“You see, sir,” said Merl, in the tone of a man laying down a great dictum, “there 's worlds and worlds. There's Claude Willoughby's world, which is young Martin's and Stanhope's and mine. There, we are all young fellows of fortune, good family, good prospects, you understand,—no, thank you, no more wine;—I feel that what I 've taken has got into my head; and this cigar, too, is none of the best. Would it be taking too great a liberty with you if I were to snatch a ten minutes' doze,—just ten minutes?”
“Treat me like an old friend; make yourself quite at home,” said Maurice. “There 's enough here”—and he pointed to the bottles on the table—“to keep me company; and I 'll wake you up when I 've finished them.”
Mr. Merl made no reply; but drawing a chair for his legs, and disposing his drapery gracefully around him, he closed his eyes, and before Maurice had replenished his glass, gave audible evidence of a sound sleep.
Now, worthy reader, we practise no deceptions with you; nor so far as we are able, do we allow others to do so. It is but fair, therefore, to tell you that Mr. Merl was not asleep, nor had he any tendency whatever to slumber about him. That astute gentleman, however, had detected that the port was, with the addition of a great fire, too much for him; he recognized in himself certain indications of confusion that implied wandering and uncertain faculties, and he resolved to arrest the progress of such symptoms by a little repose. He felt, in short, that if he had been engaged in play, that he should have at once “cut out,” and so he resolved to give himself the advantage of the prerogative which attaches to a tired traveller. There he lay, then, with closed eyes,—breathing heavily,—to all appearance sound asleep.
Maurice Scanlan, meanwhile, scanned the recumbent figure before him with the eye of a connoisseur. We have once before said that Mr. Scanlan's jockey experiences had marvellously aided his worldly craft, and that he scrutinized those with whom he came in contact through life, with all the shrewd acumen he would have bestowed upon a horse whose purchase he meditated. It was easy to see that the investigation puzzled him. Mr. Merl did not belong to any one category he had ever seen before. Maurice was acquainted with various ranks and conditions of men; but here was a new order, not referable to any known class. He opened Captain Martin's letter, which he carried in his pocket-book, and re-read it; but it was vague and uninstructive. He merely requested that “every attention might be paid to his friend Mr. Merl, who wanted to see something of the West, and know all about the condition of the people, and such like. He's up to everything, Master Maurice,” continued the writer, “and so just the man for you.” There was little to be gleaned from this source, and so he felt, as he folded and replaced the epistle in his pocket.
“What can he be,” thought Scanlan, “and what brings him down here? Is he a member of Parliament, that wants to make himself up about Ireland and Irish grievances? Is he a money-lender, that wants to see the security before he makes a loan? Are they thinking of him for the agency?”—and Maurice flushed as the suspicion crossed him,—“or is it after Miss Mary he is?” And a sudden paleness covered his face at the thought. “I 'd give a cool hundred, this minute, if I could read you,” said he to himself, “Ay, and I'd not ask any one's help how to deal with us afterwards,” added he, as he drained off his glass. While he was thus ruminating, a gentle tap was heard at the door, and, anxious not to disturb the sleeper, Scanlan crossed the room with noiseless steps, and opened it.
“Oh, it's you, Simmy,” said he, in a low voice. “Come in, and make no noise; he's asleep.”
“And that's him!” said Crow, standing still to gaze on the recumbent figure before him, which he scrutinized with all an artist's appreciation.