CHAPTER XXV. A COMPROMISE
There are many who think that our law of primogeniture is a sad hardener of the heart,—estranging the father from the son, widening petty misunderstandings to the breadth of grievances, engendering suspicions where there should be trustfulness, and opening two roads in life to those who should rightfully have trod one path together. If one half of this be the price we pay for our “great houses,” the bargain is a bad one! But even taking a wide margin for exaggeration,—allowing much for the prejudices of those who assail this institution,—there is that which revolts against one's better nature, in the ever-present question of money, between the father and his heir. The very fact that separate rights suggest separate interests is a source of discord; while the inevitable law of succession is a stern defiance to that sense of protection on one side, and dependence on the other, that should mark their relations to each other.
Captain Martin was not devoid of affection for his family. He had, it is true, been very little at home, but he did not dislike it, beyond the “boredom” of a rather monotonous kind of life. He was naturally of a plastic temperament, however, and he lived amongst a set whose good pleasure it is to criticise all who belong to them with the very frankest of candor. One told how his governor, though rolling in wealth, kept him on a most beggarly allowance, illustrating, with many an amusing story, traits of avarice that set the table in a roar. Another exhibited his as such a reckless spendthrift that the family estate would never cover the debts. There was a species of rivalry on seeing who should lay most open to public view details and incidents purely belonging to a family. It was even a principle of this new school to discuss, and suffer others to discuss before them, the class and condition of life of their parents in a tone of mockery and derision, whenever the occasion might admit it; and the son of the manufacturer or the trader listened to allusions to his birth and parentage, and even jested upon them himself, in a spirit more flattering to his philosophy than to his pride.
Martin had lived amidst all this for years. He had been often complimented upon the “jolly good thing he was to have one of these days;” he had been bantered out of many a wise and prudent economy, by being reminded of that “deuced fine property nobody could keep him out of.” “What can it signify to you old fellow, a few hundreds more or less. You must have fifteen thousand a year yet. The governor can't live forever, I take it.” Others, too, as self-invited guests, speculated on all the pleasures of a visit to Cro' Martin; and if at first the young man heard such projects with shame and repugnance, he learned at last to listen to them with indifference, perhaps with something less!
Was it some self-accusing on this score that now overwhelmed him as he sat alone in his room, trying to think, endeavoring to arouse himself to action, but so overcome that he sat there only half conscious, and but dimly discerning the course of events about him? At such moments external objects mingle their influences with our thoughts, and the sound of voices, the tread of footsteps, the mere shutting of a door, seem to blend themselves with our reveries, and give somewhat of reality to our dreamy fancies. A large clock upon the mantelpiece had thus fixed his attention, and he watched the minute-hand as though its course was meting out the last moments of existence. “Ere it reach that hour,” thought he, fixing his gaze upon the dial, “what a change may have come over all my fortunes!” Years—long years—seemed to pass over as he waited thus; scenes of childhood, of infancy itself, mingled with the gay dissipations of his after-life; school days and nights at mess, wild orgies of the play-table and sad wakings on the morrow, all moved through his distracted brain, till at length it was only by an effort that he could shake off these flitting fancies and remember where he was.
He at once bethought him that there was much to be done. He had given Massingbred's letter to his mother, entreating a prompt answer, but two hours had now elapsed and she had not sent her reply. There was a struggle between his better nature and his selfishness whether to seek her. The thought of that sick-room, dark and silent, appalled him. “Is it at such a time I dare ask her to address her mind to this? and yet hours are now stealing over which may decide my whole fate in life.” While he thus hesitated, Lady Dorothea entered the room. Nights of anxiety and watching, the workings of a spirit that fought inch by inch with fortune, were deeply marked upon her features. Weariness and fatigue had not brought depression on her, but rather imparted a feverish lustre to her eyes, and an expression of haughty energy to her face.
“Am I to take this for true,” said she, as, seating herself in front of him, she held out Massingbred's letter,—“I mean, of course, what relates to yourself?”
He nodded sorrowfully, but did not speak.
“All literally the fact?” said she, speaking slowly, and dwelling on every word. “You have actually sold the reversion of the estate?”
“And am beggared!” said he, sternly.
Lady Dorothea tried to speak. She coughed, cleared her throat, made another effort, but without succeeding; and then, in a slightly broken voice, said, “Fetch me a glass of water. No, sit down; I don't want it.” The blood again mounted to her pale cheeks, and she was herself again.
“These are hard terms of Scanlan's,” said she, in a dry, stern tone. “He has waited, too, till we have little choice remaining. Your father is worse.”
“Worse than when I saw him this morning?”
“Weaker, and less able to bear treatment. He is irritable, too, at that girl's absence. He asks for her constantly, and confuses her in his mind with Mary.”
“And what does Schubart think?”
“I'll tell you what he says,” replied she, with a marked emphasis on the last word. “He says the case is hopeless; he has seen such linger for weeks, but even a day—a day—” She tried to go on; but her voice faltered, her lip trembled, and she was silent.
“I had begun to believe it so,” muttered Martin, gloomily. “He scarcely recognized me yesterday.”
“He is perfectly collected and sensible now,” said Lady Dorothea, in her former calm tone. “He spoke of business matters clearly and well, and wished to see Scanlan.”
“Which I trust you did not permit?” asked Martin, hurriedly.
“I told him he should see him this evening, but there is no necessity for it. Scanlan may have left this before evening.”
“You suspect that Scanlan would say something,—would mention to him something of this affair?”
“Discretion is not the quality of the low-born and the vulgar,” said she, haughtily; “self-importance alone would render him unsafe. Besides,”—and this she said rapidly,—“there is nothing to detain the man here, when he knows that we accept his conditions.”
“And are we to accept them?” said Martin, anxiously.
“Dare we refuse them? What is the alternative? I suppose what you have done with your Jew friend has been executed legally—formally?”
“Trust him for that; he has left no flaw there!” said Martin, bitterly.
“I was certain of it,” said she, with a scarcely perceptible sneer. “Everything, therefore, has been effected according to law?”
“Yes, I believe so,” replied he, doggedly.
“Then really there is nothing left to us but Scanlan. He objects to Repton; so do I. I always deemed him obtrusive and familiar. In the management of an Irish estate such qualities may be reckoned essential. I know what we should think of them in England, and I know where we should place their possessor.”
“I believe the main question that presses now is, are we to have an estate at all?” said the Captain, bitterly.
“Yes, sir, you have really brought it to that,” rejoined she, with equal asperity.
“Do you consent to his having the agency?” asked Martin, with an immense effort to suppress passion.
“Yes.”
“And you agree, also, to his proposal for Mary?”
“It is matter of complete indifference to me who Miss Martin marries, if she only continue to reside where she does at present. I 'm certain she 'd not consult me on the subject; I'm sure I'd never control her. It is a mésalliance, to be sure; but it would be equally so, if she, with her rustic habits and uneducated mind, were to marry what would be called her equal. In the present case, she 'll be a little better than her station; in the other, she 'd be vastly beneath it!”
“Poor Molly!” said he, half aloud; and, for the first time, there was a touch of his father's tone and manner in the words.
Lady Dorothea looked at him, and with a slight shrug of the shoulders seemed to sneer at his low-priced compassion.
“Scoff away!” said he, sternly; “but if I thought that any consent we gave to this scheme could take the shape of a coercion, I 'd send the estate to the—”
“You have, sir; you have done all that already,” broke in Lady Dorothea. “When the troubled breathing that we hear from yonder room ceases, there is no longer a Martin of Cro' Martin!”
“Then what are we losing time for?” cried he, eagerly. “Are moments so precious to be spent in attack and recrimination? There's Scanlan sitting on a bench before the door. Call him up—tell him you accept his terms—let him start for London, post haste. With every speed he can master he 'll not be a minute too soon. Shall I call him? Shall I beckon to him?”
“Send a servant for him,” said Lady Dorothea, calmly, while she folded up the letter, and laid it on the table at her side.
Martin rang the bell and gave the order, and then, assuming an air of composure he was very far from feeling, sat silently awaiting Scanlan's entrance. That gentleman did not long detain them. He had been sitting, watch in hand, for above an hour, looking occasionally up at the windows, and wondering why he had not been summoned. It was, then, with an almost abrupt haste that he at last presented himself.
“Read over that letter, sir,” said Lady Dorothea, “and please to inform me if it rightly conveys your propositions.”
Scanlan perused Massingbred's letter carefully, and folding it up, returned it. “Yes, my Lady,” said he, “I think it embraces the chief points. Of course there is nothing specified as to the mode of carrying them out,—I mean, as to the security I should naturally look for. I believe your Ladyship does not comprehend me?”
“Not in the least, sir.”
“Well, if I must speak plainer, I want to be sure that your concurrence is no mere barren concession, my Lady; that, in admitting my pretensions, your Ladyship favors them. This is, of course,” said he, in a tone of deference, “if your Ladyship condescends to accept the terms at all; for, as yet, you have not said so.”
“If I had not been so minded, sir, this interview would not have taken place.”
“Well, indeed, I thought as much myself,” said he; “and so I at once entered upon what one might call the working details of the measure.”
“How long will it take you to reach London, sir?” asked she, coldly.
“Four days, my Lady, travelling night and day.”
“How soon after your arrival there can you make such arrangements as will put this affair out of all danger, using every endeavor in your power?”
“I hope I could answer for that within a week,—maybe, less.”
“You'll have to effect it in half that time, sir,” said she, solemnly.
“Well, I don't despair of that same, if I have only your Ladyship's promise to all that is set down there. I 'll neither eat nor sleep till the matter is in good train.”
“I repeat, sir, that if this settlement be not accomplished in less than a week from the present moment, it may prove utterly valueless.”
“I can only say I'll do my best, my Lady. I'd be on the road this minute, if your Ladyship would dismiss me.”
“Very well, sir,—you are free. I pledge myself to the full conditions of this letter. Captain Martin binds himself equally to observe them.”
“I 'd like it in writing under your Ladyship's hand,” said Scanlan, in a half whisper, as though afraid to speak such doubts aloud. “It is not that I have the least suspicion or misgiving in life about your Ladyship's word,—I'd take it for a million of money,—but when I come to make my proposals in person to Miss Mary—”
“There, sir, that will do!” said she, with a disdainful look, as if to repress an explanation so disagreeable. “You need not enter further upon the question. If you address me by letter, I will reply to it.”
“There it is, my Lady,” said he, producing a sealed epistle, and placing it on the table before her. “I had it ready, just not to be losing time. My London address is inside; and if you'll write to me by to-morrow's post,—or the day after,” added he, remarking a movement of impatience in her face—“You shall have your bond, sir,—you shall have your bond,” broke she in, haughtily.
“That ought to be enough, I think,” said the Captain, with a degree of irritation that bespoke a long internal conflict.
“I want nothing beyond what I shall earn, Captain Martin,” said Scanlan, as a flash of angry meaning covered his features.
“And we have agreed to the terms, Mr. Scanlan,” said her Ladyship, with a great effort to conciliate. “It only remains for us to say, a good journey, and every success attend you.”
“Thank you, my Lady; I'm your most obedient. Captain, I wish you good-bye, and hope soon to send you happy tidings. I trust, if Mr. Martin asks after me, that you 'll give him my respectful duty; and if—”
“We'll forget nothing, sir,” said Lady Dorothea, rising; and Scanlan, after a moment's hesitation as to whether he should venture to offer his hand,—a measure for which, happily, he could not muster the courage,—bowed himself out of the room, and closed the door.
“Not a very cordial leave-taking for one that's to be her nephew,” muttered he, with a bitter laugh, as he descended the stairs. “And, indeed, my first cousin, the Captain, is n't the model of family affection. Never mind, Maurice, your day is coming!” And with this assuring reflection he issued forth to give orders for his journey.
A weary sigh—the outpouring of an oppressed and jaded spirit—broke from Lady Dorothea as the door closed after him. “Insufferable creature!” muttered she to herself? and then, turning to the Captain, said aloud, “Is that man capable of playing us false?—or, rather, has he the power of doing so?”
“It is just what I have been turning over in my own mind,” replied he. “I don't quite trust him; and, in fact, I'd follow him over to London, if I were free at this moment.”
“Perhaps you ought to do so; it might be the wisest course,” said she, hesitatingly.
“Do you think I could leave this with safety?” asked he. But she did not seem to have heard the question. He repeated it, and she was still silent. “If the doctors could be relied on, they should be able to tell us.”
“To tell us what?” asked she, abruptly, almost sternly.
“I meant that they'd know—that they'd perhaps be in a position to judge—that they at least could warn us—” Here he stopped, confused and embarrassed, and quite unable to continue. That sense of embarrassment, however, came less of his own reflections than of the cold, steady, and searching look which his mother never ceased to bend on him. It was a gaze that seemed to imply, “Say on, and let me hear how destitute of all feeling you will avow yourself.” It was, indeed, the meaning of her stare, and so he felt it, as the color came and went in his cheek, and a sense of faintish sickness crept over him.
“The post has arrived, my Lady, and I have left your Ladyship's letters on the dressing-table,” said a servant. And Lady Dorothea, who had been impatiently awaiting the mall, hastened at once to her room.