Now or Never

Front matter

NOW OE NEVEK A NOVEL. PRINTED BY R. & R. CLARK FOR EDMONSTON AND DOUGLAS, EDINBURGH. LONDON . . HAMILTON, ADAMS, & CO. CAMBRIDGE . MACMILLAN & CO. DUBLIN . . M'GLASHAN 4 GILL. GLASGOW . . JAMES MACLEHOSE. NOW OR NEVER A NOVEL BY M. BETHAM[EDWARDS,_ AUTHOR OF 'THE WHITE HOUSE BY THE SEA. Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Horack. " Oh ! unwise mortals, that for ever change and shift, and say— Yonder not here." Caklylk. EDINBURGH: EDMONSTON AND DOUGLAS. 1859. [Right of Translation reserved]. " With no sort of present must there be pretence. People must not say (ami say falsely) that they could get no other, or that they could afford no better; nor must they affect to think better ofthe present than it is worth." Leigh Hunt. TO MY COUSIN AND FRIEND AMELIA B. EDWARDS, I DEDICATE THIS STORY NOT BECAUSE I COULD "AFFORD NO BETTER;" BUT BECAUSE IT IS THE BEST I CAN MAKE ; AND BEING THE BEST, THEREFORE WORTHIEST TO EXPRESS THE ADMIRATION WITH WHICH I REGARD HER LITERARY WORKS, AND THE GRATEFUL AFFECTION WHICH I MUST EVER FEEL FOR HERSELF. NOW OE NEVEE. — ♦ —

Chapter I

" What say you to England ?" The Count tossed away a half-finished cigar, and throwing himself hack in his chair, said with some appearance of interest (a very unusual symptom with the Count Max Korvinski) — " Hey ? " " Why," said Tom Winter leisurely, and smoking at intervals ; " why, if you want to see life, there's the place to see it; if you have money to spend, that's the place where money is to be enjoyed (and if a man is bored to death, he can't do anything better to enliven him than to set to work, and spend his money as fast as he can). Now, if I were in your place " " You would do as I do," growled the young Count. " If I were in your place, I'd go to England and play the deuce," Tom Winter continued. " People may say what they choose, but there isn't another country like it, nor anything like it, for enjoyment — if one has money.

Now, instead of grumbling out the whole B blessed winter, why not go to England, and have some sport ? " " By Jove, I will ! you've hit it, Winter. Instead of being bored to death in this confounded place, I will live in earnest. I will go to your England, which everybody says is so fine a country. 1 will take your advice, and play the deuce there ! What is the use of any money to me if I don't ? I'll have a shoot ing-box in the Highlands, and a stud of horses, and a nice place in London, and keep racers, and hire a pleasure farm " " And crown ail delights by marrying some pretty English girl?" " Fates defend us ! My visit to England would cost me dear on those terms." "But you don't mean to say you never mean to marry i " Not if I keep in my right senses. Why, actually, you speak of marrying as if it were something pleasant ; now, to my mode of thinking, a wife would be very much in one's way, and by no means conducive to one's happiness."

" As to what you say, you have never been happy in your life, and as you have not hitherto been troubled with matrimony, that can have had no part in the business. Now, suppose you alter the case, and marry ! By a very simple method of deductive philosophy, you would find whether you were happier or not — in fact whether the experiment agreed with you " " Never mind the pretty English girls, and matri mony, or I shall wish them at the deuce, and you too. Come, Winter, talk sense, and enter into my plans. I tell you, I shall go to England. How much shall 1 spend a-year ? " " More than you ever spent a year in your life before." " Would the Gallician estate cover it ? — half again as large as this, you know, and my experiments here have not begun to pay as yet." Tom Winter smiled humorously, but merely said — "No; experiments on land don't pay very fast.

Well, let me see, — hunting-box — horses — dogs — ser vants " " Six thousand a year ? " " Would do the thing neatly for a bachelor. As to the pleasure farm " " Of course you would have to go with me to manage the land," said the Count. " Of course I should," Tom Winter answered with satisfaction. " But how would affairs go on here ? " " How did they go on before I came, and when you used to spend half your year at Paris or Berlin ? Lechzinski is a shrewd fellow enough, let him manage ; besides, there is very little going on in the winter of importance." " True," replied the Count, " and the farm is a very important item in my English plan. It will be a fortune to me, I might say. I shall get a practical knowledge of English farming, and could afterwards be my own steward, whilst you set them to rights in Gallicia."

Again the odd smile passed over Tom Winter's features. " How many more schemes in the space of five minutes? But a practical knowledge of English farming would be, as you say, a fortune to you. Now, I have an uncle in Norfolk (one of the finest spots in England for farming), who has got a pretty occupation of some three or four hundred acres ; you could not do better than fix yourself down in his neighbourhood. My uncle is one of the best farmers in the place, and as jolly an old fellow as ever you saw. I think it would be a good plan to write and tell him of your intentions, for he would be looking out, in case there should be farms to be sold or let." " An excellent idea ; for you and I shall lose so much time in travelling. But we'll make haste to settle matters, as I am really impatient to be off.

I have not had anything so much at heart for years. Any how, I shall not be bored there so much as I am here." " But the new stables that you were planning last night, and the factories, and the " The Count looked rather disconcerted, and risino gathered up a heap of plans and architectural designs which lay on the table. " They don't any of them seem to me exactly the thing," he said discontentedly, throwing them into an escritoire, " I shall see about them when I return from England." " Wait till you get there," Tom Winter could hardly refrain from saying ; but as he really liked the volatile Count, he merely said — " Yes, I am of your opinion ; they are not exactly the thing, and you will be able to improve upon them when you come back from England. But it's twelve o'clock, and as I have to get up at five in the morning I must be off.

Good night." " You're deucedly unsociable," muttered the Count, lighting a fresh cigar. " Come, Winter, do another whiff, there's a good fellow." Tom Winter stretched his arms over his head and yawned audibly. " Upon my word, I'm the most sociable of indi viduals by nature ; but when one gets up at five you see, it's quite a farce to go to bed at all, unless you go by twelve." " Go, then, and no pleasant dreams to you." Tom then rose and lighted his night-lamp, but returned when half way to add maliciously — " You will be as sweet-tempered as possible when you bring back ' la belle Anglaise /' He did not wait to hear the Count's anathema, and continued his progress over the long and cold looking floors of polished oak, soliloquizing thus : — " What a wild fellow, to be sure ! How unevenly Dame Fortune bestows her gifts !

Now if I bad this mad boy's property, or even half, I should not envy any one, not even the Miller of the Dee. And yet he is not happy, not so happy with his thousands as I am with my nothing. I wonder whether he will go to England ! Preciously glad should I be to get him there — but one thing I am quite resolved upon. If he does not go, I shall. I'm tired to death of this land of slavery and snow, and the people are so stupid, and the Count so interfering, that it is quite useless to think of getting the land to any perfection. Ah! home, sweet home ! Two years of foreign life have taught me there is no place like home! And Bertha — " He drew from his desk the portrait of a young and fair girl, and held it to the light. Instantly an expres sion of tenderness passed over his rough and manly face.

"Who knows," he said to himself, "but that if I wait here a year or two longer, Bertha might be married ? She is young and pretty, and almost grown to womanhood — Uncle Charley must have saved heaps of money of late years on that splendid farm of his — what more likely than that she should marry ? I am poor, and have yet my position to make in the world, but what of that. If Bertha is the girl I take her to be, she will not marry a man for his money or his profession. And this I know — no one would love her better or more faithfully than I — no one would try to deserve her more."

Chapter II

It was now autumn ;— at all times a lovely season, and even in Poland making the landscape lovely. The sun shone in an unclouded sky ; on the north, the horizon was bounded by dense forests, and their dark outline stood out boldly against the clear blue above. Huge flakes of gossamer floated in the air, which was soft and warm. But this is babska-lato, or old woman's summer, and will soon be over. Then the long winter will be ushered in by cold winds and sleet. The scene of Tom Winter's labours was not wholly unpicturesque. The little village with its log-built dwellings — the bare tree here and there breaking the monotony of desolation — the gloomy forests in the distance, from whence at night the howling of wolves was heard — the blue line of the far off Vistula, — all these joined to form a picture very different from that of Norfolk with its well-tilled fields, populous villages, pretty cottages ornes, and comfortable farm-houses.

But Tom was an English man ; and in his strong and manly heart, existed as warm a love of freedom as is possible to be found ; it made his blood boil to see the peasants submissive in their slavery, and the women toiling as beasts of bur den in the field. Nevertheless he whistled and sang through the day as best he could, and would have been quite happy, but for the thought of his cousin Bertha in far off England. He had merry evenings, too, in the palace, over billiards and cigars, with the visionary and experimental Count. It was an unpretending place to call a palace. A high-roofed house, one storeyed ; a portico supported by Corinthian pillars ; a plot of turf in front ; and coach-houses on one side. This was all ; and as there wag no lady presiding, and as all the floors were waxed inside, Tom used to write to England dismally — " There was every thing but comfort."

Next day, dinner passed over as usual, and the Count did not recur to his darling plan of visiting England. Poor Tom began to fidget. Nothing was more likely than that some trifle or other had made him alter his mind, for Count Max was a creature of impulse, and changed schemes and opinions as easily as he did coats. He seemed in unusually good spirits, and praised the weather and the dinner, two things which Tom had never remembered him to do before ; but whether this augured favourably or not for the proposed visit to England, was a question that required no ordinary knowledge of the Count's character to determine. At length, however, when the fragrant fumes of tobacco had diffused an air of bachelor sociability through the apartment, the Count threw aside his cigar, and said pleasantly — "In fact, Winter, I don't think we could choose a better time for our visit to England."

" I am quite of your opinion. Indeed, it would be madness to lose so good an opportunity. And when do you propose going?" " That requires some little consideration. In the first place, I must sell off my horses." " I can settle that little business for you any day you please. Count B at Warsaw would buy them to-morrow." " And," said Count Max, methodically, " I must go to Gallicia to see my aunt." " The devil you must," Tom was on the point of saying ; he reined in his momentary impatience, how ever, and said very blandly — " Poor old lady ! It would certainly be a great shame to slight her." The Counttook noheed of his remark, and went on — " You see, my dear fellow, I want to do the thing in a sensible and business-like manner. For this end, it will be necessary, imperative, I might say, that my book accounts for the two estates are made out with the extremest accuracy — that I find an honest and sharp man who I feel will not draw the farthest tooth out of my head."

"You won't go to England yet, then?" Tom said snappishly. " It strikes me," answered the Count complacently, and with the air of a man who had made a great dis covery, " that you are almost as eager for this visit as I am." A conscious smile twinkled in Tom's eyes. " It strikes me we are both a very long way off England yet," he replied ; " but how many more leagues are you going to add to the distance ?" " Oh ! if you are in such a confounded hurry, you had better be off at once. For my part, 1 like to do things thoroughly, and not rush into them." Now, the Count had never done things thoroughly in his life, but had systematically rushed into them with all his power and might of inconsistency, and at this remark of his, Tom Winter, with difficulty, repressed a smile. The speaker, however, continued — " But if you like to wait a month or two, I shall be ready.

Meanwhile, I wish you would write to that first-rate uncle of yours, and tell him I want to purchase or hire a moderately sized farm — -he may hear of one — and a suitable villa. Are there such places in Norfolk ?" " Plenty — and such pretty girls!" " Don't bore me about pretty girls. To me, women always seem either to be tyrants or fools, and the prettier they are, the vainer. If there are no women within five miles of my villa, tell your uncle — so much the better — I shall like it." " I '11 tell him your requirements, but whether or not he will be able to find a house so situated, I don't feel competent to decide. I think I'll write now, as to-morrow I shall be in the saddle all day." "That's it; write at once. I'll meanwhile think over my plans." The above conversation had taken place, partly in German, partly in Polish, and partly in English ; but as I am writing for English readers exclusively, I have rendered it in the vernacular.

The Count retired to his contemplations, and Tom opening his desk began to write. One letter was hastily and carelessly written ; then he drew out a sheet of finer and more ornamental paper, mended a pen with great deliberation, and with occasional pauses for think ing, wrote the following : — " Yablouna, Warsaw. " My dear cousin Bertha — You will be surprised to find from my letter to Uncle Charley, that I am looking forward to the pleasure of a visit to England before very long. My friend and employer, the Count Max Kor vinski, seems anxious to go and reside there for a year or two ; if so, he will hire or purchase an estate, over which he will make me steward, and I shall have a remunerative and easy occupation. But if the Count alters his mind, which he is very likely to do, I am fully determined to go to England alone.

Two years of foreign life and adventure have taught me that there is no place like our snug little island ; and though, as my poor father died in embarrassed circumstances, my education is very imperfect, and I am brought up to no regular profession, I trust to attain a respectable posi tion by energy and perseverance. " I cannot tell you how I long to see dear old Wixley Hall again, and to look once more on Uncle Charley's face and your own. You were sixteen when I left, you must be eighteen now, and quite a woman. I have still got the portraits of yourself and Uncle Charley which you gave me, and you can form no idea of the pleasure they have afforded me. "My Count is a queer boy (he is quite a boy in his ways), and never keeps to the same mind for two days together. I hope you won't find him too much of a bore if he should pay Wixley Hall a visit.

He is very rich, and, you would fancy, ought to be happy enough, but he is so discontented ! I cannot imagine how he can exist with so unsatisfied and gloomy a temper. Count Max's father was as big an old rogue as could be found on the face of the earth, and has a wide reputation for his amiable qualities. His son, I am happy to say, is not like him, and is a very good sort of fellow indeed, but has the oddest fancies in the world, and there is not a point in his character that you can lay hold off, which is not as unstable as the wind. I have lots of curious stories to tell you and Uncle Charley about this place and people, both of which I have had enough. Why don't you write oftener to me, you naughty girl? poor exile that I am ! and as eager for home news as a child at school. " Goodbye, dear Bertha. " Your affectionate cousin, " Tom Winter."

Chapter III

Days succeeded daj's, and still the Count kept on building card houses, and pulling them down again with the most indefatigable inconstancy. It would be impossible for me to record one half of the plans and arrangements which he industriously matured — till the point of fulfilment. Then he scattered his card houses with a breath, and they were built no more. Like Othello, Count Korvinski was a feather for each wind that blew ; and it is very difficult to catch hold of such feathers. So found Tom Winter. At first, that young man was very wroth ; for, as my readers have seen, he was uncommonly anxious to get to England, and the more anxious he was, the more dilatory the Count showed himself. But it was difficult to be out of temper with him, and as futile as it was difficult ; this Tom had long since discovered, so when the first storm of his impatience had spent itself, he altered his tactics.

Instead of urging upon him the subject of the visit to England, he let it drop entirely, or if Count Max mentioned it, Tom waved it away with an appear ance of stolid indifference. Then, instead of being resolutely ill-tempered and inimical to any schemes which might defer his pet project, he rather encouraged them. And as some people are made up of contrarieties, and are only acted on by them, so was the Count ; and the very fact of Tom Winter's well-affected indifference served to cause a reaction. " Winter," he said one day, with the voice and manner that Napoleon might have given orders at the battles of Eylau or Austerlitz. " Winter, the first thing we do after Christmas, shall be to go to England." "I'm ready for marching orders," Tom rejoined magnanimously ; " I shall be most happy to oblige you."

Meanwhile, it yet wanted some weeks to Christmas, and Tom, feeling more hopeful, resolved, with the wisdom of the only true philosophy, to enjoy the present at any rate, without too many thoughts of the future. " For," Tom said to himself, consolingly, " what is to be, must be, and it will be all the same a hundred years hence, whether we are miserable or not. Besides, we can only live once. Now or Never. The present minute is all we are sure of, and it is best to get the most out of that we can. Anyhow, it is never worth while to make a short life miserable, and — after all ! — what is there in the world worth bothering one's self about? It's best to mind nothing, and take things easy." So he smoked his pipe in the evenings with the jolly old priests, who always made him welcome ; and merry evenings they had.

For the priests were by no means of an ascetical or sanctified turn, but like " the monks of old, they sang and laughed, and the rich (?) wine quaffed, and they lived on the daintiest fare." Many were the rare old stories which Tom heard on such occasions, and treasured up for future repetition in dear old England. Stories of the old scampish Count Korvinski ; strange experiences of their craft ; curious illustrations and caricatures of Polish country life. They were jovial, free-hearted old fellows, and loved Tom for his social nature ; so he was always welcome, and many an hour when he might otherwise have been moping over future prospects, and perhaps a hopeless love, was lightened by their hospitality. Then there were the families of the doctor — the steward and the head clerk — where he was always welcome, too, to smoke a pipe with the gentlemen, or a cigarette with the ladies.

And a great favourite he was with both. The black eyes of the doctor's daughter, Veronica, shone brighter when he was announced ; and pretty little Annetka Kalinski blushed rosy red when he would seat himself by her side and tell her of the little mighty island beyond the sea. As the winter closed in, they were very gay at Yablouna. Balls and parties were given in every household, and cheerily the sledges flew over the snow to the place of conviviality. In Poland, a bachelor who has been once introduced to a family, is never asked to their festivities, but is expected to present himself; and night after night, Tom made one of a light-hearted assembly where old and young joined in the national mazur. There was no ceremony, no stiffness. For the time, at least, care was put awray, and pleasure reigned supreme.

So, as the days went on, and still the Count spoke of visiting England after Christmas, Tom's heart grew lighter and lighter, and he was one of the merriest of the merry dancers at the gatherings at Yablouna.

Chapter IV

" Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, il faut venir. Madame attend." " Va-t'en. Ne me gene pas." " Mais elle ne fait que grogner. Elle dit — " Qu'irnporte ? Justine, ou sont les bracelets, et — ah — les rubans ! Je ne sais pas si la rose me va la mieux." " Le bleu vous fait bien." " Oh, voila. cette terrible Madame ! Clementine, le bouquet — la ruban rose. Mille pardons, chere Madame." And the Frenchified English school-girl twined her arms round the waist of the grosse bedecked school mistress, and fawned and flattered in token of repent ance ; but Madame was not so easily mollified and grumbled on. Agatha Sherlock, her English pupil, was the best looking girl in the school — the best looking, the most showy, the most attractive. Dressed as she was, in good taste, and yet with that extreme simplicity which youthfulness renders so charming, she wanted no better foil than her chaperon.

And chaperons do not like being foils, not even to their own daughters. So Madame grunted energetically on, and Agatha was much too sensible to take any notice of it. Whereupon, b as all ill-tempered people do when they cannot get some one kind enough to jangle with them, Madame held her peace. Besides, she felt, when the first heat of her wrath was over, that it was policy of the soundest kind to be tender to her most showy pupil, Mrs. Hardinge's god-daughter too, and Mrs. Hardinge, rich, well-connected in France and England, and acquainted with half the merchant-princes of that extravagant London. Madame Tournier, you are wise. There was a large and gay assemblage at Mrs. Fitzroger Hardinge's that night. It was Agatha's first peep into the coloured artificial world, for which she had longed during all her school-life, and the girl's cheek burned radiantly with vanity and excitement.

Can we wonder that our daughters are so vain ? Can we wonder that they are so frivolous ? I think not, if we observe how animals and plants, when stinted of their natural aliment, readily turn to that nearest them, whether healthy or not. Poisonous herbs are pretty to look at often, and taste sweet, at first. More's the pity. Agatha Sherlock was not regularly pretty ; but she had charms which draw far more homage and notice than mere beauty, however perfect it may be. She was fortunate in her dress, fortunate in her conversa tion, and gave no one room to find a single fault with either. Her figure was light and graceful, yet not faultless, mind ; her voice lively, and her laugh pleasant to listen to. You might hear frivolity in it at times but never malice; and so because she was good-humoured with all the world, and just escaped being handsome, Agatha would always have lady friends, even in France.

Never had she been so happy in her life before, as she was that night. Her dancing-shoes seemed like fairy slippers, and had carried her into her genial atmosphere. Of what use was study, and thought, and work? What mattered it to her how Cuvier divided the Vertebrata, or how Sir Isaac Newton kept his temper with Diamond ? But to sit like a princess surrounded with handsome and fashionable men ; to have one delighted with the privilege of holding her bouquet ; another fetching her cloak, or fan : all demanding her hand for the next dance, as if the happiness of a whole week depended on her permission. This was life. She was a princess to-night, and the admirers round her in black coats and white waistcoats were her satellites and slaves. Poor Agatha! within how narrow a limit she could compress her paradise !

She wished her whole life would be like this. Satin slippers, gauze dresses, artificial wreaths, and beaux innumerable. Within a distant view of Agatha Sherlock's little court, stood a young man, with dark contemptuous eyes fixed upon the girl and her surroundings. He was singularly dressed, but in perfect good taste, and the singularity only imparted a more distinguished air to his slight figure ; he wore neither beard nor whiskers, and his clear, well-cut features were set off to advantage by the national moustachios, which were of the same colour as his hair, jet black and shining. He was young. Yet to see him there, standing apart from so much youth and gaiety, with that scorn in his eyes, and that cynical curl on his lips— who could call him young? The man looked old, even though he had not quarrelled with the world and mankind twenty-five years yet.

" Who is that handsome man ?" Agatha whispered to her godmother : " dear Mrs. Hardinge, do introduce him. I would give worlds to dance with him." "Hush, child, don't be so giddy. He is a Polish count, and doesn't dance or do anything of the sort — quite a woman-hater in fact. Now, do be easy, and let him rest where he is." In the course of the evening, Agatha dropped accidentally a little gold locket which hung from her bracelet ; she was greatly vexed. It was not for the value of the thing, but for its associations she treasured it, being the gift of an old schoolfellow in England. Of course several of the younger men instituted an active search, but of no avail. Later, however, when the party was breaking up, Agatha was startled by a voice at her elbow, saying in English — " Miss Sherlock, I am very happy to restore you your locket."

It was our old friend Tom Winter, whose kindly honest smile, plain dress, and frank manner, distinguished him, in no small degree, from the polished beaux around him. Agatha took the locket eagerly. " A thousand thanks." " Oh, no thanks are due to me, for though I looked for it, I did not find it. It was my friend Count Korvinski." "Count who?" " Count Korvinski. It had slid somehow under the muslin hangings, and his sharp eyes fell on it by chance. Being rather— rather shy, he asked me to give it you, and curious enough, the name Bertha Greene is engraved on it." " Why is it curious? Did you never hear either of those names before ? " " Very often. I have a cousin of that name in Norfolk." " How very odd ! Is she about my age ; and has she brown hair ; and is she an only child ? " " Yes."