Buch lesen: «The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)», Seite 18

“So, sir, according to this special prediction of yours, we have nothing left us but to live on our estates, enjoy what we can of our fortunes, and leave the interests of the nation to those our inferiors in rank, station, and property?”

“Such a period as your Ladyship has pictured forth – a little strongly, perhaps – is before you. Whether the interval be destined to be long or short, will, in great measure, depend upon yourselves.”

“That agrees with what Scanlan said the other day,” said Martin.

“Scanlan!” echoed her Ladyship, with most profound contempt.

“Who is this Scanlan?” asked Repton.

“There he comes to answer for himself,” said Martin. “The fellow drives neatly. See how cleverly he swept round that sharp turn! He may be ‘at fault’ about the world of politics; but, my word for it! he is a rare judge of a hack.”

“And, now that you suggest it,” said Repton, musingly, “what an instinctive shrewdness there is on every subject, – I don’t care what it is, – about fellows that deal in horse flesh. The practice of buying and selling, searching out flaws here, detecting defects there, gives a degree of suspectful sharpness in all transactions; besides that, really none but a naturally clever fellow ever graduates in the stable. You smile, my Lady; but some of our very first men have achieved the triumphs of the turf.”

“Shall we have Scanlan in and hear the news?” asked Martin.

“Not here. If you please, you may receive him in the library or your own room.”

“Then, come along, Repton. We can resume this affair in the afternoon or to-morrow.” And, without waiting for a reply, he passed his arm within the other’s, and led him away. “You have been too abrupt with her, Repton; you have not made due allowances for her attachment to family influences,” said he, in a whisper, as they went along.

Repton smiled half contemptuously.

“Oh, it’s all very easy for you to laugh, my dear fellow; but, trust me, there’s nothing to be done with my Lady in that fashion.”

“Turn the flank, – eh?” said the old lawyer, slyly. “Ah, Martin, don’t teach me how to deal with humanity. If you have not the courage to tell your wife that your estate cannot bear fresh encumbrances, new loans, and new debts – ”

“Hush!” said Martin, cautiously.

“Then, I say, let me prevent the casualty, that’s all.”

“How are you, Scanlan?” said Martin, as the attorney came, bowing and smiling, forward to pay his respects. “My friend, Mr. Repton, wishes to make your acquaintance.”

“I have the honor of being known to Mr. Repton, already, sir, if he has not forgotten me.”

“Eh, – how? where?” cried the lawyer, sharply.

“In Reeves versus Dockery, and another, sir, in Hilary, 24. It was I supplied the instructions – ”

“To be sure, – perfectly right. Maurice Scanlan; isn’t that the name? You did the thing well, sir; and if we failed, we retreated without dishonor.”

“That was a grand shot you fired at the Bench, sir, when all was over,” said Scanlan. “I don’t suppose they ever got such a complete ‘set down’ before.”

“I forget it,” said Repton, but with a bright twinkle of his eye, which more than contradicted his words.

“Then, sir, it’s more than their Lordships ever will,” said Scanlan. “The Chief Baron it was,” said he, addressing Martin, “that overruled every objection made by Counsellor Repton, and at last declared that he would n’t hear any more citations whatsoever. ‘But I have a stronger case still, my Lord,’ says the Counsellor. ‘I ‘ll not hear it, sir,’ said the Court. ‘It is in Crewe and Fust, Term Reports, page 1,438.’

“‘I don’t care where it is, sir,’ was the answer.

“‘In a charge delivered by Lord Eldon – ’

“‘Oh, let us hear my Lord Eldon,’ said Plumridge, the Puisne Judge, who was rather ashamed of the Chief Baron’s severity. ‘Let us hear my Lord Eldon.’

“‘Here it is, my Lords,’ said the Counsellor, opening the volume, and laying his hand upon the page, – ‘Crewe and Fust’s Pleas of the Crown, page 1,438. My Lord Eldon says, “I may here observe the Courts of Law in Ireland are generally wrong! The Court of Exchequer is always wrong!”’”

Repton tried to smother his own delighted laugh at the reminiscence, but all in vain; it burst from him long and joyously; and as he shook Scanlan’s hand, he said, “The incident loses nothing by your telling, sir; you have done it admirable justice.”

“You make me very proud, indeed, Counsellor,” said Scanlan, who really did look overjoyed at the speech.

“Have you any news for us, Scanlan?” said Martin, as they entered the library.

“Yes, sir; the Ministry is out.”

“We know that already, man!”

“And the Marquis of Reckington comes here as Lord-Lieutenant.”

“That we know also.”

“Colonel Massingbred to be Chief Sec – ”

“Moore Massingbred!” cried both, in a breath.

“Yes, sir; he that was a Treasury Lord.”

“Are you quite sure of this, Scanlan?” asked Martin.

“I had it from Groves, sir, at the Castle, yesterday morning, who told me there would be an immediate dissolution, and showed me a list of Government candidates.”

“You may talk them all over together, then,” said Martin, “for I ‘m heartily tired of politics this morning.” And so saying, he left them.

CHAPTER XIX. A STUDIO

It is one of the most inestimable privileges of Art, that amidst all the cares and contentions of the world, amidst strife and war and carnage, its glorious realm is undisturbed, its peace unbroken, and its followers free to follow their own wayward fancies, without let or hindrance. Your great practical intelligences, your men of committees and corn and railroads and ship-canals, sneer at the fictitious life – for so does it seem to them – of the mere painter or musician. They have a sort of pitying estimate for capacities only exercised upon the ideal, and look down with a very palpable contempt upon those whose world is a gallery or an orchestra. After all, this division of labor is a wise and happy provision, carrying with it many and varied benefits, and making of that strange edifice of mankind a far more pleasing and harmonious structure than we should otherwise have seen it. The imagination is to the actual, in the world of active life, what flowers are to nutritious herbs and roots. It is the influence that adorns, elevates, and embellishes existence. That such gifts have been confided to certain individuals is in itself a sufficient evidence, just as we see in the existence of flowers that pleasure has its place assigned in the grand scheme of creation, and that the happiness which flows from gratified sense has not been denied us.

In that petty world which lived beneath the roof of Cro’ Martin Castle, all the eager passions and excitements of political intrigue were now at work. My lady was full of plans for future greatness; Repton was scheming and suggesting, and thwarting everybody in turn; and even Martin himself, engulfed in the “Maelstrom” of the crisis, was roused into a state of semi-preparation that amounted to a condition of almost fever. As for Massingbred, whatever he really did feel, his manner affected a most consummate indifference to all that went forward; nor did the mention of his father’s appointment to high office elicit from him anything beyond a somewhat contemptuous opinion of the new party in power. While, therefore, secret counsels were held, letters read and written, conferences conducted in every room, one little space was devoid of all these embarrassments and anxieties, and that was an oval chamber, lighted from the top, and originally destined for a summer ball-room, but now appropriated to Mr. Crow’s use for the completion of the Grand Historical, which had lately been transferred from Kilkieran to its place there.

The unlucky masterpiece was doomed to many a difficulty. The great events in prospect had totally banished all thought of “art” from Lady Dorothea’s mind. The fall of a recent administration was a far more imminent circumstance than the abdication of a king a few centuries back. Martin, of course, had enough on his head, without the cares of mock royalty. Mary was overwhelmed with occupations. The floods and a threatened famine were casualties not to be overlooked; and she was absent every day from dawn to late night; while, to complete the list of defaulters, young Nelligan – the future Prince of Orange of the picture – was gone!

Men deplore their past youth, their bygone buoyancy of heart, their old loves and extinct friendships; but of all departed pleasures, there is a peculiar poignancy about one, and that is an artist’s grief over a “lost sitter.” You ladies and gentlemen whose thumbs have never closed on a palette, nor whose fingers have never felt the soft influence of varnish, may smile at such a sorrow, but take my word for it, it is a real and tangible affliction.

The waving locks, the noble brow; the deep square orbits, and the finely cut chin are but the subtle suggestions out of which inspirations are begotten, and poetic visions nurtured. The graceful bearing and the noble port, the tender melancholy or the buoyant gladness, have each in turn struck some chord of secret feeling in the artist’s breast, revealing to him new ideas of beauty, and imparting that creative power which displays itself in new combinations.

Poor Simmy Crow was not a Titian nor a Vandyke, but unhappily the sorrows of genius are very often experienced by those who are not gifted with its greatness; and the humble aspirant of excellence can catch every malady to which the triumphant in all the wild enthusiasm of his powers is exposed. He sat down before his canvas, as some general might before a fortified town which had resisted all his efforts of attack. He was depressed and discouraged.

The upper part of the young student’s head was already half finished, and there was enough done to impart a kind of promise of success, – that glorious vista which opens itself so often in imagination to those whose world is but their own fancy. He half thought he could finish it from memory; but before he had proceeded many minutes, he laid down the brush in despair. It seemed like a fatality that something must always interpose to bar the road to success. One time it was sickness, then it was poverty; a disparaging criticism had even done it; and now, when none of these threatened, there arose a new impediment. “Ah! Simmy, Simmy,” he exclaimed aloud, “you were born under an unkindly planet. That’s the secret of it all!”

“I confess I cannot concur in that opinion,” said a low, soft voice behind him. He started up, and beheld Kate Henderson, who, leaning on the back of a chair, continued to gaze steadfastly at the canvas, perfectly regardless of his astonishment. “There is a great deal to admire in that picture!” said she, as though talking to herself.

Simmy crept stealthily back, and stationed himself behind her, as if to hear her remarks, while viewing the picture from the same point.

“You have grouped your figures admirably,” continued she, now addressing him, “and your management of the light shows a study of Rembrandt.”

“Very true, ma’am – miss, I mean. I have copied nearly all his great pieces.”

“And the drapery – that robe of the King’s – tells me that you have studied another great master of color – am I right, sir, in saying Paul Veronese?”

Simmy Crow’s face glowed till it became crimson, while his eyes sparkled with intense delight.

“Oh, dear me!” he exclaimed, “is n’t it too much happiness to hear this? and only a minute ago I was in black despair!”

“Mine is very humble criticism, sir; but as I have seen good pictures – ”

“Where? In the galleries abroad?” broke in Crow, hurriedly.

“All over Germany and Italy. I travelled with those who really cared for and understood art. But to come back to yours – that head is a noble study.”

“And that’s exactly what I’m grieving over, – he’s gone.”

“Young Mr. Nelligan?”

“Himself. He started this morning for Oughterard.”

“But probably to return in a day or two.”

Crow looked stealthily around to see if he were not likely to be overheard, and then, approaching Kate, said in a whisper, —

“I don’t think he ‘ll ever cross the doors again.”

“How so? has he received any offence?”

“I can’t make out what it is,” said Simmy, with a puzzled look, “but he came to my room late last night, and sat down without saying a word; and at last, when I questioned him if he were ill, he said suddenly, —

“‘Have you found, Mr. Crow, that in your career as an artist, you have been able to withdraw yourself sufficiently from the ordinary events of life as to make up a little world of your own, wherein you lived indifferent to passing incidents?’

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I have, whenever I was doing anything really worth the name.’

“‘And at such times,’ said he, again, ‘you cared nothing, or next to nothing, for either the flatteries or the sarcasms of those around you?”

“‘I could n’t mind them,’ said I, ‘for I never so much as heard them.’

“‘Exactly what I mean,’ said he, rapidly. ‘Intent upon higher ambitions, you were above the petty slights of malice or envy, and with your own goal before you, were steeled against the minor casualties of the journey. Then why should not I also enjoy the immunity? Can I not summon to my aid a pride like this, or am I to be discouraged and disgraced to my own heart by a mere impertinence?’

“I stared at him, not guessing what he could mean.

“‘Rather quit the spot with which it is associated, – quit it forever,’ muttered he to himself, as he paced the room, while his face grew deathly pale.

“‘As for me,’ said I, for I wanted to say something – anything, in short – just to take his attention a little off of himself, ‘whenever the world goes hard with me, I just step into my studio, lock the door, and sit down before a fresh canvas. I throw in a bit of brown, with a dash of bluish gray over it, – half sky, half atmosphere, – and I daub away till something like an effect – maybe a sunset, maybe a sullen-looking seashore, maybe a long, low prairie swell – rises before me. I don’t try for details, I don’t even trace an outline, but just throw in an effect here and there, and by good luck it often comes right, in some fine harmony of color, that’s sure to warm up my heart and cheer my spirits; for, as there are sounds that, swelling up, fill the whole nature of man with ecstasy, there are combinations of color and tint that enter the brain by the eye, and just produce the same sense of delight.’”

“And how did he accept your consolation?” asked she, smiling good-naturedly.

“I don’t well know if he listened to me,” said Simmy, sorrowfully; “for all he said afterwards was, —

“‘Well, Mr. Crow, good-bye. I hope you ‘ll come to see me when you visit Dublin. You ‘ll easily find out my chambers in the college.’

“Of course I said, ‘I’d be delighted;’ and there we parted.”

“Poor fellow!” said Kate, but in an accent so peculiar it would have been very difficult to pronounce whether the words were of kindness or of disparagement.

“And your Prince, Mr. Crow?” said she, changing her tone to one of real or affected interest; “what’s to be done now that Mr. Nelligan has left us?”

“I’m thinking of making a background figure of him, miss,” said Simmy. “Burnt sienna reduces many an illustrious individual to an obscure position.”

“But why not ask Mr. Massingbred to take his place – you’ve seen him?”

“Only passing the window, miss. He is a handsome young man, but that same look of fashion, the dash of style about him, is exactly what destroys the face for me, I feel I could make nothing of it; I ‘d be always thinking of him standing inside the plate-glass window of a London club, or cantering along the alleys of the Park, or sipping his iced lemonade at Tortoni’s. There’s no poetizing your man of gold chains and embroidered waistcoats!”

“I half suspect you are unjust in this case,” said she, with one of her dubious smiles.

“I’m only saying what the effect is upon myself, miss,” said Crow.

“But why not make a compromise between the two?” said she. “I believe the great painters – Vandyke, certainly – rarely took the studies from a single head. They caught a brow here, and a mouth there, harmonizing the details by the suggestions of their own genius. Now, what if, preserving all this here,” – and she pointed to the head and eyes, – “you were to fill up the remainder, partly from imagination, partly from a study.” And as she spoke she took the brush from his hand, and by a few light and careless touches imparted a new character to the face.

“Oh, go on! that’s admirable, – that’s glorious!” exclaimed Crow, wild with delight.

“There is no necessity to lose the expression of haughty sorrow in the eye and brow,” continued she; “nor does it interfere with the passing emotion he may be supposed unable to control, of proud contempt for that priestly influence which has dominated over the ambition of a king.” And now, as though carried away by the theme, she continued to paint as rapidly as she spoke, while Crow busied himself in preparing the colors upon the palette.

“My hardihood is only intended to encourage you, Mr. Crow,” said she, “by showing that if one like me can point the road, the journey need not be deemed a difficult one.” As she retired some paces to contemplate the picture, she casually glanced through a low glass door which opened upon the lawn, and where, under the shelter of a leafy beech, a young country girl was standing; her blue cloth cloak, with the hood thrown over her head, gave a certain picturesque character to the figure, which nearer inspection more than confirmed, for her features were singularly fine, and her large, soft blue eyes beamed with a gentle earnestness that showed Kate she was there with a purpose.

Opening the door at once, Kate Henderson approached her, and asked what she wanted.

With an air of half pride, half shame, the country girl drew herself up, and stared full and steadfastly at the speaker, and so continued till Kate repeated her question.

“Sure you’re not Miss Mary?” replied she, by questioning her in turn.

“No, but if I can be of any use to you – ”

“I don’t think you can,” broke she in, with a manner almost haughty; “it’s somebody else I ‘m wanting.”

“If you wish to see Miss Martin, I ‘ll go and fetch her,” said Kate.

“I did n’t say it was her I wanted to see,” replied she, with a calm and almost severe composure.

“Maybe her Ladyship?” asked Kate, far more interested than repelled by the other’s manner.

“It’s none of them at all,” rejoined she. “I came here to speak to one that I know myself,” added she, after a long pause; “and if he isn’t gone, I want to see him.”

“Oh, I think I can guess now,” said Kate, smiling. “It is the Counsellor from Dublin, Mr. Repton.”

“It is no such thing,” said the girl, promptly.

“Then it must be Mr. Crow, here.”

An indignant toss of the head gave the negative to this surmise.

“I have gone through all our names here,” said Kate; “and except Mr. Massingbred – ”

“And there’s the very one I want,” said the girl, boldly.

“Step in here and rest yourself, and I ‘ll send for him,” said Kate; and with such persuasive courtesy were the words uttered, that almost, as it seemed, against her very will the girl followed her into the studio and sat down. While Mr. Crow proceeded in search of Massingbred, Kate Henderson, resuming brush and palette, returned to her painting; not, however, on the grand canvas of the “Historical,” but dexterously interposing a piece of fresh board, she seized the opportunity to sketch the beautiful head then before her, while occupying the girl’s attention with the objects around.

Notwithstanding her intense astonishment at all she saw, the country girl never uttered a word, nor vouchsafed a single question as to the paintings; she even tried to moderate the eager pleasure they afforded by an endeavor not to admire them. Touched by the native pride of this struggle, – for struggle it was, – the features had assumed a look of haughty composure that well became the character of her beauty, and Kate caught up the expression so rapidly that her sketch was already well-nigh completed when Massing-bred entered.

“My dear Mistress Joan,” cried he, shaking her cordially by both hands, “how glad I am to see you again! It was but this very moment I was inquiring how I could go over and pay you a visit.”

Hurriedly as these words were uttered, and in all the apparent fervor of hearty sincerity, they were accompanied by a short glance at Kate Henderson, who was about to leave the room, that plainly said, “Remain where you are, there is no mystery here.”

“I thank yer honer kindly,” said Joan Landy, “but it’s no good coming, he is n’t there.”

“Not there! – how and why is that?”

“Sure you ought to know better than me,” said she, fixing her large eyes full upon him. “Ye left the house together, and he never came back since.”

“Oh, perhaps I can guess,” said Jack, pausing for a moment to reflect. “He might have deemed it safer to keep out of the way for a day or two.”

“It’s no good deceivin’ me, sir,” said she, rising from her seat; “tell me the whole truth. Where is he?”

“That is really more than I can say, my dear Mistress Joan. We parted in Oughterard.”

“And you never saw him after?”

“Never, I assure you.”

“And you never tried to see him? – you never asked what became of him?”

“I concluded, indeed I was certain, that he returned home,” said Jack, but not without some confusion.

“Ay, that was enough for you,” said she, angrily. “If you were a poor labor in’ man, you ‘d not desert him that had you under his roof and gave you the best he had; but because ye ‘re a gentleman – ”

“It is precisely for that reason I can’t suffer you to think so meanly of me,” cried Jack. “Now just hear me for one moment, and you’ll see how unjust you’ve been.” And, drawing his chair closer to hers, he narrated in a low and whispering voice the few events of their morning at Oughterard, and read for her the short note Magennis had written to him.

“And is that all?” exclaimed Joan, when he concluded.

“All, upon my honor!” said he, solemnly.

“Oh, then, wirra! wirra!” said she, wringing her hands sorrowfully, “why did I come here? – why did n’t I bear it all patient? But sure my heart was bursting, and I could not rest nor sleep, thinking of what happened to him! Oh, yer honer knows well what he is to me!” And she covered her face with her hands.

“You have done nothing wrong in coming here,” said Jack, consolingly.

“Not if he never hears of it,” said she, in a voice tremulous with fear.

“That he need never do,” rejoined Jack; “though I cannot see why he should object to it. But come, Mrs. Joan, don’t let this fret you; here’s a young lady will tell you, as I have, that nobody could possibly blame your natural anxiety.”

“What would a young lady know about a poor creature like me?” exclaimed Joan, dejectedly. “Sure, from the day she’s born, she never felt what it was to be all alone and friendless!”

“You little guess to whom you say that,” said Kate, turning round and gazing on her calmly; “but if the balance were struck this minute, take my word for it, you ‘d have the better share of fortune.”

Jack Massingbred’s cheek quivered slightly as he heard these words, and his eyes were bent upon the speaker with an intense meaning. Kate, however, turned haughtily away from the gaze, and coldly reminded him that Mrs. Joan should have some refreshment after her long walk.

“No, miss, – no, yer honer; many thanks for the same,” said Joan, drawing her cloak around her. “I couldn’t eat a bit; my heart’s heavy inside me. I ‘ll go back now.”

Kate tried to persuade her to take something, or, at least, to rest a little longer; but she was resolute, and eager to return.

“Shall we bear you company part of the way, then?” said Jack, with a look of half entreaty towards Kate.

“I shall be but too happy,” said Kate, while she turned the nearly completed sketch to the wall, but not so rapidly as to prevent Massingbred’s catching a glimpse of it.

“How like!” exclaimed he, but only in a whisper audible to himself. “I didn’t know that this also was one of your accomplishments.”

A little laugh and a saucy motion of her head was all her reply, while she went in search of her bonnet and shawl. She was back again in a moment, and the three now issued forth into the wood.

For all Jack Massingbred’s boasted “tact,” and his assumed power of suiting himself to his company, he felt very ill at ease as he walked along that morning. “His world” was not that of the poor country girl at his side, and he essayed in vain to find some topic to interest her. Not so Kate Henderson. With all a woman’s nice perception, and quite without effort, she talked to Joan about the country and the people, of whose habits she knew sufficient not to betray ignorance; and although Joan felt at times a half-suspicious distrust of her, she grew at length to be pleased with the tone of easy familiarity used towards her, and the absence of anything bordering on superiority.

Joan, whose instincts and sympathies were all with the humble class from which she sprung, described in touching language the suffering condition of the people, the terrible struggle against destitution maintained for years, and daily becoming more difficult and hopeless. It was like a shipwrecked crew reduced to quarter-rations, and now about to relinquish even these!

“And they are patient under all this?” asked Kate, with that peculiar accent so difficult to pronounce its meaning.

“They are, indeed, miss,” was the answer.

“Have they any hope? What do they promise themselves as the remedy for these calamities?”

“Sorrow one of ‘em knows,” said she, with a sigh. “Some goes away to America, some sinks slowly under it, and waits for God’s time to leave the world; and a few – but very few – gets roused to anger, and does something to be transported or put in jail.”

“And Miss Martin, – does she not relieve a good deal of this misery? Is she not of immense benefit by her exertions here?”

“Arrah, what can a young lady do, after all? Sure it’s always them that talks most and best gets over her. Some are ashamed, and some are too proud to tell what they ‘re suffering; and I believe in my heart, for one that ‘s relieved there are twenty more angry at seeing how lucky he was.”

They walked along now for some time in silence, when Joan, stopping short, said, “There’s the house, miss; that’s the place I live in.”

“That house far away on the mountain side?”

“Yes, miss; it’s four miles yet from this.”

“But surely you haven’t to walk all that way?”

“What signifies it? Is n’t my heart lighter than when I came along this morning? And now I won’t let you come any farther, for I’ll take a short cut here across the fields.”

“May I go and see you one of these days?” asked Kate.

Joan grew crimson to the very roots of her hair, and turned a look on Massingbred, as though to say, “You ought to answer this for me.” But Jack was too deep in his own thoughts even to notice the appeal.

“I can scarcely ask you to come to me,” said Kate, quickly perceiving a difficulty, “for I ‘m not even a visitor at Cro’ Martin.”

“I ‘m sure I hope it ‘s not the last time we ‘ll meet, miss; but maybe,” – she faltered, and a heavy tear burst forth, and rolled slowly along her cheek, – “maybe you oughtn’t to come and see me.”

Kate pressed her hand affectionately, without speaking, and they parted.

“Is Joan gone?” asked Massingbred, raising his head from an attitude of deep revery. “When did she leave us?”

“There she goes yonder,” said Kate, pointing. “I fear me her spirits are not as light as her footsteps. Are her people very poor?”

“Her father was a herd, I believe,” said he, carelessly; “but she does n’t live at home.”

“Is she married, then?”

“I ‘m not sure that she is; but at least she believes that she is.”

“Poor thing!” said Kate, calmly, while, folding her arms, she continued to gaze after the departing figure of the country girl. “Poor thing!” repeated she once more, and turned to walk homewards.

Massingbred fixed his eyes upon her keenly as she uttered the words; few and simple as they were, they seemed to reveal to him something of the nature of her who spoke them. A mere exclamation – a syllable – will sometimes convey “whole worlds of secret thought and feeling,” and it was evidently thus that Massingbred interpreted this brief expression. “There was nothing of scorn in that pity,” thought he. “I wish she had uttered even one word more! She is a strange creature!”

And it was thus speaking to himself that he walked along at her side.

“This wild and desolate scene is not very like that of which we talked the other night, – when first we met, – Miss Henderson.”

“You forget that we never met,” said she, calmly.

“True, and yet there was a link between us even in those few flowers thrown at random.”

“Don’t be romantic, Mr. Massingbred; do not, I pray you,” said she, smiling faintly. “You know it’s not your style, while it would be utterly thrown away upon me, I am aware that fine gentlemen of your stamp deem this the fitting tone to assume towards ‘the governess;’ but I ‘m really unworthy of it.”

“What a strange girl you are!” said he, half thinking aloud.

“On the contrary, how very commonplace!” said she, hastily.

“Do you like this country?” asked Massingbred, with an imitation of her own abrupt manner.

“No,” said she, shortly.

“Nor the people?”

“Nor the people!” was the answer.

“And is your life to be passed amongst them?”

“Perhaps,” said she, with a slight gesture of her shoulders. “Don’t you know, Mr. Massingbred,” added she, with more energy, “that a woman has no more power to shape her destiny than a leaf has to choose where it will fall? If I were a man, – you, for instance, – I would think and act differently.”

“I should like to hear what you would do if in my place,” said Jack, with a degree of deep interest in the remark.

“To begin, I’ll tell you what I would not do,” said she, firmly. “I ‘d not waste very good abilities on very small objects; I ‘d neither have small ambitions nor small animosities. You have both.”