“I hinted that already as I accompanied him upstairs, and by his manner it struck me that he did not lay much stress on the matter; he merely said, 'Oh! she has no curiosity; she never worries herself about what does not concern her.'”
“A rare quality in a wife, Fagan,” said the other, with a smile.
Whether it was the prompting of his own thoughts, or that some real or fancied emphasis on the word “wife” caught him, but Fagan asked suddenly, “What did you say?”
“I remarked that it was a rare quality for a wife to possess. You thought, perhaps, it was rather the gift of those who enjoy the privilege, and not the name of such.”
“Maybe you're right, then, Crowther. Shall I own to you, it was the very thought that was passing through my own brain!”
“How strange that Rutledge should have hinted the very same suspicion to myself, the last time we ever spoke together,” said Crowther, in a low, confidential whisper. “We were sitting in my back office; he had come to show me some bills of money won at play, and ask my advice about them. Carew was the indorser of two or three amongst them, and Rutledge remarked at the tremendous pace the other was going, and how impossible it was that any fortune could long maintain it. There was some difficulty in catching exactly his meaning, for he spoke rapidly, and with more than his accustomed warmth. It was something, however, to this effect: 'All this extravagant display is madame's doing, and the natural consequence of his folly in France. If, instead of this absurd mistake, he had married and settled in Ireland, his whole career would have taken a different turn.' Now, when I reflected on the words after he left me, I could not satisfy myself whether he had said that Carew ought to have married, in contradistinction to have formed this French attachment, or simply that he deemed an Irish wife would have been a wiser choice than a French one.”
“The former strikes me as the true interpretation,” said Fagan; “and the more I think on every circumstance of this affair, the more do I incline to this opinion. The secrecy so unnecessary, the mystery as to her family, even as to her name, all so needless. That interval of seclusion, in which, probably, he had not yet resolved finally on the course he should adopt. And, lastly, a point more peculiarly referring to ourselves, and over which I have often pondered,—I mean the selection of my daughter Polly to be her friend and companion. It is not at my time of life,” added Fagan, with an almost fierce energy of voice, “that I have to learn how the aristocracy regard me and such as me. No one needs to tell me that any intercourse between us must depend on something else than similarity of taste and pursuit; that if we ever sit down to the same table together, it is on the ground of a compromise. There is a shame to be concealed or consoled, or there is a debt to be deferred, or left unclaimed forever. Walter Carew's wife would scarcely have sought out the Grinder's daughter for her friend and bosom companion. His mistress might have thought such an alliance most suitable. Polly has herself told me the terms of perfect equality on which they lived; that never by a chance word, look, or gesture was there aught which could imply a position of superiority above her own. They called each other by their Christian names, they assumed all the intimacy of sisters, and that almost at once. When she related these things to me,” cried Fagan, sternly, “my passion nearly overcame me, to think how we had been outraged and insulted; but I remembered, suddenly, that there were others, far higher than us, exposed to the same indignity. The Castle was crowded by the rank, the wealth, and the influence of the whole country; and if there be a disgrace to be endured, we have at least partners in our shame.”
“Yes, yes,” said Crowther, nodding his head slowly in assent; “the whole assumes a strange and most remarkable consistency. I remember well, hearing how many of those invited on that occasion had sent letters of apology; and stranger again, the way in which the party broke up and separated has been made public enough in the newspapers. Rutledge's own words were: 'It was a rout, not a retreat.' That was a curious expression.”
Who has not, at some time or other of his life, experienced the force of that casuistry which is begotten of suspicion? Who has not felt how completely reason is mastered by the subtle assaults of a wily ingenuity which, whilst combining the false and the true, the possible and impossible together, makes out a mock array of evidence almost too strong for a doubt? The least creative of minds are endowed with this faculty, and even the most commonplace and matter-of-fact temperaments are sometimes the slaves of this delusion! To render its influence all powerful, however, it should be exercised by two who, in the interchange of suspicions, and by bartering their inferences, arrive at a degree of certainty in their conclusions rarely accorded to the most convincing testimony. As a river is swollen by the aid of every tiny rill that trickles down the mountain side, so does the current of conviction receive as tributary, incidents the most trivial, and events of the slightest meaning.
Fagan's spirit revolted at what he felt to be a gross insult passed upon his daughter; but this very indignation served to rivet more firmly his suspicions, for he reasoned thus: Men are ever ready to credit what they desire to be credible, and to disbelieve that which it is unpleasant to accept as true. Now, here have I every temptation to incredulity! If this be the fact, as my suspicions indicate, I have been deeply outraged. An affront has been offered to me which dared not have been put upon one of higher rank and better blood. It is, therefore, my interest and my wish to suppose this impossible; and yet I cannot do so. Not all the self-respect I can call to aid, not all the desire to shelter myself behind a doubt, will suffice. My reason accepts what my feelings would reject, and I believe what it is a humiliation for me to credit.