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CHAPTER XXVII. DARKENING FORTUNES

The Martins had always lived a life of haughty estrangement from their neighbors; there were none of exactly their own rank and pretensions within miles of them, and they were too proud to acknowledge the acquaintance of a small squirearchy, which was all that the country around could boast. Notwithstanding all the isolation of their existence, their departure created a great void in the county, and their absence was sensibly felt by every class around. The very requirements of a large fortune suggest a species of life and vitality. The movement of servants, the passing and repassing of carriages, the necessary intercourse with market and post, – all impart a degree of bustle and movement, terribly contrasted by the unbroken stillness of a deserted mansion.

Lady Dorothea had determined that there should be no ambiguity as to the cause of their departure; she had given the most positive orders on this head to every department of the household. To teach an ungrateful people the sore consequences of their own ingratitude, the lesson should be read in everything: in the little villages thrown out of work, in the silent quarries, the closed schoolhouses, the model farm converted into grass-land, even to the grand entrance, now built up by a wall of coarse masonry, the haughty displeasure of the proud mistress revealed itself, all proclaiming the sentiment of a deep, unforgiving vengeance. She had tortured her ingenuity for details which should indicate her anger; nor was she satisfied if her displeasure should not find its way into every cabin and at every hearth. The small hamlet of Cro’ Martin had possessed a dispensary. A hard-working, patient, and skilful man had passed many years of life there as the doctor, eking out the poor subsistence of that unfavored lot, and supporting a family by a life of dreary toil. From this her Ladyship’s subscription – the half of all his salary – was now to be withdrawn. She thought “Cloves was grown negligent; it might be age, – if so, a younger man would be better; besides, if he could afford to dress his three daughters in the manner he did, he surely could not require her thirty pounds per annum.” The servants, too, complained that he constantly mistook their complaints. In fact, judgment was recorded against Cloves, and there was none to recommend him to mercy!

We have said that there was a little chapel within the bounds of the demesne; it occupied a corner of a ruin which once had formed Cro’ Martin Abbey, and now served for the village church. It was very small, but still large enough for its little congregation. The vicar of this humble benefice was a very old man, a widower, and childless, though once the father of a numerous family. Dr. Leslie had, some eighteen years back, been unfortunate enough to incur her Ladyship’s displeasure, and was consequently never invited to the castle, nor recognized in any way, save by the haughty salute that met him as he left the church. To save him, however, a long and tedious walk on Sundays, he was permitted to make use of a little private path to the church, which led through one of the shrubberies adjoining his own house, – a concession of the more consequence as he was too poor to keep a carriage of the humblest kind. This was now ordered to be closed up, the gate removed, and a wall to replace it. “The poor had got the habit of coming that way; it was never intended for their use, but they had usurped it. To-morrow or next day we should hear of its being claimed at law as a public right of passage. It was better to do the thing in time. In short, it must be ‘closed.’” By some such reasoning as this Lady Dorothea persuaded herself to this course; and who should gainsay her? Oh, if men would employ but one tenth of all that casuistry by which they minister to their selfishness, in acts of benevolence and good feeling, – if they would only use a little sophistry, to induce them to do right, – what a world this might be!

Mary Martin knew nothing of these decisions; overwhelmed by the vast changes on every side, almost crushed beneath the difficulties that surrounded her, her first few weeks passed over like a disturbed dream. Groups of idle, unemployed people saluted her in mournful silence as she passed the roads. Interrupted works, half-executed plans met her eye at every turn, and at every moment the same words rang in her ears – “Her Ladyship’s orders” – as the explanation of all.

Hitherto her life had been one of unceasing exertion and toil; from early dawn to late night she had been employed; her fatigues, however, great as they were, had been always allied with power. What she willed she could execute. Means never failed her, no matter how costly the experiment, to carry out her plans, and difficulty gave only zest to every undertaking. There is nothing more captivating than this sense of uncontrolled ability for action, especially when exercised by one of a warm and enthusiastic nature. To feel herself the life and spring of every enterprise, to know that she suggested and carried out each plan, that her ingenuity devised, and her energy accomplished all the changes around her, was in itself a great fascination; and now suddenly she was to awake from all this, and find herself unoccupied and powerless. Willingly, without a regret, could she abdicate from all the pomp and splendor of a great household; she saw troops of servants depart, equipage sold, great apartments closed up without a pang! To come down to the small conditions of narrow fortune in her daily life cost her nothing, beyond a smile. It was odd, it was strange; but it was no more! Far otherwise, however, did she feel the circumstances of her impaired power. That hundreds of workmen were no longer at her bidding, that whole families no longer looked up to her for aid and comfort, – these were astounding facts, and came upon her with an actual shock.

“For what am I left here?” cried she, passionately, to Henderson, as he met each suggestion she made by the one cold word, “Impossible.” “Is it to see destitution that I cannot relieve, – witness want that I am powerless to alleviate? To what end or with what object do I remain?”

“I canna say, miss,” was the dry response.

“If it be to humiliate me by the spectacle of my own inefficiency, a day or a week will suffice for that; years could not teach me more.”

Henderson bowed what possibly might mean an acquiescence.

“I don’t speak of the estate,” cried she, earnestly; “but what ‘s to become of the people?”

“Many o’ them will emigrate, miss, I’ve no doubt,” said he, “when they see there ‘s nothing to bide for.”

“You take it easily, sir. You see little hardships in men having to leave home and country; but I tell you that home may be poor and country cruel, and yet both very hard to part with.”

“That ‘s vara true, miss,” was the dry response.

“For anything there is now to be done here, you, sir, are to the full as competent as I am. I ask again, To what end am I here?”

Giving to her question a very different significance from what she intended, Henderson calmly said, “I thought, miss, it was just yer ain wish, and for no other reason.”

Mary’s cheek became crimson, and her eyes flashed with angry indignation; but repressing the passion that was bursting within her, she walked hastily up and down the room in silence. At length, opening a large colored map of the estate which lay on the table, she stood attentively considering it for some time. “The works at Carrigulone are stopped?” said she, hastily.

“Yes, miss.”

“And the planting at Kyle’s Wood?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And even the thinning there, – is that stopped?”

“Yes, miss; the bark is to be sold, and a’ the produce of the wood for ten years, to a contractor, a certain Mister – ”

“I don’t want his name, sir. What of the marble quarries?”

“My Lady thinks they’re nae worth a’ they cost, and won’t hear o’ their being worked again.”

“And is the harbor at Kilkieran to be given up?”

“Yes, miss, and the Osprey’s Nest will be let. I think they ‘ll mak’ an inn or a public o’ it.”

“And if the harbor is abandoned, what is to become of the fishermen? The old quay is useless.”

“Vara true, miss; but there’s a company goin’ to take the royalties o’ the coast the whole way to Belmullet.”

“A Scotch company, Mr. Henderson?” said Mary, with a sly malice in her look.

“Yes, miss,” said he, coloring slightly. “The house of M’Grotty and Co. is at the head o’ it.”

“And are they the same enterprising people who have proposed to take the demesne on lease, provided the gardens be measured in as arable land?”

“They are, miss; they’ve signed the rough draught o’ the lease this morning.”

“Indeed!” cried she, growing suddenly pale as death. “Are there any other changes you can mention to me, since in the few days I have been ill so much has occurred?”

“There ‘s nae muckle more to speak o’, miss. James M’Grotty – he’s the younger brother – was here yesterday to try and see you about the school. He wants the house for his steward; but if you object, he ‘ll just take the doctor’s.”

“Why – where is Dr. Cloves to go?”

“He does na ken exactly, miss. He thinks he ‘ll try Auckland, or some of these new places in New Zealand.”

“But the dispensary must be continued; the people cannot be left without medical advice.”

“Mr. James says he ‘ll think aboot it when he comes over in summer. He’s a vara spirited young man, and when there’s a meetin’-house built in the village – ”

“Enough of this, Henderson. Come over here tomorrow, for I ‘m not strong enough to hear more to-day, and let Mr. Scanlan know that I wish to see him this evening.”

And Mary motioned with her hand that he should withdraw. Scarcely was the door closed behind him than she burst into a torrent of tears; her long pent-up agony utterly overpowered her, and she cried with all the vehemence of a child’s grief. Her heart once opened to sorrow, by a hundred channels came tributaries to her affliction. Up to that moment her uncle’s departure had never seemed a cruelty; now it took all the form of desertion. The bitterness of her forlorn condition had never struck her till it came associated with all the sorrows of others. It is not impossible that wounded self-love entered into her feelings. It is by no means unlikely that the sense of her own impaired importance added poignancy to her misery. Who shall anatomize motives, or who shall be skilful enough to trace the springs of one human emotion? There was assuredly enough outside of and above all personal consideration to ennoble her grief and dignify her affliction.

Her first impulses led her to regard herself as utterly useless; her occupation gone, and her whole career of duty annihilated. A second and a better resolve whispered to her that she was more than ever needful to those who without her would be left without a friend. “If I desert them, who is to remain?” asked she. “It is true I am no more able to set in motion the schemes by which their indigence was alleviated. I am powerless, but not all worthless. I can still be their nurse, their comforter, their schoolmistress. My very example may teach them how altered fortune can be borne with fortitude and patience. They shall see me reduced to a thousand privations, and perhaps even this may bear its lesson.” Drying her tears, she began to feel within her some of the courage she hoped to inspire in others; and anxious not to let old Catty detect the trace of sorrow in her features, issued forth into the wood for a walk.

As the deep shadows thickened around her, she grew calmer and more meditative. The solemn stillness of the place, the deep, unbroken quietude, imparted its own soothing influence to her thoughts; and as she went, her heart beat freer, and her elastic temperament again arose to cheer and sustain her. To confront the future boldly and well, it was necessary that she should utterly forget the past. She could no longer play the great part to which wealth and high station had raised her; she must now descend to that humbler one, – all whose influence should be derived from acts of kindness and words of comfort, unaided by the greater benefits she had once dispensed.

The means placed at her disposal for her own expenditure had been exceedingly limited. It was her own desire they should be so, and Lady Dorothea had made no opposition to her wishes. Beyond this she had nothing, save a sum of five thousand pounds payable at her uncle’s death. By strictest economy – privation, indeed – she thought that she could save about a hundred pounds a year of this small income; but to do so would require the sale of both her horses, retaining only the pony and the little carriage, while her dress should be of the very simplest and plainest. In what way she should best employ this sum was to be for after consideration. The first thought was how to effect the saving without giving to the act any unnecessary notoriety. She felt that her greatest difficulty would be old Catty Broon. The venerable housekeeper had all her life regarded her with an affection that was little short of worship. It was not alone the winning graces of Mary’s manner, nor the attractive charms of her appearance that had so captivated old Catty; but that the young girl, to her eyes, represented the great family whose name she bore, and represented them so worthily. The title of the Princess, by which the Country people knew her, seemed her just and rightful designation. Mary realized to her the proud scion of a proud stock, who had ruled over a territory rather than a mere estate; how, then, could she bear to behold her in all the straits and difficulties of a reduced condition? There seemed but one way to effect this, which was to give her new mode of life the character of a caprice. “I must make old Catty believe it is one of my wild and wilful fancies, – a sudden whim, – out of which a little time will doubtless rally me. She is the last in the world to limit me in the indulgence of a momentary notion; she will, therefore, concede everything to my humor, patiently awaiting the time when it shall assume a course the very opposite.”

Some one should, however, be intrusted with her secret, – without some assistance it could not be carried into execution; and who should that be? Alas, her choice was a very narrow one. It lay between Scanlan and Henderson. The crafty attorney was not, indeed, much to Mary’s liking. His flippant vulgarity and pretension were qualities she could ill brook; but she had known him do kind things. She had seen him on more than one occasion temper the sharpness of some of her Ladyship’s ukases, little suspecting, indeed, how far the possible impression upon herself was the motive that so guided him; she had, therefore, no difficulty in preferring him to the steward, whose very accent and manner were enough to render him hateful to her. Scanlan, besides, would necessarily have a great deal in his power; he would be able to make many a concession to the poor people on the estate, retard the cruel progress of the law, or give them time to provide against its demands. Mary felt that she was in a position to exercise a certain influence over him; and, conscious of the goodness of the cause she would promote, never hesitated as to the means of employing it.

Who shall say, too, that she had not noticed the deferential admiration by which he always distinguished her? for there is a species of coquetry that takes pleasure in a conquest where the profits of victory would be thoroughly despised. We are not bold enough to say that such feelings found their place in Mary’s heart. We must leave its analysis to wiser and more cunning anatomists.

Straying onwards ever in deep thought, and not remarking whither, she was suddenly struck by the noise of masonry, – strange sounds in a spot thus lonely and remote; and now walking quickly onward, she found herself on the path by which the vicar on Sundays approached the church; and here, at a little distance, descried workmen employed in walling up the little gateway of the passage.

“By whose orders is this done?” cried Mary, to whose quick intelligence the act revealed its whole meaning and motive.

“Mr. Henderson, miss,” replied one of the men. “He said we were to work all night at it, if we could n’t be sure of getting it done before Sunday.”

A burst of passionate indignation rose to her lips, but she turned away without a word, and re-entered the wood in silence.

“Yes,” cried she, to herself, “it is, indeed, a new existence is opening before me; let me strive so to control my temper, that I may view it calmly and dispassionately, so that others may not suffer from the changes in my fortune.”

She no sooner reached the house than she despatched a note to Mr. Scanlan, requesting to see him as early as possible on the following morning. This done, she set herself to devise her plans for the future, – speculations, it must be owned, to which her own hopeful temperament gave a coloring that a colder spirit and more calculating mind had never bestowed on them.

CHAPTER XXVIII. HOW MR. SCANLAN GIVES SCOPE TO A GENEROUS IMPULSE

It is a remark of Wieland’s, that although the life of man is measured by the term of fourscore years and ten, yet that his ideal existence or, as he calls it, his “unacted life,” meaning thereby his period of dreamy, projective, and forecasting existence, would occupy a far wider space. And he goes on to say that it is in this same imaginative longevity men differ the most from each other, the poet standing to the ungifted peasant in the ratio of centuries to years.

Mr. Maurice Scanlan would not appear a favorable subject by which to test this theory. If not endowed with any of the higher and greater qualities of intellect, he was equally removed from any deficiency on that score. The world called him “a clever fellow,” and the world is rarely in fault in such judgments. Where there is a question of the creative faculties, where it is the divine essence itself is the matter of decision, the world will occasionally be betrayed into mistakes, as fashion and a passing enthusiasm may mislead it; but where it is the practical and the real, the exercise of gifts by which men make themselves rich and powerful, then the world makes no blunders. She knows them as a mother knows her children. They are indeed the “World’s own.”

We have come to these speculations by contemplating Mr. Scanlan as he sat with Mary Martin’s open letter before him. The note was couched in polite terms, requesting Mr. Scanlan to favor the writer with a visit at his earliest convenience, if possible early on the following morning. Had it been a document of suspected authenticity, a forged acceptance, an interpolated article in a deed, a newly discovered codicil to a will, he could not have canvassed every syllable, scrutinized every letter, with more searching zeal. It was hurriedly written; there was, therefore, some emergency. It began, “Dear sir,” a style she had never employed before; the letter “D” was blotted, and seemed to have been originally destined for an “M,” as though she had commenced “Miss Martin requests,” etc., and then suddenly adopted the more familiar address. The tone of command by which he was habitually summoned to Cro’ Martin was assuredly not there, and Maurice was not the man to undervalue the smallest particle of evidence.

“She has need of me,” cried he to himself; “she sees everything in a state of subversion and chaos around her, and looks to me as the man to restore order. The people are entreating her to stay law proceedings, to give them time, to employ them; the poorest are all importuning her with stories of their sufferings. She is powerless, and, what’s worse, she does not know what it is to be powerless to help them. She’ll struggle and fret and scheme, and plan fifty things, and when she has failed in them all, fall back upon Maurice Scanlan for advice and counsel.”

It was a grave question with Scanlan how far he would suffer her persecutions to proceed before he would come to her aid. “If I bring my succor too early, she may never believe the emergency was critical; if I delay it too long, she may abandon the field in despair, and set off to join her uncle.” These were the two propositions which he placed before himself for consideration. It was a case for very delicate management, great skill, and great patience, but it was well worth all the cost. “If I succeed,” said he to himself, “I’m a made man. Mary Martin Mrs. Scanlan, I ‘m the agent for the whole estate, with Cro’ Martin to live in, and all the property at my discretion. If I fail, – that is, if I fail without blundering, – I ‘m just where I was. Well,” thought he, as he drove into the demesne, “I never thought I’d have such a chance as this. All gone, and she alone here by herself: none to advise, not one even to keep her company! I’d have given a thousand pounds down just for this opportunity, without counting all the advantages I have in my power from my present position, for I can do what I like with the estate, – give leases or break them. It will be four months at least before old Repton comes down here, and in that time I’ll have finished whatever I want to do. And now to begin the game.” And with this he turned into the stable-yard, and descended from his gig. Many men would have been struck by the changed aspect of the place, – silence and desolation where before there were movement and bustle; but Scanlan only read in the altered appearances around the encouragement of his own ambitious hopes. The easy swagger in which the attorney indulged while moving about the stable-yard declined into a more becoming gait as he traversed the long corridors, and finally became actually respectful as he drew nigh the library, where he was informed Miss Martin awaited him, so powerful was the influence of old habit over the more vulgar instincts of his nature. He had intended to be very familiar and at his ease, and ere he turned the handle of the door his courage failed him.

“This is very kind of you, Mr. Scanlan,” said she, advancing a few steps towards him as he entered. “You must have started early from home.”

“At five, miss,” said he, bowing deferentially.

“And of course you have not breakfasted?”

“Indeed, then, I only took a cup of coffee. I was anxious to be early. I thought from your note that there might be something urgent.”

Mary half smiled at the mingled air of bashfulness and gallantry in which he uttered these broken sentences; for without knowing it himself, while he began in some confusion, he attained a kind of confidence as he went on.

“Nor have I breakfasted, either,” said she; “and I beg, therefore, you will join me.”

Scanlan’s face actually glowed with pleasure.

“I have many things to consult you upon with regard to the estate, and I am fully aware that there is nobody more competent to advise me.”

“Nor more ready and willing, miss,” said Maurice, bowing.

“I ‘m perfectly certain of that, Mr. Scanlan. The confidence my uncle has always reposed in you assures me on that head.”

“Was n’t I right about the borough, Miss Mary?” broke he in. “I told you how it would be, and that if you did n’t make some sort of a compromise with the Liberal party – ”

“Let me interrupt you, Mr. Scanlan, and once for all assure you that there is not one subject of all those which pertain to this county and its people which has so little interest for me as the local squabbles of party; and I ‘m sure no success on either side is worth the broken friendships and estranged affections it leaves behind it.”

“A beautiful sentiment, to which I respond with all my heart,” rejoined Scanlan, with an energy that made her blush deeply.

“I only meant to say, sir,” added she, hastily, “that the borough and its politics need never be discussed between us.”

“Just so, miss. We’ll call on the next case,” said Scanlan.

“My uncle’s sudden departure, and a slight indisposition under which I have labored for a week or so, have thrown me so far in arrear of all knowledge of what has been done here, that I must first of all ask you, not how the estate is to be managed in future, but does it any longer belong to us?”

“What, miss?” cried Scanlan, in amazement.

“I mean, sir, is it my uncle’s determination to lease out everything, – even to the demesne around the Castle; to sell the timber and dispose of the royalties? If so, a mere residence here could have no object for me. It seems strange, Mr. Scanlan, that I should have to ask such a question. I own to you, – it is not without some sense of humiliation that I do so, – I believed, I fancied I had understood my uncle’s intentions. Some of them he had even committed to writing, at my request; you shall see them yourself. The excitement and confusion of his departure, – the anxieties of leave-taking, – one thing or another, in short, gave me little time to seek his counsel as to many points I wished to know; and, in fact, I found myself suddenly alone before I was quite prepared for it, and then I fell ill, – a mere passing attack, but enough to unfit me for occupation.”

“Breakfast is served, miss,” said a maid-servant, at this conjuncture, opening a door into a small room, where the table was spread.

“I’m quite ready, and so I hope is Mr. Scanlan,” said Mary, leading the way.

No sooner seated at table than she proceeded to do the honors with an ease that plainly told that all the subject of her late discourse was to be left for the present in abeyance. In fact, the very tone of her voice was changed, as she chatted away carelessly about the borough people and their doings, what strangers had lately passed through the town, and the prospects of the coming season at Kilkieran.

No theme could more readily have put Mr. Scanlan at his ease. He felt, or fancied he felt, himself at that degree of social elevation above the Oughterard people, which enabled him to talk with a species of compassionate jocularity of their little dinners and evening parties. He criticised toilet and manners and cookery, therefore, with much self-complacency, – far more than had he suspected that Mary Martin’s amusement was more derived from the pretension of the speaker than the matter which he discussed.

“That’s what I think you’ll find hardest of all, Miss Martin,” said he, at the close of a florid description of the borough customs. “You can have no society here.”

“And yet I mean to try,” said she, smiling; “at least, I have gone so far as to ask Mrs. Nelligan to come and dine with me on Monday or Tuesday next.”

“Mrs. Nelligan dine at Cro’ Martin!” exclaimed he.

“If she will be good enough to come so far for so little!”

“She ‘d go fifty miles on the same errand; and if I know old Dan himself, he ‘ll be a prouder man that day than when his son gained the gold medal.”

“Then I’m sure I, at least, am perfectly requited,” said Mary.

“But are you certain, Miss, that such people will suit you?” said Scanlan, half timidly. “They live in a very different style, and have other ways than yours. I say nothing against Mrs. Nelligan; indeed, she comes of a very respectable family; but sure she hasn’t a thought nor an idea in common with Miss Martin.”

“I suspect you are wrong there, Mr. Scanlan. My impression is, that Mrs. Nelligan and I will find many topics to agree upon, and that we shall understand each other perfectly; and if, as you suppose, there may be certain things new and strange to me in her modes of thinking, I ‘m equally sure she ‘ll have to conquer many prejudices with regard to me.

“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed, miss!” was the sententious reply of Scanlan.

“Then there’s our vicar!” broke in Mary. “Mr. Leslie will, I hope, take pity on my solitude.”

“Indeed, I forgot him entirely. I don’t think I ever saw him at Cro’ Martin.”

“Nor I, either,” said Mary; “but he may concede from a sense of kindness what he would decline to a mere point of etiquette. In a word, Mr. Scanlan,” said she, after a pause, “all the troubles and misfortunes which we have lately gone through – even to the destitution of the old house here – have in a great measure had their origin in the studious ignorance in which we have lived of our neighbors. I don’t wish to enter upon political topics, but I am sure that had we known the borough people, and they us, – had we been in the habit of mingling and associating together, however little, – had we interchanged the little civilities that are the charities of social life, – we ‘d have paused, either of us, ere we gave pain to the other; we’d at least have made concessions on each side, and so softened down the asperities of party. More than half the enmities of the world are mere misconceptions.”

“That’s true!” said Scanlan, gravely. But his thoughts had gone on a very different errand from the theme in question, and were busily inquiring what effect all these changes might have upon his own prospects.

“And now for a matter of business,” said Mary, rising and taking her place at another table. “I shall want your assistance, Mr. Scanlan. There is a small sum settled upon me, but not payable during my uncle’s life. I wish to raise a certain amount of this, by way of loan, – say a thousand pounds. Will this be easily accomplished?”

“What’s the amount of the settlement, miss?” said Scanlan, with more eagerness than was quite disinterested.

“Five thousand pounds. There is the deed.” And she pushed a parchment towards him.

Scanlan ran his practised eye rapidly over the document, and with the quick craft of his calling saw it was all correct. “One or even two thousand can be had upon this at once, miss. It ‘s charged upon Kelly’s farm and the mills – ”

“All I want to know is, that I can have this sum at my disposal, and very soon; at once, indeed.”

“Will next week suit you?”

“Perfectly. And now to another point. These are the few memoranda my uncle left with me as to his wishes respecting the management of the estate. You will see that, although he desires a considerable diminution of the sum to be spent in wages, and a strict economy in all outlay, that he still never contemplated throwing the people out of employment. The quarries were to be worked as before, – the planting was to be continued, – the gardens and ornamental grounds, indeed, were to be conducted with less expense; but the harbor at Kilkieran and the new school-house at Ternagh were to be completed; and if money could be spared for it, he gave me leave to build a little hospital at the cross-roads, allowing forty pounds additional salary to Dr. Cloves for his attendance. These are the chief points; but you shall have the papers to read over at your leisure. We talked over many other matters; indeed, we chatted away till long after two o’clock the last night he was here, and I thought I understood perfectly all he wished. Almost his last words to me at parting were, ‘As little change as possible, Molly. Let the poor people believe that I am still, where my heart is, under the roof of Cro’ Martin!’”