"Well, we 've lost _her_ just when we most needed her."

"Lost her! How--what do you mean?"

"Why, that she is gone--gone home. She started this morning before daybreak. She had a tiff with my mother last night. I will say the girl was shamefully treated,--shamefully! My Lady completely forgot herself.

She was in one of those blessed paroxysms in which, had she been born a Pasha, heads would have been rolling about like shot in a dockyard, and she consequently said all manner of atrocities; and instead of giving her time to make the _amende_, Kate beat a retreat at once, and by this time she is some twenty miles on her journey."

Ma.s.singbred walked to the window to hide the emotion these tidings produced; for, with all his self-command, the suddenness of the intelligence had unmanned him, and a cold and sickly feeling came over him. There was far more of outraged and insulted pride than love in the emotions which then moved him. The bitter thought of the moment was, how indifferent she felt about _him_,--how little _he_ weighed in any resolve she determined to follow. She had gone without a word of farewell,--perhaps without a thought of him. "Be it so," said he to himself; "there has been more than enough of humiliation to me in our intercourse. It is time to end it! The whole was a dream, from which the awaking was sure to be painful. Better meet it at once, and have done with it." There was that much of pa.s.sion in this resolve that proved how far more it came from wounded pride than calm conviction; and so deeply was his mind engrossed with this feeling, that Martin had twice spoken to him ere he noticed his question.

"Do you mean, then, to show that letter to my mother?"

"Ay; I have written it with that object Scanlan asked me to be his interpreter, and I have kept my pledge.--And did she go alone,--unaccompanied?"

"I fancy so; but, in truth, I never asked. The doctors were here, and all that fuss and confusion going on, so that I had really little head for anything. After all, I suspect she's a girl might be able to take care of herself,--should n't you say so?"

Ma.s.singbred was silent for a while, and then said: "You 'll have to be on the alert about this business of yours, Martin; and if I can be of service to you, command me. I mean to start for London immediately."

"I 'll see my mother at once, then," said he, taking up Ma.s.singbred's letter.

"Shall I meet you in about an hour, in the Lichtenthal Avenue?"

"Agreed," said he; and they parted.

We have no need, nor have we any right, to follow Ma.s.singbred as he strolled out to walk alone in an alley of the wood. Irresolution is an intense suffering to men of action; and such was the present condition of his mind. Week after week, month after month, had he lingered on in companionship with the Martins, till such had become the intimacy between them that they scrupled not to discuss before him the most confidential circ.u.mstances, and ask his counsel on the most private concerns. He fancied that he was "of them;" he grew to think that he was, somehow, part and parcel of the family, little suspecting the while that Kate Henderson was the link that bound him to them, and that without her presence they resolved themselves into three individuals for whom he felt wonderfully little of interest or affection. "She is gone, and what have I to stay for?" was the question he put to himself; and for answer he could only repeat it.

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 a.s.sail this inst.i.tution,--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, ill.u.s.trating, 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 cla.s.s 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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.s 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 Ma.s.singbred'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 l.u.s.tre 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 Ma.s.singbred'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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sion.

"Yes."

"And you agree, also, to his proposal for Mary?"