"Jewish name be hanged!" said Mervin. "Does it follow that if a man is a money-lender he must also be a Jew? That's the way that one generation goes on repeating the folly of another. Because the Jews were the bankers of the world at a time when, owing to the ignorance of our thieving and bloodthirsty ancestors, banker and money-lender were synonymous, every man who is a money-lender is at once set down as a Jew. No, he was not a Jew, but an Irishman; and let me tell you that in London, at least, for every one Jew there are a dozen gentiles who are money-lenders, and that whereas the Jew is generally a fairly straight man of business, the gentile is generally an unmitigated scamp. The Jew means business. You can rely on his word; as a rule, he lends his own money, and his rate of interest depends on the security you have to offer; for there is a perfectly open market, and Jews are just as ready as gentiles to lend at bank rate when the necessary security is forthcoming. The gentile money-lender, on the other hand, is generally a man whose only idea of business is to lie like Ananias; and very often he is not a bona-fide money-lender at all, but a middle-man, with whom you are probably wasting your time."
"Was Mr. O'Flaherty one of this class?"
"Yes and no. He had plenty of money to lend, but he had not the courage to part with it unless he could get sixty per cent. compound interest on security that would have satisfied the Governors of the Bank of England, or unless his avarice was excited by the prospect of getting a thoroughly fat pigeon fast in his nets. He was not so bad during the last three or four years of his life, for Miss Polly, who had come home from school to live with him, and who was an heiress in her own right, kept a pretty sharp eye on him, and did a great deal to purify the moral atmosphere of O'Flaherty Hall. It was a pandemonium at one time, I can assure you."
"But how could a girl like her live in such a house?"
"She wanted him to leave London. At one time they took a house in Hastings, but the force of habit was too much for him, and in three months or so he was back in town again. He could not do without his old haunts and associates; Miss O'Flaherty came back with him. She had her own suit of apartments in the house in Bedford Square, and, I need not say, never showed herself amongst her father's guests, or clients, or hangers-on, or whatever you may choose to call them. But her presence, though unseen, exercised a great influence. Old O'Flaherty could not, of course, ever be thoroughly reformed; but, after she came to live in Bedford Square, he held his receptions in taverns, or such places, and not at his own house, and the host of nobs and snobs of all sorts who came to him as touts or tipsters or to borrow money, had mostly to seek for him abroad. I have often pitied poor Miss O'Flaherty; I believe she has sacrificed herself for a thoroughly worthless father. She lived with him, I am certain, to keep him from his evil ways. And I am sure that the reason why she refused one or two very eligible suitors was that she was too proud to marry a man who must have despised her father."
"That would be rather too romantic a reason to influence a woman in such a matter," I remarked.
"I grant you it would as far as the ordinary run of women are concerned," replied Mervin, "but Miss O'Flaherty is made of sterner stuff than most women are, and she must have known that while her father was alive his reputation would always place her at a disadvantage both with her husband's family and in society. I cannot think of anything more galling to a really clever, high-spirited woman, as she is, than to know that there are circumstances connected with her family which would be a constant source of shame to her husband."
There seemed to me to be an element of romance in the story that Mervin told me about Miss O'Flaherty which, if it were possible, increased my affection for her. My compassion was excited by the tale, and compassion has been well defined to be momentary love. As I walked along the promenade, by the shore of the Mediterranean, about an hour after breakfast, I debated with myself, in a perfect agony, the question whether I ought to call upon her. I knew that as a man of sense and honor it was my duty to her, and to myself, to leave Nice at once, for I felt certain that if I came under the influence of her presence again my passion would overcome me and I should tell her of my love. On the other hand, I felt drawn toward her by an irresistible spell.
How the matter would have ended if I had not run across Mrs. O'Flaherty, I do not know; but my accidentally meeting her left me no escape, and in a few minutes I found myself in a handsomely furnished parlor talking to Miss O'Flaherty, who looked more bewitching than ever in a light-blue morning costume. When the dejeuner was over, Mrs. O'Flaherty retired to have a snooze, as she called it, and presently Miss O'Flaherty sat down to the piano.
Of her performance, I can only say that she seemed to me to play as Beethoven or Mendelssohn themselves have played. The instrument seemed a living thing in her hands. It spoke out of love and hope and joy, of sorrow and affliction. It seemed like a spirit to intercede between us, and to tell me that in spite of all human laws and ceremonies she, and she alone was my wife. I must have been mad when I told her of my love—told her my whole story, told her in words I could never recall—fierce, frantic words I am afraid they were—that without her life was worthless to me—begged her to fly with me to some far-off country where we could live for each other unknown, and where our union would be sanctified by our love, and then sank into a chair horrified at what I had done.