“No more than they are to you. I have it all from Miss Smithers, the maid. 'We 're as free as air, Mr. Rouse,' says she; 'wherever we have a “conceit,” we can follow it' That's plain talking, anyhow.”
“Would you marry Smithers, Joe?” said his master, with a roguish twinkle in his eye.
“Maybe, if I knew for what; though, by my conscience, she's no beauty!”
“I meant, of course, for a good consideration.”
“Not on a bill, though—money down—hard money.”
“And how much of it?” asked O'Shea, with a knowing look.
“The price of that place at Einsale.”
“The 'Trout and Triangle,' Joe?” laughed out his master. “Are you still yearning after being an innkeeper in your native town?”
“I am just that,” replied Joe, solemnly. “'T is what I 'd rather be than Lord Mayor of Dublin!”
“Well, it is an honorable ambition, no doubt of it. Nothing can be more reasonable, besides, than a man's desire to fill that station in life which, to his boyish ideas, seemed high and enviable.” This speech Mr. O'Shea delivered in a tone by which he occasionally turned to rehearse oratorical effects, and which, by some strange sympathy, always appeared to please his follower. “Yes, Joe,” continued he, “as the poet says, 'The child is father of the man.'”
“You mane the man is father of the child,” broke in Joe.
“I do not, booby; I meant what I have said, and what Wordsworth said before me.”
“The more fool he, then. It's nobody's father he 'd be. Arrah! that's the way you always spoil a fine sintiment with something out of a poet. Poets and play-actors never helped a man out of a ditch!”
“Will you marry this Smithers, if that be her name?” said O'Shea, angrily.
“For the place—”
“I mean as much.”
“I would, if I was treated—'raysonable,'” said he, pausing for a moment in search of the precise word he wanted.
Mr. O'Shea sighed heavily; his exchequer contained nothing but promises; and none knew better than his follower what such pledges were worth.
“It would be the making of you, Joe,” said he, after a brief silence, “if I was to marry this heiress.”
“Indeed, it might be,” responded the other.
“It would be the grand event of your life, that's what it would be. What could I not do for you? You might be land-steward; you might be under-agent, bailiff, driver—eh?”
“Yes,” said Joe, closing his eyes, as if he desired to relish the vision undisturbed by external distractions.
“I have always treated you as a sort of friend, Joe—you know that.”
“I do, sir. I do, indeed.”
“And I mean to prove myself your friend too. It is not the man who has stuck faithfully by me that I 'd desert. Where's my dressing-gown?”
“She was torn under the arm, and I gave her to be mended; put this round you,” said he, draping a much-befrogged pelisse over his master's shoulders.
“These are not my slippers, you stupid ass!”
“They are the ould ones. Don't you remember shying one of the others, yesterday, at the organ-boy, and it fell in the river and was lost?”
Mr. O'Shea's brow darkened as he sat down to his meal. “Tell Pan,” said he, “to send me up some broth and a chop about seven. I must keep the house to-day, and be indisposed. And do you go over to Lucca, and raise me a few Naps on my 'rose-amethyst' ring. Three will do; five would be better, though.”
Joe sighed. It was a mission he had so often been charged with and never came well out of, since his master would invariably insist on hearing every step of the negotiation, and as unfailingly revenged upon his envoy all the impertinences to which the treaty gave rise.
“Don't come back with any insolent balderdash about the stone being false, or having a flaw in it. Holditch values it at two hundred and thirty pounds; and, if it wasn't a family ring, I'd have taken the money. And, mind you, don't be talking about whose it is—it 's a gentleman waiting for his letters—”
“Sure I know,” burst in Joe; “his remittances, that ought to be here every day.”
“Just so; and that merely requires a few Naps—”
“To pay his cigars—”
“There's no need of more explanation. Away with you; and tell Bruno I 'll want a saddle-horse to-morrow, to be here at the door by two o'clock.”
Joe took his departure, and Mr. O'Shea was left to his own meditations.
It may seem a small cause for depression of spirits, but, in truth, it was always a day of deep humiliation to Mr. O'Shea when his necessities compelled him to separate himself from that cherished relic, his great-grandmother's ring. It had been reserved in his family, as a sort of charm, for generations; his grand-uncle Luke had married on the strength of it; his own father had flashed it in the eyes of Bath and Cheltenham, for many a winter, with great success; and he himself had so significantly pointed out incorrect items in his hotel bills, with the forefinger that bore it, that landlords had never pressed for payment, but gone away heart-full of the man who owned such splendor.
It would be a curious subject to inquire how many men have owed their distinction or success in life to some small adjunct, some adventitious appendage of this kind; a horse, a picture, a rare bronze, a statue, a curious manuscript, a fragment of old armor, have made their owners famous, when they have had the craft to merge their identity in the more absorbing interest of the wondrous treasure. And thus the man that owns the winner of the Derby, a great cup carved by Cellini, or a chef-d'oeuvre of Claude or Turner, may repose upon the fame of his possession, identified as he is with so much greatness. Oh! ye possessors of show places, handsome wives, rare gardens, or costly gems, in what borrowed bravery do ye meet the world! Not that in this happy category Mr. O'Shea had his niche; no, he was only the owner of a ring—a rose-amethyst ring—whose purity was perhaps not more above suspicion than his own. And yet it had done him marvellous service on more than one occasion. It had astonished the bathers at St. Leonard, and dazzled the dinner company at Tunbridge Wells; Harrogate had winked under it, and Malvern gazed at it with awe; and society, so to say, was divided into those who knew the man from the ring, and those who knew the ring from the man.
CHAPTER VII. MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS
Our reader has been told how Mrs. Penthony Morris stormed the Villa Caprini, established herself, child, maid, and Skye terrier within its walls, and became, ere many days went over, a sort of influence in the place. It is not in chemistry alone that a single ingredient, minute and scarce perceptible, can change the property and alter all the quality of the mass with which it is mingled. Human nature exhibits phenomena precisely alike, and certain individuals possess the marvellous power of tingeing the world they mix in, with their own hue and color, and flavoring society with sweet or bitter, as temper induces them. The first and most essential quality of such persons is a rapid—an actually instinctive—appreciation of the characters they meet, even passingly, in the world's intercourse. They have not to spell out temperaments slowly and laboriously. To them men's natures are not written in phonetic signs or dark symbols, but in letters large and legible. They see, salute, speak with you, and they understand you. Not, perhaps, as old friends know you, with reference to this or that minute trick of mind