and every day something occurs to injure Mr. L's
interest. Honored sir, in duty yours,
P.
N.B.--The yacht came into harbor from Cowes last night.
The same day which brought this secret despatch saw one from Linton
to Cashel, saying, that by the aid of four hundred workmen in various
crafts, unceasing toil, and unwearied zeal, Tubbermore would be ready
to receive his guests by the following Wednesday. A steamer, hired
specially, had brought over from London nearly everything which
constitutes the internal arrangement of a house; and as money had been
spent without control, difficulties melted away into mere momentary
embarrassments,--impossibilities, there were none. The letter contained
a long list of commissions for Cashel to execute, given, however, with
no other object than to occupy his time for the remaining few days in
town as much as possible. This written and sent off, Linton addressed
himself to his task of preparation with an energy few could surpass,
and while the trades-people were stimulated by increased pay to greater
efforts, and the work was carried on through the night by torchlight;
the whole demesne swarmed with laborers by whom roads were cut, paths
gravelled, fences levelled, flower-plots devised; even the garden--that
labyrinth of giant weeds--was reduced to order, till in the hourly
changing aspect of the place it was hard not to recognize the wand of
enchantment It was, indeed, like magic to see how fountains sprang up,
and threw their sprayey showers over the new-planted shrubs; new paths
led away into dense groves of trees; windows, so late half walled up,
now opened upon smooth, shaven turf, or disclosed a reach of swelling
landscape; and chambers, that a few days back were the gloomy abode of
the bat and the night-owl, became of a sudden cheerful and lightsome.
Stuccoed ceilings, mirror-panelled windows, gilded cornices, and carved
architraves--all of which would imply time and long labor--were there
at once and on the moment, for the good fairy who did these things
knows not failure,--the banker's check-book. From the great hall to the
uppermost chamber the aspect of all bespoke comfort. The elegances of
life, Linton well knew, are like all other refinements,--not capable of
being “improvised,” but the daily comforts are. The meaner objects which
make up the sum of hourly want,--the lazy ottoman, the downy-pillowed
fauteuils, the little squabs that sit in windows to provoke flirtations
and inspire confidences; the tempting little writing-tables that suggest
pen and ink; the billiard-table, opening on the flower-garden, so
redolent of sweet odors that you feel exonerated for the shame of an
in-door occupation; the pianos and guitars and harps scattered about in
various places, as though to be ever ready to the touch; the books and
prints and portfolios that give excuse to the lounging mood, and text
for that indolent chitchat so pleasant of a morning,--all these, and a
thousand other things, seen through the long perspective of a handsome
suite of rooms, do make up that sum, for which our own dear epithet,
“comfort,” has no foreign equivalent.
We have been often compelled, in this veracious history, to reflect with
harshness on certain traits of Mr. Linton's morality. Let us make him
the small _amende_ in our power to say, that in his present functions he
was unsurpassable; and here, for the moment, we leave him.