Mr. Merl returned gloomily to the house, his mind too deeply occupied with his own immediate interests to bestow any thought upon Mary Martin.

The weather a.s.suredly offered but little inducement to linger out of doors, for, as the morning wore on, the rain and wind increased in violence, while vast ma.s.ses of mist swept over the sea and were carried on sh.o.r.e, leaving only, at intervals, little patches of the village to be seen,--dreary, storm-beaten, and desolate! Merl shuddered, as he cast one last look at this sad-colored picture, and entered the inn.

Has it ever been your ill-fortune, good reader, to find yourself alone in some dreary, unfrequented spot, the weather-bound denizen of a sorry inn, without books or newspapers, thrown upon the resources of your own thoughts, so sure to take their color from the dreary scene around them?

It is a trying ordeal for the best of tempers. Your man of business chafes and frets against the inactivity; your man of leisure sorrows over monotony that makes idleness a penalty. He whose thoroughfare in life is the pursuit of wealth thinks of all those more fortunate than himself then hurrying on to gain, while he who is the mark of the world's flatteries and attentions laments over the dismal desolation of an uncompanionable existence.

If Mr. Merl did not exactly occupy any one of these categories, he fancied, at least, that he oscillated amidst them all. It was, indeed, his good pleasure to imagine himself a "man upon town," who played a little, discounted a little, dealt a little in old pictures, old china, old cabinets, and old plate, but all for mere pastime,--something, as he would say, "to give him an interest in it;" and there, certainly, he was right. Nothing so surely imparted an "interest" in Mr. Merl's eyes as having an investment. Objects of art, the greatest triumphs of genius, landscape the richest eye ever ranged over, political events that would have awakened a sense of patriotism in the dullest and coldest, all came before him as simple questions of profit and loss.

If he was not actually a philosopher, some of his views of life were characterized by great shrewdness. He had remarked, for instance, that the changeful fashions of the world are ever alternating; and that not only dress and costume and social customs undergo mutations, but that objects of positive sterling value are liable to the same wayward influences. We are all modern to-day, to-morrow we may be "Louis Quatorze," the next day "Cinque Centi" in our tastes. Now we are mad after Italian art, yesterday the Dutch school was in vogue. Our galleries, our libraries, our houses, our gardens, all feel the caprices of these pa.s.sing moods. There was but one thing that Mr. Merl had perceived never changed, and that was the estimation men felt for money.

Religions might decay, and states crumble, thrones totter, and kings be exiled, Cuyps might be depreciated and marquetry be held in mean esteem; but gold was always within a fraction at least of four pounds eleven shillings the ounce!

He remarked, too, that men gradually grow tired of almost everything; the pursuits of the young are not those of the middle-aged, still less of advanced life. The books which we once cried over are now thrown down with languor; the society we imagined perfection we now smile at for its very absurdities. We see vulgarity where we once beheld vigor; we detect exaggeration where we used to attribute power. There is only one theme of which our estimation never varies,--wealth! Mr. Merl had never yet met the man nor the woman who really despised it; nay, he had seen kings trafficking on 'Change. He had known great ministers deep speculators on the Bourse; valiant admirals, distinguished generals, learned judges, and even divines, had bought and sold with him, all eager in the pursuit of gain, and all employing, to the best of their ability, the high faculties of their intelligence to a.s.sist them in making crafty bargains.

If these experiences taught him the universal veneration men feel for wealth, they also conveyed another lesson, which was, the extreme gullibility of mankind. He met every day men who ruled cabinets and commanded fleets,--the reputed great of the earth,--and saw them easier victims in his hand than the commonest capacity in "Leadenhall Street."

They had the earliest information, but could not profit by it; they never understood the temper on 'Change, knew nothing of the variations of the money-barometer, and invariably fell into snares that your city man never incurred. Hence Mr. Merl came to conceive a very low general opinion of what he himself called "the swells," and a very high one of Herman Merl.

If we have dwelt upon these traits of this interesting individual in this place, it is simply to place before our reader's mind the kind of lucubrations such a man might be disposed to indulge in. In fact, story-tellers like ourselves have very little pretension to go beyond the narrow limit; and having given to the reader the traits of a character, they must leave their secret working more or less to his ingenuity. So much, however, we are at liberty to declare, that Mr. Merl was terribly bored, and made no scruple of confessing it.

"What the deuce are you staring at? Is there anything really to be seen in that confounded dreary sea?" cried he, as Crow stood shading his eyes from the lightning flashes, and intently gazing on the scene without.

"That's one of the effects Backhuysen was so fond of!" exclaimed Crow, eagerly,--"a sullen sea, lead-colored and cold, with a white curl just crisping the top of the waves, over it a dreary expanse of dark sky, low-lying and black, till you come near the horizon, where there is a faint line of grayish white, just enough to show that you are on the wide, wide ocean, out of sight of land, and nothing living near, except that solitary sea-gull perched upon the breakers there. There's real poetry in a bit like that; it sets one a thinking over the desolation of those whose life is little better than a voyage on such a sea!"

"Better be drowned at once," broke in Merl, impatiently.

Crow started and looked at him; and had Merl but seen that glance, so scornful and contemptuous was it, even his self-esteem might have felt outraged. But he had not remarked it; and as little did he guess what was then pa.s.sing in the poor artist's mind, as Crow muttered to himself, "I know one that will not be your guest to-day, if he dines on a cold potato, or does n't dine at all."

"Did I tell you," cried he, suddenly, "that there's no horses to be had?"

"No horses!" exclaimed Merl; "how so?"

"There's a great trial going on at the a.s.sizes to-day, and Mr. Barry is gone on to Oughterard to hear it, and he has the only pair of posters in the place."

"What a confounded hole!" burst out Merl, pa.s.sionately. "That I ever should have set my foot in it! How are we to get through the day here?

Have you thought of anything to be done?"

"_I'll_ go down and find out how poor Landy is," said Crow; "for Miss Mary's horse is still at the door, and he must be very bad, indeed, or she wouldn't delay so long."

"And what if it should turn out the cholera, or typhus, or something as bad?"

"Well?" said Crow, interrogatively; for he could not guess the drift of the suggestion.

"Simply this, my worthy friend," resumed Merl,--"that I have no fancy for the pleasure of your company at dinner after such an excursion as you speak of."

"I was just going to say that myself," said Crow. "Good-bye!" And before Merl could interpose a word, he was gone.

CHAPTER XII. MR. MERL'S MEDITATIONS.

Our last chapter left Mr. Herman Merl in bad company,--he was alone.

Now, very few men's thoughts are companionable in the dreary solitude of a sorry inn. None of us, it is to be feared, are totally exempt from "this world's crosses;" and though the sorrows of life do fall very unequally, the light afflictions are accepted as very heavy burdens by those to whose lot they fall!

Just as it happens, then, on some gloomy day of winter, when we have "finished our book," and the newspapers are tiresome, we take the opportunity to look through our letters and papers,--to arrange our desk, and put a little order in our scattered and littered memoranda,--somewhat in the same spirit will Conscience grasp a similar moment to go over the past, glance at bygone events, and make, as it were, a clearance of whatever weighs upon our memory. I 'm not quite certain that the best of us come out of this Bankruptcy Court with a first-cla.s.s certificate. Even the most merciful to his own errors will acknowledge that in many things he should do differently were they to be done over again; and he must, indeed, have fallen upon a happy lot in life who has not some self-reproach on the score of kindness unrequited,--slight injuries either unforgiven or unequally avenged,--friendships jeopardized, mayhap lost, by some mere indulgence of temper,--and enmities unreconciled, just for lack of the veriest sacrifice of self-love.

Were there any such court in morals as in law, what a sad spectacle would our schedule show, and how poor even the most solvent amongst us, if called on for a list of his liabilities!

Lest our moralizing should grow uncomfortable, dear reader, let us return to Mr. Merl, now occupied, as he was, in this same process of self-examination. He sat with a little note-book before him, recalling various incidents of the past. And if the lowering expression of his face might be trusted, his reveries were not rose-colored; and yet, as he turned over the pages, it might be seen that moments of gratulation alternated with the intervals of self-reproach.

"Wednesday, the 10th," muttered he to himself, "dined at Philippe's--supped with Arkright and Bailey--whist at double Nap.

points--won four hundred and ten--might have made it a thousand, but B. flung the cards out of the window in a pa.s.sion, and had to cease playing.

"Thursday--toothache--stayed at home, and played piquet with myself--discovered two new combinations, in taking in cards--Irving came to see me--won from him twenty pounds his mother had just sent him.

"Friday--a good day's work--walked into Martin for two thousand seven hundred, and took his bill at three months, with promise to renew--dined with Sitwell, and sold him my Perugino for six hundred--cost myself not as many francs--am to have the refusal of all Vanderbrett's cabinets for letting him off his match with Columbine, which, by the way, he was sure to win, as Mope is dead lame.

"Martin again--Sat.u.r.day--came to have his revenge, but seemed quarrelsome; so I affected an engagement, and declined play.

"Sunday--gave him his revenge, to the tune of twelve hundred in my own favor--'Lansquenet' in the evening at his rooms--several swells present--thought it prudent to drop some tin, and so, lost one hundred and forty Naps.--Sir Giles Bruce the chief winner--rich, and within two months of being of age.

"Monday--the Perugino returned as a bad copy by Fava--took it at once, and said I was taken in myself--Sitwell so pleased that he sat down to ecarte, and lost two hundred to me. I dine with him to-morrow.

"Tuesday--blank--dinner at Sitwell's--met Colonel Cardie, whom I saw at Hombourg, and so refused to play. It was, I suspect, a plan of Sitwell's to pit us against each other.

"Wednesday--sold out my African at seventy-one and an eighth--realized well, and bought in Poyais, which will rise for at least ten days to come--took Canchard's chateau at Ghent for his old debt at ecarte--don't like it, as it may be talked about.

"Gave a dinner to Wilson, Morris, Leader, Whyte, and Martin--Lescour could n't come--played little whist afterwards--changed for hazard after supper--won a few Naps., and home to bed.

"Took Rigby's curricle and horses for the two hundred he owes me--glad to have done with him--he evidently wanted a row--and so play with him no more.

"Sent ten Naps, to the fund for the poor injured by the late inundations, as the police called to ask about my pa.s.sport, &c.

"Sat.u.r.day--the Cure of St. Rochette, to ask for alms--gave three hundred francs, and secured his services against the police--the cure mentions some curious drawings in the sacristy--promised to go and see them.

"Bought Walrond's library for a franc a volume--the Elzevirs alone worth double the amount paid--Bailey bolted, and so lose his last bills--Martin quarrelsome--said he never yet won at any sitting with me--lost seventy to him, and sent him home satisfied.

"Gave five hundred francs for the drawings at St. R------, abominable daubs; but the police grow more troublesome every day--besides, Crowthorpe is collecting early studies of Rembrandt--these sketches are marked R.

"A great evening--cleared Martin out--suspect that this night's work makes me an Irish estated gentleman--must obtain legal opinion as to these same Irish securities and post-obits, involving, as they do, a heavy sum."

Mr. Merl paused at this _entree_ in his diary, and began to reflect in no very gratulatory mood on the little progress he had as yet made in this same object of inquiry; in fact, he was just discovering what a vast number of more shrewd observers than himself have long since found out, that exploring in Ireland is rather tough work. Everything looks so easy and simple and plain upon the surface, and yet is so puzteling and complicated beneath; all seems so intelligible, where there is nothing in reality that is not a contradiction. It is true he was not hara.s.sing himself with problems of labor and wages, the condition of the people, the effects of emigration, and so forth. He wanted to ascertain some few facts as to the value of a certain estate, and what inc.u.mbrances it might be charged with; and to the questions he put on this head, every reply was an insinuated interrogatory to himself. "Why are _you_ here, Mr. Merl?" "How does it concern _you?_" "What may be _your_ interest in the same investigation?" This peculiar dialectic met him as he landed; it followed him to the West. Scanlan, the landlord, even that poor simpleton the painter--as he called Crow--had submitted him to its harsh rule, till Mr. Merl felt that, instead of pursuing an examination, he was himself everlastingly in the witness-box.

Wearied of these speculations, dissatisfied with himself and his fruitless journey, he summoned the landlord to ask if that "old gent"

above stairs had not a book of some kind, or a newspaper, he could lend him. A ragged urchin speedily returned with a key in his hand, saying, "That's the key of No. 4. Joe says you may go up and search for yourself."

One more scrupulous might not exactly have fancied the office thus suggested to him. He, however, was rather pleased with the investigation, and having satisfied himself that the mission was safe, set forth to fulfil it. No. 4, as the stranger's room was called, was a large and lofty chamber, lighted by a single bay-window, the deep recess of which was occupied by a writing-table. Books, maps, letters, and drawings littered every part of the room. Costly weapons, too, such as richly chased daggers and inlaid pistols, lay carelessly about, with curiously shaped pipes and gold-embroidered tobacco-bags; a richly lined fur pelisse covered the sofa, and a skull-cap of the very finest sable lay beside it. All these were signs of affluence and comfort, and Mr.

Merl pondered over them as he went from place to place, tossing over one thing after another, and losing himself in wild conjectures about the owner.

The writing-table, we have said, was thickly strewn with letters, and to these he now addressed himself in all form, taking his seat comfortably for the investigation. Many of the letters were in foreign languages, and from remote and far-away lands. Some he was enabled to spell out, but they referred to places and events he had never heard of, and were filled with allusions he could not fathom. At length, however, he came to doc.u.ments which interested him more closely. They were notes, most probably in the stranger's own hand, of his late tour along the coast.

Mournful records were they all,--sad stories of dest.i.tution and want, a whole people struck down by famine and sickness, and a land perishing in utter misery. No personal narrative broke the dreary monotony of these gloomy records, and Merl searched in vain for what might give a clew to the writer's station or his object. Carefully drawn-up statistics, tables of the varying results of emigration, notes upon the tenure of land and the price of labor were all there, interspersed with replies from different quarters to researches of the writer's making. Numerous appeals to charity, entreaties for small loans of money, were mingled with grateful acknowledgments for benefits already received. There was much, had he been so minded, that Mr. Merl might have learned in this same unauthorized inquiry. There were abundant traits of the people displayed, strange insight into customs and ways peculiar to them, accurate knowledge, too, of the evils of their social condition; and, above all, there were the evidences of that curious compound of credulity and distrust, hope and fatalism, energy and inertness, which make up the Irish nature.