Once more, but for the last time, we are at Kilkieran. To a dreary day of incessant rain succeeded an evening still drearier. Wild gusts swept along the little shore, and shook the frail windows and ill-fitting doors of the cottages, while foam and sea-drift were wafted over the roofs, settling like snow-flakes on the tall cliffs above them. And yet it was midsummer! By the almanac the time was vouched to be the opening of the season; a fact amply corroborated by the fashionable assemblage then enjoying the hospitalities of Mrs. Cronan's tea-table. There they were, with a single exception, the same goodly company already presented to the reader in an early chapter of our story. We have already mentioned the great changes which time had worked in the appearance of the little watering-place. The fostering care of proprietorship withdrawn, the ornamental villa of the Martins converted into a miserable village inn, the works of the pier and harbor suspended, and presenting in their unfinished aspect the dreary semblance of ruin and decay,—all conspired with the falling fortunes of the people to make the scene a sad one. Little evidence of this decline, however, could be traced in the aspect of that pleasant gathering, animated with all its ancient taste for whist, scandal, and shrimps; their appetite for such luxuries seeming rather to have increased than diminished by years. Not that we presume to say they could claim any immunity against the irrevocable decrees of age. Unhappily, the confession may be deemed not exactly in accordance with gallantry; but it is strictly true, time had no more forgotten the living than the inanimate accessories of the picture. Miss Busk, of the Emporium, had grown more sour and more stately. The vinegar of her temperament was verging upon verjuice, and the ill opinion of mankind experience enforced had written itself very legibly on her features. The world had not improved upon her by acquaintance. Not so Captain Bodkin; fatter and more wheezy than ever, he seemed to relish life rather more than when younger. He had given up, too, that long struggle with himself about bathing, and making up his mind to suffer no “sea-change;” he was, therefore, more cheerful than before.
As for Mrs. Cronan, “the little comforts she was used to” had sorely diminished by the pressure of the times, and, in consequence, she drew unlimited drafts upon the past to fill up the deficiencies of the present. Strange enough is it, that the faults and follies of society are just as adhesive ingredients as its higher qualities! These people had grown so used to each other in all their eccentric ways and oddities, that they had become fond of them; like a pilot long accustomed to rocks and sandbanks, they could only steer their course where there was something to avoid!
The remainder of the goodly company had grown stouter or thinner, jollier or more peevish, as temperament inclined; for it is with human nature as with wine: if the liquor does not get racier with years, it degenerates sadly.
The first act of the whist and backgammon playing was over, and the party now sat, stood, crouched, lounged, or lay, as chance and the state of the furniture permitted, at supper. At the grand table, of course, were the higher dignitaries, such as Father Maher, the Captain, Miss Busk, and Mrs. Clinch; but cockles were eaten, and punch discussed in various very odd quarters; bursts of joyous laughter, too, came from dark pantries, and sounds of merriment mingled with the jangling crash of kitchen utensils. Reputations were roasted and pancakes fried, characters and chickens alike mangled, and all the hubbub of a festival prevailed in a scene where the efforts of the fair hostess were directed to produce an air of unblemished elegance and gentility.
Poor Clinch, the revenue officer, who invariably eat what he called “his bit” in some obscure quarter, alone and companionless, was twice “had up” before the authorities for the row and uproar that prevailed, and underwent a severe cross-examination, “as to where he was when Miss Cullenane was making the salad,” and, indeed, cut a very sorry figure at the conclusion of the inquiry. All the gayeties and gravities of the scene, however, gradually toned down as the serious debate of the evening came on; which was no other than the lamentable condition of the prospects of Kilkieran, and the unanimous opinion of the ruinous consequences that must ensue from the absence of the proprietor.
“We 've little chance of getting up the news-room now,” said the Captain. “The Martins won't give a sixpence for anything.”
“It is something to give trade an impulse we want, sir,” broke in Miss Busk,—“balls and assemblies; evening reunions of the élite of society, where the elegance of the toilet should rival the distingué air of the company.”
“That's word for word out of the 'Intelligence,'” cried the Captain. “It's unparliamentary to quote the newspapers.”
“I detest the newspapers,” broke in Miss Busk, angrily; “after advertising the Emporium for two seasons in the 'Galway Celt,' they gave me a leading article beginning, 'As the hot weather is now commencing, and the season for fashion approaches, we cannot better serve the interests of our readers than by directing attention to the elegant “Symposium!”' 'Symposium!'—I give you my word of honor that's what they put it.”
“On my conscience! it might have been worse,” chuckled out the Captain.
“It was young Nelligan explained to me what it was,” resumed Miss Busk; “and Scanlan said, 'I'd have an action against them for damages.'”
“Keep out of law, my dear!—keep out of law!” sighed Mrs. Cronan. “See to what it has reduced me! I, that used to go out in my own coach, with two men in green and gold; that had my house in town, and my house in the country; that had gems and ornaments such as a queen might wear! And there's all that's left me now!” And she pointed to a brooch about the size of a cheese-plate, where a melancholy gentleman in uniform was represented, with a border of mock pearls around him. “The last pledge of affection!” sobbed she.
“Of course you wouldn't pledge it, my dear,” muttered the deaf old Mrs. Few; “and they'd give you next to nothing on it, besides.”
“We 'll have law enough here soon, it seems,” said Mrs. Cronan, angrily; for the laugh this blunder excited was by no means flattering and pleasant. “There 's Magennis's action first for trial at the Assizes.”
“That will be worth hearing,” said Mrs. Clinch. “They 'll have the first lawyers from Dublin on each side.”
“Did you hear the trick they played off on Joe Nelligan about it?” asked the Captain. “It was cleverly done. Magennis found out, some way or other, that Joe wanted to be engaged against him; and so what does he do but gets a servant dressed up in the Martin livery, and sends him to Joe's house on the box of a coach, inside of which was a gentleman that begged a word with the Counsellor. 'You 're not engaged, I hope, Counsellor Nelligan,' says he, 'in Magennis against Martin?' 'No,' says Joe, for he caught a glimpse of the livery. 'You're quite free?' says the other. 'Quite free,' says he. 'That's all I want, then,' says he; 'here's your brief, and here's your retainer;' and he put both down on the table, and when Joe looked down he saw he was booked for Magennis. You may imagine how he felt; but he never uttered a word, for there was no help for it.”
“And do you mean to tell me,” cried Mrs. Clinch, “that the lawyers can't help themselves, but must just talk and rant and swear for any one that asks them first?”
“It's exactly what I mean, ma'am,” responded the Captain. “They 've no more choice in the matter than the hangman has as to who be 'll hang.”
“Then I'd as soon be a gauger!” exclaimed the lady, with a contemptuous glance at poor Clinch, who winced under the observation.
“But I don't see what they wanted young Nelligan for,” said Miss Busk; “what experience or knowledge has he?”
“He's just the first man of the day,” said Bodkin. “They tell me that whether it be to crook out a flaw in the enemy's case, to pick a hole in a statement, to crush a witness, or cajole the jury, old Repton himself is n't his equal.”
“I suppose, from the airs he gives himself, he must be something wonderful,” said Mrs. Cronan.
“Well, now, I differ from you there, ma'am,” replied Bodkin. “I think Joe is just what he always was. He was cold, silent, and distant as a boy, and he 's the same as a man. Look at him when he comes down here at the Assizes, down to the town where his father is selling glue and hides and tenpenny-nails, and he 's just as easy and unconstrained as if the old man was Lord of Cro' Martin Castle.”
“That's the height of impertinence,” broke in Miss Busk; “it's only real blood has any right to rise above the depreciating accidents of condition. I know it by myself.”
“Well, I wonder what he 'll make of this case, anyhow,” said feodkin, to escape a controversy he had no fancy for. “They tell me that no action can lie on it. It's not abduction—”
“For shame, Captain; you forget there are ladies here,” said Mrs. Clinch.
“Indeed I don't,” sighed he, with a half-comic melancholy in his look.
“I'll tell you how they do it, sir,” chimed in Father Maher. “Whenever there 's anything in law that never was foreseen or provided for, against which there is neither act nor statute, they 've one grand and unfailing resource,—they charge it as a conspiracy. I 've a brother an attorney, and he tells me that there is n't a man, woman, or child in the kingdom but could be indicted for doing something by a conspiracy.”
“It's a great comfort to know that,” said Bodkin, gravely.
“And what can they do to her if she's found guilty?” asked Mrs. Cronan.
“Make her smart for the damages, ma'am; leave her something less to expend on perversion and interference with the people,” said the priest. “The parish isn't the same since she began visiting this one and reading to that. Instead of respect and confidence in their spiritual guides, the people are running after a young girl with a head full of wild schemes and contrivances. We all know by this time how these things end, and the best receipt to make a Protestant begins, 'First starve your Papist.'”
“I rise to order,” called out Bodkin. “We agreed we'd have no polemics nor party discussions.”
“Why am I appealed to, then, for explanations that involve them?” cried the priest, angrily. “I'm supported, too, in my observations by a witness none will dispute,—that Scotchman, Henderson—”
“By the way, isn't his daughter come home to him?” asked Bodkin, eager for a diversion.
“Indeed she is, sir; and a pretty story there is about it, too. Miss Busk knows it all,” said Mrs. Cronan.
“I have it in confidence, ma'am, from Jemima Davis,—Lady Dorothea's second maid; but I don't think it a fit subject for public conversation.”
“And ain't we in committee here?” chimed in Bodkin; “have we any secrets from each other?” The racy laugh of the old fellow, as he threw a knowing glance around the table, rather disconcerted the company. “Let's hear about Henderson's daughter.”
“The story is soon told, sir. Lady Dorothea detected her endeavoring to draw young Martin into a private marriage. The artful creature, by some means or other, had obtained such an insight into the young man's difficulties that she actually terrorized over his weak mind. She discovered, too, it is suspected, something rather more than indiscretions on his part.”
A long low whistle from the priest seemed to impart a kind of gratified surprise at this announcement.
“He had got into a habit of signing his name, they say; and whether he signed it to something he had no right to, or signed another name by mistake—”
“Oh, for shame,” broke in Bodkin; “that wouldn't be one bit like a Martin.”
“Perhaps you are acquainted with all the circumstances better than myself, sir?” said Miss Busk, bristling up with anger. “Maybe you 've heard how the Henderson girl was turned away out of the French duke's family,—how she was found in correspondence with the leaders of the mob in Paris? Maybe, sir, you are aware that she has some mysterious hold over her father, and he dares not gainsay one word she says?”
“I don't know one word of it; and if it wasn't thought rude, I'd say I don't believe it, either,” said Bodkin, stoutly.
“I believe the worst that could be said of her,” said Mrs. Clinch.
“Well, well, make her as bad as you like; but how does that prove anything against young Martin? and if you can find nothing heavier to say of him than that he wanted to marry a very handsome girl—”
“A low creature!” broke in Miss Busk.
“The lowest of the low!” chimed in Mrs. Cronan.
“An impudent, upsetting minx!” added Mrs. Clinch. “Nothing would serve her but a post-chaise the morning she arrived by the mail for Dublin; and, signs on it, when she got home she had n't money to pay for it.”
“It was n't that she left her place empty-handed, then,” said Miss Busk. “Jemima tells me that she managed the whole house,—paid for everything; and we all know what comes of that.”
Miss Busk, in delivering this sentiment, was seated with her back to the door, towards which suddenly every eye was now turned in mingled astonishment and confusion; she moved round to see the cause, and there beheld the very object of her commentary standing close behind her chair. Closely wrapped in a large cloak, the hood of which she wore over her head, her tall figure looked taller and more imposing in its motionless attitude.
“I have to ask pardon for this intrusion, ladies,” said she, calmly; “but you will forgive me when I tell the reason of it. I have just received very sad tidings, which ought to be conveyed to Miss Martin; she is at the islands, and I have no means of following her, unless Mr. Clinch will kindly lend me the revenue boat—”
“And accompany you, I hope,” broke in Mrs. Clinch, with a sneer.
Kate did not notice the taunting remark, but went on, “You will be grieved to hear that Mr. Martin is no more.”
“Martin dead!” muttered the Captain.
“Dead! When did he die?” “Where did it happen?” “How?” “Of what malady?” “Are his remains coming home?” were asked in quick succession by several voices.
“This letter will tell you all that I know myself,” said she, laying it on the table. “May I venture to hope Mr. Clinch will so far oblige me? The fishermen say the sea is too rough for their craft.”
“It's not exactly on the King's service, I opine, ma'am,” broke in Mrs. Clinch; “but of course he is too gallant to oppose your wishes.”
“Faith! if you wanted any one with you, and would accept of myself,” broke in Bodkin, “I'm ready this minute; not that exactly salt water is my element.”
“The young lady is accustomed to travel alone, or she is much belied,” said Miss Busk, with a sneer.
“I suppose you'd better let her have the boat, Clinch,” said his wife, in a whisper. “There's no knowing what might come of it if you refused.”
“I 'll go down and muster the crew for you, Miss Henderson,” said Clinch, not sorry to escape, although the exchange was from a warm cabin to the beating rain without.
“Poor Martin!” sighed Bodkin; “he was the first of the family for many a long year that did n't breathe his last under his own roof. I 'm sure it weighed heavily on him.”
“I trust his son will follow his example, nevertheless,” said the priest. “I don't want to see one of the name amongst us.”
“You might have worse, Father Maher,” said Bodkin, angrily.
And now a lively discussion ensued as to the merits of him they had lost, for the most part with more of charity than many of their dissertations; from this they branched off into speculations about the future. Would the “present man” reside at home? would her Ladyship come back? what would be Mary's position? how would Scanlan fare? what of Henderson, too? In fact, casualties of every kind were debated, and difficulties started, that they might be as readily reconciled. Meanwhile Kate was hastening down to the shore, followed, rather than escorted, by little Clinch, who even in the darkness felt that the conjugal eye was upon him.
A little to the northwest of the island of Innishmore are scattered a number of small islets, some scarcely more than barren rocks, called the Brannocks. One of these alone was inhabited, and that by a single family. No isolation could be more complete than that of these poor people, who thus dwelt amid the wide waste of waters, never seeing the face of a stranger, and only at long intervals visiting the mainland. Indeed the only intercourse they could be said to maintain with their fellow-men was when by chance they fell in with some homeward-bound ship at sea, and sold the little produce of their nets; for they lived by fishing, and had no other subsistence.
The largest of these islands was called “Brannock-buoy,” or the Yellow Brannock, from the flower of a kind of crocus which grew profusely over it. It was a wild, desolate spot, scarcely rising above the waves around it, save in one quarter, where a massive column of rock rose to the height of several hundred feet, and formed the only shelter against the swooping wind, which came without break or hindrance from the far-away shores of Labrador. At the foot of this strong barrier—so small and insignificant as to escape notice from the sea—stood the little cabin of Owen Joyce. Built in a circular form, the chimney in the middle, the rude structure resembled some wigwam of the prairies rather than the home of civilized beings.
Certain low partitions within subdivided the space into different chambers, making the centre the common apartment of the family, where they cooked and ate and chatted; for, with all their poverty and privation, theirs was a life not devoid of its own happiness, nor did they believe that their lot was one to repine at.
Seasons of unprofitable labor, years of more or less pressure, they had indeed experienced, but actual want had never visited them; sickness, too, was almost as rare. Owen Joyce was, at the time we speak of, upwards of eighty; and although his hair was white as snow, his cheek was ruddy, his white teeth were perfect, and his eye—like that of Moses—“was not dim.” Surrounded by his children and grandchildren, the old man lived happy and contented, his daily teaching being to impress upon them the blessings they derived from a life so sheltered from all the accidents of fortune; to have, as he called the island, “the little craft all their own.”
The traits of race and family, the limited range of their intercourse with the world, served to make them all wonderfully alike, not only in feature but expression; so that even the youngest child had something of the calm, steadfast look which characterized the old man. The jet-black hair and eyes and the swarthy skin seemed to indicate a Spanish origin, and gave them a type perfectly distinctive and peculiar.
In the midst of them moved one who, though dressed in the light-blue woollen kirtle, the favorite costume of the islands, bore in her fresh bright features the traces of a different blood; her deep blue eye, soft and almost sleepy, her full, well-curved lips, were strong contrasts to the traits around her. The most passing glance would have detected that she was not “one of them,” nor had she been long an inmate of this dwelling.
It chanced that some short time before, one of Joyce's sons, in boarding an outward-bound American ship, had heard of a young countrywoman who, having taken her passage for New York, no sooner found herself at sea—parted, as she deemed it, forever from home and country—than she gave way to the most violent grief; so poignant, indeed, was her sorrow that the captain compassionately offered to relinquish her passage-money if Joyce would take charge of her, and re-land her on the shores of Ireland. The offer was accepted, and the same evening saw her safely deposited on the rocky island of Brannock. Partly in gratitude to her deliverer, partly in the indulgence of a secret wish, she asked leave to remain with them and be their servant; the compact was agreed to, and thus was she there.
Theirs was not a life to engender the suspicions and distrusts which are current in the busier walks of men. None asked her a reason for her self-banishment, none inquired whether the cause of her exile was crime or misfortune. They had grown to feel attachment to her for the qualities of her gentle, quiet nature, a mild submissive temper, and a disposition to oblige, that forgot nothing save herself. Her habits had taught her resources and ways which their isolated existence had denied them, and she made herself useful by various arts, which, simple as they were, seemed marvellous to the apprehension of her hosts; and thus, day by day, gaining on their love and esteem, they came at length to regard her with an affection mingled with a sort of homage.
Poor Joan Landy—for we have not to explain that it was she—was happy,—happier than ever she had been before. The one great sorrow of her life was, it is true, treasured in her heart; her lost home, her blighted hope, her severed affection—for she actually loved Magennis—were griefs over which she wept many an hour in secret; but there was a sense of duty, a conscious feeling of rectitude, that supported her in her sacrifice, and as she thought of her old grandfather's death-bed, she could say to her heart, “I have been true to my word with him.”
The unbroken quiet, the unchanging character of the life she led,—its very duties following a routine that nothing ever disturbed,—gave her ample time for thought; and thought, though tinged with melancholy, has its own store of consolation; and if poor Joan sorrowed, she sorrowed like one who rather deplored the past than desired to re-live it! As time wore on, a dreamy indistinctness seemed to spread itself over the memory of her former life: it appeared little other than a mind-drawn picture. Nothing actual or tangible remained to convince her of its reality. It was only at rare intervals, and in the very clearest weather, the outline of the mountains of the mainland could be seen; and when she did behold them, they brought only some vague recollection to her; and so, too, the memories of her once home came through the haze of distance, dim and indistinct.
It was at the close of a day in June that the Joyces sat in front of the little cabin, repairing their nets, and getting their tackle in readiness for the sea. For some time previous the weather had been broken and unfavorable. Strong west winds and heavy seas—far from infrequent in these regions, even in midsummer—had rendered fishing impracticable; but now the aspect of a new moon, rising full an hour before sunset, gave promise of better, and old Joyce had got the launch drawn up on shore to refit, and sails were spread out upon the rocks to dry, and coils of rope, and anchors, and loose spars littered the little space before the door. The scene was a busy and not an unpicturesque one. There was every age, from the oldest to very infancy, all active, all employed. Some were calking the seams of the boat, others overhauled sails and cordage; some were preparing the nets, attaching cork floats or sinkers; and two chubby urchins, mere infants, laughing, fed the fire that blazed beneath a large pitch-pot, the light blue smoke rising calmly into the air, and telling those far away that the lone rock was not without inhabitants. To all seeming, these signs of life and habitation bad attracted notice; for a small boat which had quitted Innishmore for the mainland some time before, now altered her course, and was seen slowly bearing up towards the Brannocks. Though the sea was calm and waveless, the wind was only sufficient to waft her along at the slowest rate; a twinkling flash of the sea at intervals showed, however, that her crew were rowing, and at length the measured beat of the oars could be distinctly heard.
Many were the speculations of those who watched her course. They knew she was not a fishing-craft; her light spars and white sails were sufficient to refute that opinion. Neither was she one of the revenue-boats. What could she be, then, since no large ship was in sight to which she could have belonged? It is only to those who have at some one period or other of life sojourned in some lone spot of earth, away from human intercourse, that the anxiety of these poor people could be intelligible. If, good reader,—for to you we now appeal,—it has not been your lot to have once on a time lived remote from the world and its ways, you cannot imagine how intensely interesting can become the commonest of those incidents which mark ordinary existence. They assume, indeed, very different proportions from the real, and come charged with innumerable imaginings about that wondrous life, far, far away, where there are thoughts and passions and deeds and events which never enter into the dreamland of exile! It was a little after sunset that the boat glided into the small creek which formed the only harbor of the island; and the moment after, a young girl sprang on the shore, and hastened towards them.
Before the Joyces had recovered from their first surprise, they saw Joan burst from the spot, and, rushing down the slope, throw herself at the stranger's feet.
“And have I found you at last, dear Joan?” cried a soft, low voice, while the speaker raised her tenderly from the ground, and took her hand kindly within both her own.
“Oh, Miss Mary, to think you 'd come after me this far! over the say!” burst out Joan, sobbing through her joy; for joy it was that now lit up her features, and made her eyes sparkle even through the fresh tears that filled them.
“They told me you had sailed from Galway,” resumed Mary, “and I wrote to the ship-agent and found it was correct: your name was in the list of passengers, and the date of the day you sailed; but, I know not how it was, Joan, I still clung to the notion that you had contrived this plan to escape being discovered, and that you were concealed somewhere along the coast or in the islands. I believe I used to dream of this at first, but at last I thought of it all day long.”
“Thought of me all day long?” broke in Joan, sobbing.
“And why not, poor child? Was I not the cause of your leaving your home? Was it not my persuasion that induced you to leave the roof that sheltered you? I have often wondered whether I had right and reason on my side. I know at the time I believed I had such. At all events, but for me you had never quitted that home; but see, Joan, how what we are led to do with an honest purpose, if it fail to effect what we had in view, often leads to better and happier ends than we ever dreamed of. I only thought of conveying to you the last message of your poor grandfather. I little imagined how so simple an act could influence all your future fortune in life; and such it has done. Mr. Magennis, suspecting or discovering what share I had in your flight, has begun a law proceeding against me, and to give him a rightful claim for redress, has declared you to be—all that you wish, dear Joan—his lawful, wedded wife.”
It was some time before the poor girl could stifle the sobbing which burst from her very heart. She kissed Mary's hands over and over with rapture, and cried out at length, in broken, faltering accents, “Did n't they say well that called you a saint from heaven? Didn't they tell truth that said, God gave you as a blessing to us?”
“My poor Joan, you are grateful to me for what I have no share in. I am nothing but the bearer of good tidings. But tell me, how have you fared since we parted? Let me hear all that has happened to you.”
Joan told her simple story in a few words, never deviating from the narrative, save to speak her heartfelt gratitude to the poor people who had sheltered and befriended her.
“There they are!” cried she, pointing to the group, who, with a delicacy of sentiment that might have graced the most refined class, sat apart, never venturing by a look to obtrude upon the confidence of the others,—“there they are; and if the world was like them, life would n't have many crosses!”
Mary rose, and drew nigh the old man, who stood up respectfully to receive her.
“He does n't know much English, Miss Mary,” whispered Joan in her ear.
“Nor am I well skilled in Irish,” said Mary, smiling; “but I 'll do my best to thank him.”
However imperfectly she spoke the native tongue, the words seemed to act like a charm on those who heard them; and as, young and old, they gathered around her, their eager looks and delighted faces beamed with a triumphant joy. They had learned from the boatmen that it was the young princess—as in the language of the people she was called—was before them, and their pride and happiness knew no bounds.
Oh, if courtiers could feel one tithe of the personal devotion to the sovereign that did these poor peasants to her they regarded as their chief, what an atmosphere of chivalry would breathe within the palace of royalty! There was nothing they would not have done or dared at her bidding; and as she crossed their threshold, and sat down beside their hearth, the tears of joy that rose to every eye showed that this was an event to be treasured till memory could retain no more!
If Mary did not speak the native dialect fluently, there was a grace and a charm about the turn of the expressions she used that never failed to delight those who heard her. That imaginative thread that runs through the woof of Irish nature in every rank and condition of life—more conspicuous, probably, in the very humblest—imparted an intense pleasure to hearing and listening to her; and she, on her side, roused and stimulated by the adventurous character of the incident, the strange wild spot, the simple people, their isolation and their innocence, spoke with a warmth and an enthusiasm that were perfectly captivating.
She had seen much of the peasantry,—known them in the most unfrequented tracts, remote from all their fellow-men,—in far-away glens, by dreary mountains, where no footpaths led; but anything so purely simple and unsophisticated as these poor people she had never met with. The sons had been—and that rarely, too—on the mainland, but the children and their mothers had never left the Brannocks; they had never beheld a tree, nor even a flower, save the wild crocus on their native rock. With what eager delight, then, did they hear Mary describe the gardens of the castle,—pictures that glowed with all the gorgeous colors of a fairy tale. “You shall all come and see me, some of these days. I'll send you a messenger, to say the time,” said Mary; “and I'll promise that what you 'll witness will be far above my description of it!”
It was a sad moment when Mary arose to say good-bye. Joan, too, was to accompany her, and the grief at parting with her was extreme. Again and again the children clung round her, entreating her not to leave them; and she herself half faltered in her resolution. That lonely rock, that rude cabin, had been her refuge in the darkest hour of her life, and she felt the superstitious terror of her class at now deserting them.
“Come, come, dear Joan, remember that you have a home now that you can rightfully return to,” whispered Mary. “It is not in shame, but in honor, that you go back to it.”
It was already dark ere they left the Brannocks: a long, heavy swell, too, the signs of a storm, coming from the westward, made the boatmen eager to hasten their departure. As yet, however, the air was calm and still, but it was with that oppressive stillness that forebodes change. They hoisted their sail, but soon saw that they must, for a while at least, trust to their oars. The unbroken stillness, save by the measured stroke of the rowers, the dense dark atmosphere, and the reaction, after a day of toil and an event of a most moving kind, so overcame Mary that, leaning on Joan's shoulder, she fell off fast asleep. For a while Joan, proud of the burden she supported, devoted all her care to watch and protect her from the night air; but at last weariness stole over herself, and she dropped off to slumber.
Meanwhile the sea was rising; heavy waves struck the boat, and washed over her in sheets of spray, although no wind was stirring.
“We 'll have rain, or a gale of wind before long,” said one of the men.
“There 's some heavy drops falling now,” muttered another.
“Throw that sail over Miss Mary, for it will soon come down heavily.”
A loud clap of thunder burst forth, and as suddenly, like a torrent, the rain poured down, hissing over the dark sea, and filling the air with a dull, discordant noise. Still they slept on, nor heard nor felt aught of that gathering storm.
“There now, sure enough, it 's coming,” cried a boatman, as the sail shook tremulously; and two great waves, in quick succession, broke over the bow.
“We'll have to run for Innishmore,” said another, “and lucky if we get there before it comes on worse.”
“You ought to wake her up, Loony, and ask her what we are to do.”
“I 'll make straight for the harbor of Kilkieran,” replied the helmsman. “The wind is with us, and she's a good sea-boat. Take in the jib, Maurice, and we'll shorten all sail on her, and—”
The rest of his speech was drowned in the uproar of a tremendous sea, which struck the boat on her quarter and nearly overset her. Not another word was now uttered, as, with the instinct of their calling, they set about to prepare for the coming conflict. The mainsail was quickly lowered and reefed, the oars and loose spars secured, and then, seating themselves in the bottom of the boat, they waited in silence. By this time the rain had passed over, and a strong wind swept over the sea.
“She's going fast through the water, anyway!” said one of the men. But though the speech was meant to cheer, none felt or acknowledged the encouragement.
“I 'd rather than own Cro' Martin Castle Miss Mary was safe at home!” said Loony, as he drew the rough sleeve of his coat across his eyes, “for it's thicker it's getting over yonder!”
“It would be a black day that anything happened her!” muttered another.
“Musha! we've wives and childer,” said a third, “but she's worth a thousand of us!”
And thus, in broken whispers, they spoke; not a thought save of her, not a care save for her safety. They prayed, too, fervently, and her name was in all their supplications.
“She's singing to herself in her sleep,” whispered Loony. And the rough sailors hushed to hear her.
Louder and louder, however, grew the storm, sheets of spray and drift falling over the boat in showers, and all her timbers quivering as she labored in the stormy sea. A sailor whispered something in Loony's ear, and he grumbled out in reply,—“Why would I wake her up?”
“But I am awake, Loony,” said Mary, in a low, calm voice, “and I see all our danger; but I see, too, that you are meeting it like brave men, and, better still, like good ones.”
“The men was thinking we ought to bear up for Innish-more, Miss Mary,” said Loony, as though ashamed of offering on his own part such counsel.
“You'll do what you think best and safest for us all, Loony.”
“But you were always the captain, miss, when you were aboord!” replied he, with an effort to smile.
“And so I should be now, Loony, but that my heart is too full to be as calm and resolute as I ought to be. This poor thing had not been here now, but for me.” And she wrapped her shawl around Joan as she spoke. “Maybe it's anxiety, perhaps fatigue, but I have not my old courage to-night!”
“Faix! it will never be fear that will distress you!” said he.
“If you mean for myself and my own safety, Loony, you are right. It is not for me to repine at the hour that calls me away, but I cannot bear to think how you and others, with so many dear to you, should be perilled just to serve me! And poor Joan, too, at the moment when life was about to brighten for her!” She held down her head for a minute or two, and then suddenly, as it were, rallying, she cried out, “The boat is laboring too much for'ard, Loony; set the jib on her!”
“To be sure, if you ordher it, Miss Mary; but she has more sail now than she can carry.”
“Set the jib, Loony. I know the craft well; she 'll ride the waves all the lighter for it. If it were but daylight, I almost think I 'd enjoy this. We 've been out in as bad before.”
Loony shook his head as he went forward to bend the additional sail.
“You see she won't bear it, miss,” cried he, as the boat plunged fearfully into the trough of the sea.
“Let us try,” said she, calmly. “Stand by, ready to slack off, if I give the word.” And so saying, she took the tiller from the sailor, and seated herself on the weather-gunwale. “There, see how she does it now! Ah, Loony, confess, I am the true pilot. I knew my nerve would come back when I took my old post here. I was always a coward in a carriage, if I was n't on the box and the reins in my hands; and the same at sea. Sit up to windward, men, and don't move; never mind baling, only keep quiet.”
“Miss Mary was right,” muttered one of the men; “the head-sail is drawing her high out of the water!”
“Is that dark mass before us cloud, or the land?” cried she.
“It's the mountains, miss. There to the left, where you see the dip in the ridge, that's Kilkieran. I think I see the lights on shore now.”
“I see them now myself,” cried Mary. “Oh, how the sight of land gives love of life! They called earth truly who named her mother!” said she to herself. “What was that which swept past us, Loony?”
“A boat, miss; and they're hailing us now,” cried he, peeping over the gunwale. “They've put her about, and are following our course. They came out after us.”
“It was gallantly done, on such a night as this! I was just thinking to myself that poor old Mat Landy would have been out, were he living. You must take the tiller now, Loony, for I don't understand the lights on shore.”
“Because they're shifting every minute, miss. It's torches they have, and they 're moving from place to place; but we 'll soon be safe now.”
“Let us not forget this night, men,” said Mary, in a fervent voice. And then, burying her face within her hands, she spoke no more.
It was already daybreak when they gained the little harbor, well-nigh exhausted, and worn out with fatigue and anxiety. As for Mary, wet through and cold, she could not rise from her seat without assistance, and almost fainted as she put her foot on shore. She turned one glance seaward to where the other boat was seen following them, and then, holding Joan's hand, she slowly toiled up the rocky ascent to the village. To the crowd of every age that surrounded her she could only give a faint, sickly smile of recognition, and they, in deep reverence, stood without speaking, gazing on her wan features and the dripping garments which clung to her.
“No, not to the inn, Loony,” said she, to a question from him. “The first cabin we meet will shelter us, and then—home!” There was something of intense sorrow in the thought that passed then through her mind, for her eyes suddenly filled up, and heavy tears rolled along her cheeks. “Have they got in yet?” said she, looking towards the sea.
“Yes, miss; they're close alongside now. It's the revenue boat that went after us.”
“Wirra, wirra! but that's bad news for her now,” muttered a boatman, in conversation with an old woman at his side.
“What's the bad news, Patsey?” said Mary, overhearing him.
But the man did not dare to answer; and though he looked around on every side, none would speak for him.
“You used to be more frank with me,” said Mary, calmly. “Tell me what has happened.”
Still not a word was uttered, a mournful silence brooded over the crowd, and each seemed to shun the task of breaking it.
“You will make me fear worse than the reality, perhaps,” said she, tremulously. “Is the calamity near home? No. Is it then my uncle?” A low faint cry burst from her, and she dropped down on her knees; but scarcely had she joined her hands to pray, than she fell back, fainting, to the ground.
They carried her, still insensible as she was, into a fisherman's cabin, till they went in search of a conveyance to take her to the cottage.
“In spite of all your reasonings, all your cautions, and all your warnings, here I am once more, Harry, denizen of the little dreary parlor whence I first looked out at Dan Nelligan's shop something more than a year since. What changes of fortune has that brief space accomplished I what changes has it effected even in my own nature! I feel this in nothing more than in my altered relations with others. If the first evidence of amendment in a man be shame and sorrow for the past, I may probably be on the right road now, since I heartily grieve over the worthless, purposeless life I have led hitherto.
“I am well aware that you would not accept the reason I gave you for coming here. You said that, as to taking leave of my constituents, a letter was the ordinary and the sufficient course. You also hinted that our intercourse had not been of that close and friendly nature which requires a personal farewell, and then you suggested that other and less defensible motives had probably their share in this step. Well, you are right, perfectly right; I wanted to see the spot which has so far exerted an immense influence over me; I wanted—if you will have the confession—to see her too,—to see her in the humble station she belongs to, in the lowly garb of the steward's daughter. I was curious to ascertain what change her bearing would undergo in the change of position; would she conform to the lowlier condition at once and without struggle, or would her haughty nature chafe and fret against the obstacles of a small and mean existence? If you were right in guessing this, you are equally wrong in the motive you ascribe to me. Not, indeed, that you palpably express, but only hint at it; still I cannot endure even the shadow of such a surmise without a flat and full denial. Perhaps, after all, I have mistaken your meaning,—would it were so! I do indeed wish that you should not ascribe to me motives so unworthy and so mean. A revenge for her refusal of me! a reprisal for the proud rejection of my hand and fortune! No, my dear Harry, I feel, as I write the words, that they never were yours. You say, however, that I am curious to know if I should think her as lovable and attractive in the humble dress and humble station that pertain to her, as when I saw her moving more than equal amongst the proudest and haughtiest of Europe. To have any doubt on this score would be to distrust her sincerity of character. She must be what I have ever seen her, or she is an actress. Difference of condition, different associates, different duties will exact different discipline, but she herself must be the same, or she is a falsehood,—a deception.
“And then you add, it is perhaps as well that I should 'submit to the rude test of a disenchantment.' Well, I accept the challenge, and I am here.
“These thoughts of self would obtrude in the very beginning of a letter I had destined for other objects. You ask me for a narrative of my journey and its accidents, and you shall have it. On my way over here in the packet, I made acquaintance with an elderly man, who seemed thoroughly acquainted with all the circumstances of the Martins and their misfortunes. From him I ascertained that all Scanlan had told me was perfectly correct. The reversion of the estate has been sold for a sum incredibly small in proportion to its value, and in great part the proceeds of gambling transactions. Martin is, therefore, utterly, irretrievably ruined. Merl has taken every step with all the security of the best advice, and in a few months, weeks perhaps, will be declared owner of Cro' Martin. Even in the 'fast times' we live in, such rapid ruin as this stands alone! You tell me that of your own college and mess associates not more than one in five or six have survived the wreck of fortune the first few years of extravagance accomplish, and that Manheim, Brussels, and Munich can show the white-seamed, mock-smartened-up gentilities which once were the glories of Bond Street and the Park; but for poor Martin, I suspect, even these last sanctuaries do not remain,—as I hear it, he is totally gone.
“From the very inn where I am staying Merls agents are issuing notices of all kinds to the tenants and 'others' to desist and refrain from cutting timber, quarrying marbles, and what not, on certain unspeakable localities, with threats in case of non-compliance. Great placards cover the walls of the town, headed 'Caution to all Tenants on the Estate of Cro' Martin.' The excitement in the neighborhood is intense, overwhelming. Whatever differences of political opinion existed between the Martins and the people of the borough, whatever jealousies grew out of disparity of station, seemed suddenly merged in sympathy for this great misfortune. They are, of course, ignorant of the cause of this sudden calamity, and ask each other how, when, and where such a fortune because engulfed.
“But to proceed regularly. On my reaching Dublin, after a hurried visit to my father, I drove off to Mr. Repton's house. You may remember his name as that of the old lawyer, some of whose bar stories amused you so highly. I found him in a spacious mansion of an old neglected street,—Henrietta Street,—once the great aristocratic quarter of Ancient Dublin, and even to this day showing traces of real splendor. The old man received me in a room of immense proportions, furnished as it was when Flood was the proprietor. He was at luncheon when I entered; and for company had the very same stranger with whom I made acquaintance in the packet.
“Repton started as we recognized each other, but at a sign or a word, I'm not certain which, from the other, merely said, 'My friend was just speaking of his having met you, Mr. Massingbred.' This somewhat informal presentation over, I joined them, and we fell a chatting over the story of Cro' Martin.
“They were both eager to hear something about Merl, his character, pursuits, and position; and you would have been amazed to see how surprised they were at my account of a man whose type we are all so familiar with.
“You would scarcely credit the unfeigned astonishment manifested by these two shrewd and crafty men at the sketch I gave them of our Hebrew friend. One thing is quite clear,—it was not the habit, some forty or fifty years ago, to admit the Merls of the world to terms of intimacy, far less of friendship.
“'As I said, Repton,' broke in the stranger, sternly, 'it all comes of that degenerate tone which has crept in of late, making society like a tavern, where he who can pay his bill cannot be denied entrance. Such fellows as this Merl had no footing in our day. The man who associated with such would have forfeited his own place in the world.'
“'Very true,' said Repton, 'though we borrowed their money we never bowed to them.'
“'And we did wisely, sir,' retorted the other. 'The corruption of their manners was fifty times worse than all their usury! The gallant Hussar Captain, as we see here, never scrupled about admitting to his closest intimacy a fellow not fit company for his valet. Can't you perceive that when a man will descend to such baseness to obtain money, there is no measuring the depth he will go to when pressed to pay it?'
“'I am intimate with Martin,' said I, interrupting, 'and I can honestly assure you that it was rather to an easy, careless, uncalculating disposition he owes his misfortunes, than to anything like a spendthrift habit.'
“'Mere hair-splitting this, sir,' replied he, almost rudely. 'He who spends what is not his own, I have but one name for. It matters little in my estimation whether he extorts the supply by a bill or a bullet.'
“I own to you, Harry, I burned to retort to a speech the tone and manner of which were both more offensive than the words; but the stranger's age, his venerable appearance, and something like deep and recent sorrow about him, restrained me, and I caught, by a look from Repton, that he was grateful for my forbearance.
“'Come, sir,' said he, addressing me, 'you say you know Captain Martin; now let me ask you one question: Is there any one trait or feature of his character to which, if his present misfortunes were to pass away, you could attach a hope of amendment? Has not this life of bill-renewing, these eternal straits for cash—with all the humiliations that accompany them,—made him a mere creature of schemes and plots,—a usurer in spirit, though a pauper in fact?'
“'When I say, sir, that you are addressing this demand to one whom Captain Martin deems his friend, you will see the impropriety you have fallen into.'
“'My young friend is right,' broke in Repton. 'The Court rules against the question; nor would it be evidence even if answered.'
“I was angry at this interference of Repton's. I wanted to reply to this man myself; but still, as I looked at his sorrow-struck features, and saw what I fancied the marks of a proud suffering spirit, I was well satisfied at not having given way to temper; still more so did I feel as he turned towards me, and, with a manner of ineffable gentleness, said, 'I entreat you to pardon me, sir, for an outburst of which I am already ashamed. A rude life and some bitter experiences have made me hard of heart and coarse in speech; still, it is only in moments of forgetfulness that I cease to remember what indulgence he owes to others who has such need of forgiveness himself.'
“I grasped his hand at once, and felt that his pressed mine like a friend's.
“'You spoke of going down to the West,' said he, after a brief pause. 'I start for that country to-night; you would do me a great favor should you accompany me.'
“I acceded at once, and he went on. 'Repton was to have been of the party, but business delays him a few days in town.'
“'I 'll join you before the end of the week,' said Repton; 'by that time Mr. Massingbred will have expended all his borough blandishments and be free to give us his society.'
“Though the old lawyer now tried, and tried cleverly, to lead us away to lighter, pleasanter themes, the attempt was a failure; each felt, I suspect, some oppressive weight on his spirits that indisposed him to less serious talk; and again we came back to the Martins, the stranger evidently seeking to learn all he could of the disposition and temper of the young man.
“'It is as I thought,' said he, at last. 'It is the weak, sickly tone of the day has brought all this corruption upon us! Once upon a time the vices and follies of young men took their rise in their several natures,—this one gambled, the other drank, and so on,—the mass, however, was wonderfully sound and healthy; the present school, however, is to ape a uniformity, so that each may show himself in the livery of his fellows, thus imbibing wickedness he has no taste for, and none be less depraved and heartless than those around him. Let the women but follow the fashion, and there 's an end of us, as the great people we boasted to be!'
“I give you, so well as I can trust my memory, his words, Harry, but I cannot give you a certain sardonic bitterness,—a tone of mingled scorn and sorrow, such as I never before witnessed. He gave me the impression of being one who, originally frank, generous, and trustful, had, by intercourse with the world and commerce with mankind, grown to suspect every one and disbelieve in honesty, and yet could not bring his heart to acknowledge what his head had determined. In this wise, at least, I read his character from the opportunities I had of conversing with him on our journey. It was easy to see that he was a gentleman,—taking the word in the widest of its acceptations,—but from things that dropped from him, I could gather that his life had been that of an adventurer. He had been in the sea and land services of many of those new states of Southern America, had even risen to political importance in some of them; had possessed mines and vast tracts of territory one day, and the next saw himself 'without a piastre.' He had conducted operations against the Indians, and made treaties with them, and latterly had lived as the elected chief of a tribe in the west of the Rocky Mountains. But he knew civilized as well as savage life, had visited Spain in the rank of an envoy, and was familiar with all the great society of Rome, and the intrigues of its prince-bishops. The only theme, however, on which he really warmed was sport. The prairies brought out all his enthusiasm, and then he spoke like one carried away by glorious recollections of a time when, as he said himself, 'heart and hand and eye never failed him.'
“When he spoke of family ties or home affections, it was in a spirit of almost mockery, which puzzled me. His reasoning was that the attachments we form are only emanations of our own selfishness. We love, simply to be loved again. Whereas, were we single-hearted, we should be satisfied to know that those dear to us were well and happy, and only seek to serve them without demonstration or display.
“Am I wearying you, Harry, by dwelling on the traits of a man who, for the brief space I have known him, has made the most profound impression upon me? Even where I dissent—as is often the case—from his views, I have to own to myself that were I he, I should think and reason precisely as he does. I fancied at first that, like many men who had quitted civilized life for the rude ways of the 'bush,' he would have contrasted the man of refinement unfavorably with the savage, but he was too keen and acute for such a sweeping fallacy; he saw the good and evil in both, and sensibly remarked how independent of all education were the really strong characteristics of human nature. 'There is not a great quality of our first men,' said he, 'that I have not found to exist among the wild tribes of the Far West, nor is there an excellence of savage nature I have not witnessed amidst the polished and the pampered.'
“From what I can collect, he is only here passingly; some family matter has brought him over to this country; but he is already impatient to be back to his old haunts and associates, and his home beside the Orinoco. He has even asked me to come and visit him there; and from all I can see I should be as likely to attain distinction among the Chaymas as in the House of Commons, and should find the soft turf of the Savannahs as pleasant as the Opposition benches. In fact, Harry, I have half promised to accept his invitation; and if he renew it with anything like earnestness, I am resolved to go.
“I am just setting out for the Hendersons', and while the horses are being harnessed I have re-read your letter. Of course I have 'counted the cost,'—I have weighed the question to a pennyweight! I could already write down the list of those who will not know me at all, those who will know me a little, and the still fewer who will know my wife! Can you not see, my dear friend, that where one drags the anchor so easily, the mooring-ground was never good? The society to which you belong by such slender attachments gives no wound by separation from it.
“My anxiety now is on a very different score: it is that she will still refuse me. The hope I cling to is that she will see in my persistence a proof of sincerity. I would not, if I could, bring any family influence to my aid, and yet, short of this, there is nothing I would not do to insure success.
“I wish I had never re-opened your letter; that vein of sarcastic coolness which runs through it will never turn me from my purpose. You seem to forget, besides, that you are talking to a man of the world, just as hackneyed, just as 'used up' as yourself. I should like to see you assume this indolent dalliance before La Henderson! Take my word for it, Harry, you 'd be safer with the impertinence amongst some of your duchesses in Pall Mall. You say that great beauty in a woman, like genius in a man, is a kind of brevet nobility, and yet you add that the envy of the world will never weary of putting the possessor 'on his title.' How gladly would I accept this challenge! Ay, Harry, I tell you, in all defiance, that your proudest could not vie with her!
“If I wanted a proof of the vassalage of the social state we live in, I have it before me in the fact that a man like yourself, wellborn, young, rich, and high-hearted, should place the judgments and prejudices of half a dozen old tabbies of either sex above all the promptings of a noble ambition—all the sentiments of a generous devotion. Your starling cry of 'the Steward's daughter,' then, does not deter, it only determines the purpose
“Of yours faithfully,
“Jack Massingbred.”
“You 'll see by the papers that I have accepted the Chiltern Hundreds. This is the first step.—now for the second!”