mrs. massarene had conducted her visitor with great obsequiousness to the head of the staircase, and would have gone down the stairs with her had not lady kenilworth prevented such a demonstration.
“my dear creature, pray don’t! one only does that for royalty,” she had said, while a repressed grin was visible through the impassive masks of all the footmen’s faces where they stood above and below.
“how ever is one to know what’s right and what’s wrong,” thought the mistress of harrenden house, resting her hands for a moment upon the carved rail of the balustrade, and eyeing nervously the naked boy of clodion. that statue was very terrible to her; “to set a lad without any scrap o’ clothes on a-beckoning with a bird to everybody as come upstairs, i can’t think as it’s decent or proper,” she said constantly to her husband. but a master hand had indicated the top of the staircase as the proper place for that nude young falconer to stand, in all his mingled realism and idealization; therefore, no one could be bold enough to move him elsewhere, and he leaned airily against the old choir-carving, and wore a fawn-like smile as he tossed his hawk above his head and stretched his hand outward as though to beckon the crowds, which would not come, up that silent stair.
but the crowds were coming now!
for where lady kenilworth pointed, the world would surely follow; and the heart of simple margaret massarene, late margaret hogan, dairymaid of kilrathy, county down, beat high in her breast under the red and gold of her gorgeous bodice. “it’s mighty hard work being a lady,” she thought, “but since i’ve got to be one, i’d like to go the whole hog, and show kathleen when she comes back to us that we are as smart gentlefolks as any of her friends.”
[35]when mr. massarene came home to dinner that evening, his wife felt that she had great news to give him.
“i think she’ll take us up, william,” she said, almost under her breath. “but i think she’ll want a lot of palm-grease.”
she was a simple woman, of coarse views and expressions.
“whatever my lady wants she shall have,” reflected her husband, but his heavy brows frowned; for he was a man who did not like even the wife of his bosom to see into his intentions, and if he were going to buy his way into that society where his shooting-irons were of no use to him, he did not care for even the “old ’ooman” to know it.
but the next day, at one o’clock precisely, he presented himself at the house in stanhope street which the kenilworths honored by residence. he looked like an eminently respectable grazier or cheesemonger clothed in the best that money could buy; a hat, which was oppressively lustrous and new, was carried in his hand with a pair of new gloves. in his shirt-sleeves and butcher-boots, with a brace of revolvers in his belt, as he had sworn at his platelayers, or his diggers, or his puddlers, in the hard bright light of the dakotan sun, he had been a formidable and manly figure in keeping with the giant rocks, and the seething streams, and the rough boulder-strewn roads of the country round him. but standing in the hall of a london house, clad in london clothes made by the first tailors, he looked clumsy and absurd, and he knew it. he was a stolid, sensible, and very bold man; when a railway train in the early days of the pacific road had been “held up” by a native gang, those desperate robbers had found more than their match in him, and the whole convoy, with the million odd dollars he was carrying in his breast-pocket, had been saved by his own ready and pitiless courage. but as he mounted the staircase in stanhope street his knees shook and his tongue clove to his teeth; he felt what actors describe as stage fright.
lady kenilworth had deigned to know him at homburg, had put him in the way of buying vale royal of her cousin roxhall, had dined more than once at his expense[36] with a noisy gay party who scarcely said good-day to him, and likewise at his expense had picnicked in the woods and drunk much more of the best rhenish wines than were good for them; and on a smooth stretch of green sward under the pines, that lovely lady had imitated the dancing of nini-patte-en-l’air of the eden theatre, until the “few last sad grey hairs” upon his head had stood erect in scandalized amazement. she had also dined and supped at his expense several times with various friends of her own in paris, in the november following on the july at homburg; and she had let him take boxes for her at the operas and theatres, and had generally used his purse without seeming to see that it was open for her. but he had exchanged very few words with her (though he had already through her inspiration spent a good deal of money), and his stout, squat figure shook like a leaf as he was ushered into her presence, while her two blenheims flew at his trousers with a fugue of barks.
what a dazzling vision she was, as she smiled on him across the flower-filled and perfumed space which divided them! she had smiled like that when she had first spoken to him of buying vale royal in the early days of his acquaintance with her. william massarene was no fool, and he knew that he would have to pay its full price for that enchanting smile, but though he was not its dupe he was its victim. he was nervous as he had never been when he had heard the order, “hands up!” in the solitude of a mountain gorge at midnight amongst the rockies.
the smile was encouraging, but the rest of the attitude was serene, almost severe, as pure as a virgin in a tryptich of van der goes; she was at work on some embroidery; she had boo on a stool at her feet; she looked an exquisite picture of youthful maternity; he could scarcely believe that he had seen her cutting those mad capers on the sward of the german forest, or heard her scream with laughter at the supper-table of bignon’s.
boo got up on her little black-stockinged legs, ran to him, and looked at him from under her golden cloud of hair.
“what has oo brought me?” said the true child of modernity.
[37]“do you remember the sweeties at the baths, my lovely darling?” stammered mr. massarene, immensely touched and gratified at the child’s recollection of him, and full of remorse that he had not rifled regent street.
“boo always remembers her friends,” said boo’s mother very pleasantly, as she delivered him from the blenheims, and made him seat himself beside her.
“old fat man’s come as was at ombo; but he didn’t bring nothin’ for us,” said boo to jack at the nursery dinner ten minutes later. “mammy’s goin’ to get somethin’ ’cos she was so civil to him.”
“oo’re always thinkin’ of gettin’, boo,” said jack, with his rosy mouth full of mashed potato.
“what’s the use o’ peoples else?” said his sister solemnly, picking up the roast mutton which her nurse had cut up into little dice on her plate.
jack pondered awhile upon this question.
“i likes peoples ’cos i like ’em,” he replied at last.
“you’re a boy!” returned his sister with withering contempt.
a week later, boo’s mother, with a very gay and hilarious round dozen of friends, including her eldest sister, lady wisbeach, dined at harrenden house, and the gentleman known as harry took in mrs. massarene.
two weeks later the massarenes breakfasted in stanhope street expressly to meet an imperial grand duchess who at that time was running about london; and the grand duchess was very smiling and good-natured, and chattered volubly, and invited herself to dinner at harrenden house.
“they do tell me,” she said graciously, “that you have such a wonderful clodion.”
three weeks later william massarene allowed himself to be led into the purchase of a great scotch estate of moor, seashore, and morass, in the extreme northwest of scotland, which had come to brancepeth through his late maternal grandmother, and which had been always considered as absolutely unsaleable on account of certain conditions attached to its purchase, and of the fact that it had been for many years ill-preserved and its sport ruined, the deer having been destroyed by crofters.
[38]brancepeth, who was primitive and simple in many of his ideas, had demurred to the transaction.
“this beggar don’t know anything about sport,” he said to the intermediary, mouse; “’cause he’s buying a deer forest he takes for granted he’ll find deer. ’tisn’t fair, you know. one ought to tell him that he’ll get no more stalking there than he’d get on woolwich common.”
“why should you tell him anything?” said his friend. “he can ask a factor, can’t he?”
“well, but it would only be honest, you know.”
“you are odiously ungrateful,” said mouse with much heat. “i might have made the man buy black alder of us, and i chose to get him to buy your place instead.”
brancepeth made a droll face very like what jack would make when he kept in a naughty word for fear of his nurse. he thought to himself that the fair lady who was rating him knew very well that her share in the purchase-money of black alder, which belonged to her lord, would have been remarkably small, whilst her share of that of blair airon—but there are some retorts a man who is a gentleman cannot make, however obvious and merited they may be.
“get him to buy ’em both,” he said, tossing cakes to the blenheims. “you do what you like with the cad; turn him round your little finger. one’s just as much a white elephant as t’other, and it’s no use knowing sweeps unless you make ’em clean your chimneys.”
“mr. massarene is not a cad or a sweep,” said his friend in a tone of reproof. “he is a very clever man of business.”
“he must be to have to think of buying blair airon!”
“probably he will make it productive. or if he wants big game he’ll import it from the rockies, or—or—from somewhere. what he wants is scottish land; well, the land is there, isn’t it?”
she invariably glossed over to herself these transactions which she knew very well were discreditable, and she was always extremely angry with those who failed to keep up the glamour of fiction in which she arrayed them. conscience[39] she had not, in the full sense of the word, but she had certain instincts of breeding which made some of her own actions disagreeable to her, and only supportable if they were disguised, as a courtly chemist silvered for her the tonic pills which as courtly a physician prescribed when she, who could ride all day and dance all night, desired her nervous system to be found in jeopardy.
“he buys with his eyes open. no one has misrepresented anything,” she added calmly. “he can send an army of factors to look at the estate if he pleases. pray don’t be a fool, harry; and when your bread is buttered for you don’t quarrel with it.”
harry did as he was bid.
his principles were not very fine, or very strong, but they were the instincts of a gentleman. they were smothered under the unscrupulousness of a woman who had influence over him, as so many of the best feelings and qualities of men often are. blair airon was sold to william massarene; and at the same period many tradesmen in paris and london who dealt in toilettes, perfumes, jewelry, fans and lingerie were agreeably surprised by receiving large instalments of what was due to them from their customer, lady kenilworth. to what better use could barren rocks, and dreary sands, and a dull rambling old house, which dated from james iv. and stood in the full teeth of the north wind facing the orkneys, have possibly been put than to be thus transmuted into gossamer body linen, and petticoats covered with real lace, and exquisite essences, and fairy-like shoes, with jewels worked into their kid, and court trains, with hand-woven embroideries in gold and silver on their velvet?
if william massarene discovered that he had bought a white elephant he never said so to anyone, and no one ventured to say so to him. all new men have a mania for buying scotch shootings, and if there was little or nothing to shoot at blair airon the fact served for a laugh at the clubs when the purchaser was not present. the purchaser, however, knew well that there were no deer, and that there was scarce fur or feather on the barren soil; he had not bought without first “prospecting”; he[40] was too old a hand at such matters. but he had turned a deaf ear to those in his interests who had drawn his attention to the fact, and he had signed and sealed the transfer of the estate to himself without a protest.
nobody in north dakota it is true could ever have cheated him out of a red deer or a red cent, but then nobody in north dakota had ever held that magic key to the entrance of good society which he so ardently coveted. he was prepared to pay very liberally to obtain that key. he was far from generous by nature, but he could be generous to extravagance when it suited him to be so.
william massarene was a short, broad, heavily-built man, like his wife in feature, and having, like her, a muddy-pale complexion which the sierra suns had had no force to warm and the cold blasts of the north pacific no power to bleach. his close-shut, thin, long lips, his square jaw, and his intent gray eyes, showed, however, in his countenance, a degree of volition and of intelligence which were his portion alone, and with which hers had no likeness. he was a silent, and seemed a dull, man; but he had a clear brain and a ruthless will, and he had in its full strength that genius for making money which is independent of education and scornful of culture, yet is the only original offspring of that modern life in which education is an institution and culture is a creed.
when he had been only eighteen years of age he had married margaret hogan, because she was a stout strong hard-working wench, and had at once taken a steerage ticket to new york.
when he reached the united states he had gone straightway to the new settlements in north dakota, where cities consisted of plank-walks and shingle-roof shanties, and where the inhabitants of those cities were rougher and ruder even than himself. he had scent for wealth as a thirsty steer for distant water-springs, and he said to himself: “i won’t leave off till i’m second to jay gould.”
he began very modestly by employing himself as a pig-sticker and opening a pork shop in a town called kerosene. his wife made and fried sausages to perfection. the shop became a popular resort, and, in the back room,[41] miners, diggers, cattlemen, and all the roughs for miles around came to eat sausages, and found drinks, hot as flame, and play ad libitum. sometimes they staked nuggets, and lost them.
william massarene never played, he only watched the gamblers, and when they wanted money lent it to them, or if they sold a nugget bought it. they were a wild lot who cared neither for man nor devil; but he knew how to keep them in order with his cold grey eyes and his good six-shooter. many swore that they would kill him or rob him; but nobody ever did either, though several tried to do both.
his wife was liked; hard-worked as she was she found time to do a good turn to sick neighbors unknown to him; and more than one rough fellow spared him because she had been kind to his kids or had brought some broth to his girl. the sausage-shop in dreary, dirty, plank-made kerosene city was the foundation of his fortune.
how the place had stunk and how it had reeked with tobacco stench and echoed with foul outcries and the blows and shots of ruined and reckless men! margaret massarene often dreamt of it, and when she did so dream, woke, bathed in sweat, and filled with nameless terror.
her husband never dreamed, except when wide-awake and of his own glories.
kerosene city had long outgrown its infancy of planks and shingles, and had expanded into a huge town crammed with factories, and tall houses, tramways and elevators and churches, sky-scraping roofs, electric railways, chemical works, fire-belching foundries, hissing, screaming, vomiting machinery, and all the many joys of modern and american civilization.
but kerosene city, most of it mr. massarene’s property, was but an item in the massarene property. he had been in many trades and many speculations; he owned railway plant and cattle ranches and steam-boats and grain-depots, and docks and tramways and manufactories, and men and women and children labored for him day and night by thousands harder than the israelites toiled for the pharaohs.
[42]everything turned to gold that he touched. he bought for little with prodigious insight and sold for much with the same intuition. no foolish scruples hampered his acquisitiveness, no weak-minded compassion ever arrested him on any road which led to his own advantage. he had never been known to relent or to regret, to give except in ostentation, or to stir a step unless self-interest suggested and self-recompense awaited it. herbert spencer has said that kindness and courtesy are indispensable to success: william massarene knew better than that philosopher. he had lived amongst men, and not amongst books. in the land of his adoption his fellows feared him as they feared no one else; his few short hard words cut them like the knotted lash of an overseer’s whip. he was dreaded, obeyed, hated: that was all the feeling he cared to excite.
whilst he remained in that country he never lived like a man of any means; he never spent a dollar on personal ease or comfort; but it was known far and wide that after vanderbilt and pullman the biggest pile in the states was his; his wife alone did not know it.
to the day that she sailed past sandy hook on her way home margaret massarene had never ceased to work hard and to save any red cent she could. she knew nothing of his business, of his ambitions, of his hoarded wealth; when he took a first-class cabin on a cunard steamer and bade her get a sealskin cloak for the voyage and buy herself a handsome outfit, she was astounded.
“we’ll come back great folks and buy out the old ’uns,” he had said to her thirty-five years earlier, as they had meekly set down their bundles and umbrellas amongst the steerage passengers of the emigrant ship and seen the shores of ireland fade from their sight as the day had waned. all through the thirty-five years which he had spent on alien soil he had never forgotten his object; he had lived miserably, saving and screwing, paring and hoarding, happy in the knowledge that his “pile” grew and grew and grew, a little bigger, a little broader, with every day which dawned; and when it was big enough and broad enough for him to sit on it, monarch of all which he might choose to survey, he said to his wife:[43] “marg’ret, woman, it’s time to shut up the store. we’ll be going home, i’m thinkin’, and buyin’ the old ’uns out. i said as i’d do it, didn’t i, five-and-thirty year agone?”
and his wife, being only a woman and therefore foolish, burst out crying and threw her apron over her head.
“but the dear old folk they be dead, william; and dead be my poor babies too!”
then her william smiled; a very rare thing to see was a smile on his tight straight lips.
“’tisn’t those old folks i’m meanin’—and ye’ve your daughter surely to comfort ye; we’ll marry her to a lord duke.”
margaret massarene had dried her tears knowing that weeping would not bring her back her old parents whose bones lay under the rich grass in kilrathy, nor her little lost boys who had been killed—two in a blizzard on the cruel central plains, and one in a forest fire by a rushing herd of terrified cattle. she had dried her tears, bought her sealskins and velvets as she was bidden to do, and come eastward with her lord in all the pomp and plenty which can be purchased on a first-class ocean steamer, and when the distant line of the low green shores of cork became visible to her, she had turned round the rings on her large fingers and patted the heavy bracelets on her wrists to make sure that both were real, and said in her own heart if only the old people had been living, if only her three boys had been there beside her, if only she could go once more a buxom girl in a cotton frock through the sweet wet grass with her milking stool! but william massarene, as he looked at the low green shores, had no such fond and futile regrets; he set his legs wide apart and crossed his hands on the handle of his stick and said only to himself, with a pride which was fairly legitimate if its sources were foul—
“i did as i said i’d do; i’ve come back as i said i’d come back.”
for him, the herdsman who had tramped to and fro the pastures in the falling rain, carrying a newly-dropped calf after its mother, or driving a heifer to meet the butcher’s knife, had been dead and gone for five-and-thirty years; there was only alive now william massarene, millionaire[44] ten times over, who had the power of the purse in his pocket and meant to buy great britain and ireland with it.
as yet, he had, in his own ambitious sense of the words, failed to buy them. he remained one of the obscure rich, who are unknown to fame and to princes. it was not for lack of expenditure that he had hitherto failed to gratify his social ambitions. he had not understood how to set about the matter; he had been timid and awkward; his wife had been a drag on him, and his daughter, on whom he had counted for the best of assistance, had declined to accept the office which he assigned to her. he had lost time, missed occasions, failed to advance to his goal in a manner which intensely irritated a man who had never before this been foiled or baulked in any of his plans. he had learned that the great world was not a drinking den, to be entered by “bluff,” with a nugget in one hand and a revolver in the other; and in this stage of chagrin and disappointment, lady kenilworth held out her hand to him. he had done all that he knew how to do. he had been returned for a metropolitan division and elected to the carlton. he and his wife had been presented at court almost as soon as they had arrived in england. they had been invited to a few political houses. they had gone where everybody went in summer, winter, spring, and autumn. his subscriptions were many and large. his financial value was recognized by conservative leaders. but there he remained. he was an outsider, and in this period of perplexity, disappointment, and futile aspirations to the “smart world,” lady kenilworth, the high priestess of smartness, held out her hand to him.
