Buch lesen: «The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)», Seite 27

The recollection of the moment brought the tears to her eyes, and she turned her head away in silence.

“Now,” said she, rallying, and speaking with renewed energy, “if what Henderson says be correct, something later must have been issued than all this; some directions which I have never seen, – not so much as heard of. He tells me of works to be stopped, people discharged, schoolhouses closed, tenants ejected; in fact, a whole catalogue of such changes as I never could have courage to see, much less carry through. I know my dear uncle well; he never would have imposed such a task upon me, nor have I the resources within me for such an undertaking.”

“And have you received no letter from Mr. Martin, from Dublin?” asked Scanlan.

“None, – not a line; a note from my aunt – indeed, not from my aunt, but by her orders, written by Kate Henderson – has reached me, in which, however, there is no allusion to the property or the place.”

“And yet her Ladyship said that Mr. Martin would write to you himself, in the course of the week, fully and explicitly.”

“To whom was this said, sir?”

“To myself, miss; there is the letter.” And Scanlan drew from his pocket-book a very voluminous epistle, in Kate Henderson’s hand. “This contains the whole of her Ladyship’s instructions. How all the works are to be stopped, – roads, woods, and quarries; the townlands of Carrigalone and Killybogue to be distrained; Kyle-a-Noe the same. If a tenant can be got for the demesne, it is to be let, with the shooting over the seven mountains, and the coast-fishing too. There’s to be no more charges for schools, hospital, or dispensary after next November; everything is to be on the new plan, what they call ‘Self-supporting.’ I ‘d like to know what that means. In fact, miss, by the time one half the orders given in that same letter is carried out, there won’t be such another scene of misery and confusion in all Ireland as the estate of Cro’ Martin.”

“And this is sanctioned by my uncle?”

“I suppose we must conclude it is, for he says nothing to the contrary; and Mr. Repton writes me what he calls ‘my instructions,’ in a way that shows his own feeling of indignation about the whole business.”

Mary was silent; there was not a sentiment which could give pain that had not then its place in her heart. Commiseration, deep pity for the sorrows she was to witness unavailingly, wounded pride, insulted self-esteem, – all were there! And she turned away to hide the emotions which overcame her. For a moment the sense of self had the mastery, and she thought but of how she was to endure all this humiliation. “Am I,” said she to her own heart, – “am I to be insulted by the rivalry of Scotch stewards and gardeners, to be thrust from my place of power by some low-born creature, not even of the soil, but an alien? – to live here bereft of influence, representing nothing save the decay of our fortunes?” The torrent of her passion ran full and deep, and her bosom heaved in the agony of the moment. And then as suddenly came the reaction. “How small a share is mine in all this suffering, and how miserably selfish are even my sorrows! It is of others I should think! – of those who must leave hearth and home to seek out a new resting-place, – of the poor, who are to be friendless, – of the suffering, to whom no comfort is to come, – of the old, who are to die in distant lands, – and the young, whose hearts are never to warm to the affections of a native country!”

While affecting to arrange the papers in his pocket-book, Scanlan watched every passing shade of emotion in her face. Nor was it a study in which he was ignorant; the habits of his calling had made him a very subtle observer. Many a time had he framed his question to a witness by some passing expression of the features. More than once had he penetrated the heart through the eye! The elevation of sentiment had given its own character to her handsome face; and as she stood proudly erect, with arms folded on her breast, there was in her look and attitude all the calm dignity of an antique statue.

Scanlan interpreted truthfully what passed within her, and rightly judged that no small sentiment of condolence or sympathy would be appropriate to the occasion. Nor was he altogether unprovided for the emergency. He had seen a king’s counsel warm up a jury to the boiling-point, and heard him pour forth, with all the seeming vehemence of an honest conviction, the wildest rhapsodies about desecrated hearths and blackened roof-trees, – talk of the spoiler and the seducer, – and even shed a tear “over the widow and the orphan!”

“What say you to all this, sir?” cried she. “Have you any counsel to give me, – any advice?”

“It is just what I have not, miss,” said he, despondingly; “and, indeed, it was uppermost in my heart this morning when I was writing my letter. What ‘s all I ‘m suffering compared to what Miss Martin must feel?”

“What letter do you allude to?” asked she, suddenly.

“A letter I wrote to Mr. Repton, miss,” said he, with a deep sigh. “I told him plainly my mind about everything; and I said, ‘If it ‘s for exterminating you are, – if you ‘re going to turn out families that were on the land for centuries, and drive away over the seas, God knows where, the poor people that thought the name of Martin a shield against all the hardships of life, all I have to say is, you must look elsewhere for help, since it is not Maurice Scanlan will aid you.’”

“You said all this, sir?” broke she in, eagerly.

“I did, miss. I told him I ‘d hold the under-agency till he named some one to succeed me; but that I ‘d not put my hand to one act or deed to distress the tenants. It ‘s giving up,” said I, “the best part of my means of support; it’s surrendering what I reckoned on to make me independent. But a good conscience is better than money, miss; and if I must seek out a new country, I ‘ll go at least without the weight of a cruel wrong over me; and if I see one of our poor Western people beyond seas, I ‘ll not be ashamed to meet him!”

“Oh, that was noble, – that was truly noble conduct!” cried she, grasping his hand in both her own. “How I thank you from my very heart for this magnanimity!”

“If I ever suspected you ‘d have said the half of this, Miss Mary, the sacrifice would have been a cheap one, indeed. But, in truth, I never meant to tell it. I intended to have kept my own secret; for I knew if any one only imagined why it was I threw up the agency, matters would only be worse on the estate.”

“Yes, you are right,” said she, thoughtfully. “This was most considerate. Such a censure would augment every difficulty.”

“I felt that, miss. What I said to myself was, ‘My successor will neither know the place nor the people; he ‘ll be cruel where he ought to have mercy, and spare those that he ought to keep to their duty.’ It isn’t in a day nor a week that a man learns the habits of a large tenantry, nor was it without labor and pains that I acquired my present influence amongst them.”

“Quite true,” said she; but more as though following out her own reflections than hearing his.

“They ‘ll have you, however,” said Scanlan, – “you, that are better to them than all the agents that ever breathed; and the very sight of you riding down amongst them will cheer their hearts in the darkest moments of life. I turned back the whole townland of Terry Valley. They were packing up to be off to America; but I told them, ‘she ‘s not going, – she ‘ll stay here, and never desert you.’”

“Nor will you either, sir,” cried Mary. “You will not desert them, nor desert me. Recall your letter!”

“It’s not gone off to the post yet. I was waiting to see you – ”

“Better still. Oh, Mr. Scanlan, bethink you how much yet may be done for these poor people, if we will but forget ourselves and what we think we owe to self-esteem. If you will have sacrifices to make, believe me, I shall not escape them also. It is nobler, too, and finer to remain here bereft of influence, stripped of all power, to share their sufferings and take part in their afflictions. Neither you nor I shall be to them what we have been; but still, let us not abandon them. Tell me this, – say that you will stay to counsel and advise me, to guide me where I need guidance, and give me all the benefit of your experience and your knowledge. Let it be a compact between us then; neither shall go while the other remains!”

It was with difficulty Scanlan could restrain his delight at these words. How flattering to his present vanity, – how suggestive were they of the future! With all the solemnity of a vow he bound himself to stay; and Mary thanked him with the fervor of true gratitude.

If there be few emotions so pleasurable as to be the object of acknowledged gratitude for real services, it may well be doubted whether the consciousness of not having merited this reward does not seriously detract from this enjoyment. There are men, however, so constituted that a successful scheme – no matter how unscrupulously achieved – is always a triumph, and who cherish their self-love even in degradation! Maurice Scanlan is before our reader, and whether he was one of this number it is not for us to say; enough if we record that when he cantered homeward on that day he sang many a snatch of a stray ballad, and none of them were sad ones.

CHAPTER XXIX. A SUNDAY MORNING AT CRO’ MARTIN

Nothing is further from our intention than to enter upon the long-vexed question as to the benefits of an Established Church for Ireland. Wiser heads than ours have discussed it polemically, politically, socially, and arithmetically; and there it is still, left to the judgment of each, as his religion, his party, or his prejudices sway him. There is one view of the subject, however, which no traveller in the country has ever failed to be struck by; which is, that these settlements of Protestantism, dotted through the land, are so many types of an advanced civilization, suggesting, even to those of a different faith, respect and veneration for the decorous observance of this Church, and the calm peace-fulness with which they keep the Sabbath.

Priests may denounce and politicians declaim, but the Irish peasant, nurtured with all the prejudices of race and religion, never throws off his veneration for the little flock, who, like a brave garrison in a besieged land, hold manfully together round the banner of their Faith! How striking is this in remote parts of the country, where the reformed religion has made little progress, and its followers are few in number!

It was Sunday; the gates of Cro’ Martin Park were open to admit all who might repair to the church. When the Martins were at home, Lady Dorothea used to give to these occasions somewhat of the state of a procession. The servants wore their dress liveries; two carriages were in waiting. She herself appeared in a toilet that might have graced a court chapel; and a formal ceremoniousness of speech and demeanor were ordained as the becoming recognition of the holy day. Trained to these observances by many a year, Mary could scarcely comprehend the strange sensation she felt as she walked along to church, unattended and alone. It was a bright day of early summer, with a soft wind stirring the leaves above, and rippling pleasantly the waters of the lake. The perfume of the new hay floated through the thin air, with the odor of the whitethorn and the meadow-sweet; the birds were singing merrily; and through this gay carol came the mellow sound of the little bell that summoned to prayer. There was a delicious sense of repose in the stillness around, telling how, amid the cares and contentions of life, its wealth seekings, and its petty schemes there came moments when the better instincts were the victors, and men, in all the diversities of their rank and station, could meet together to kneel at one altar, and unite in one supplication. As she went, little glimpses were caught by her of the distant country beyond the demesne; and over all there reigned the same tranquillity; the sound of voices, far away, adding to the effect, and making the silence more palpable. “How peaceful it is,” thought she, “and how happy it might be! Could we but bridle our own passions, restrain our mean jealousies, and curb the evil promptings of our own hearts, what blessings might grow up amongst them! But for objects not worth the attaining, – ambitions of no value when won, – and my uncle might still be here, strolling along, perhaps, with me at this very moment, and with me drinking in this calm repose and soothing quietness.”

Before her, at some little distance on the path, went the three daughters of the village doctor; and, though well and becomingly attired, there was nothing in their appearance to warrant the reproach Lady Dorothea had cast upon their style of dress. It was, indeed, scrupulously neat, but simple. The eldest was a girl of about sixteen, with all the gravity of manner and staid expression that belongs to those who stand in the light of mothers to younger sisters. The housekeeper of her father’s little home, the manager of all within its humble household, his secretary, his companion, Ellen Cloves had acquired, while little more than a child, the patient and submissive temper that long worldly trial confers. They lived perfectly to themselves; between the society of the castle and that of the farmers around there was no intermediate territory, and thus they passed their lives in a little circle of home duties and affections, which made up all their world.

Mary Martin had often wished it in her power to show them some attentions; she was attracted by their gentle faces and their calm and happy demeanor. Had her aunt permitted, she would have frequently invited them to the castle, lent them books and music, and sought companionship in their intercourse. But Lady Dorothea would not have heard of such a project; her theory was that familiarity with the peasant was so far safe that his station was a safeguard against any undue intimacy; while your half-gentry were truly perilous, for if you condescended to civility with them, they invariably mistook it for a friendship. Dr. Cloves dined every Christmas-day at the great house; but so did Mr. Scanlan and all the other heads of departments. It was a very grand and solemn festival, where neither host nor guest was happy; each felt that it was but the acquaintance of an hour, and that with the moment of leave-taking came back all the cold reserve of the day before.

“Good-morning, Miss Cloves; good-day, Jane, and little Bessy,” said Mary, as she overtook them.

“Good-morning to you, Miss Martin,” said Ellen, blushing with surprise at seeing her alone and on foot.

“I trust the doctor is not ill? I don’t see him with you,” said Mary, anxious to relieve her momentary embarrassment.

“Papa has been sent for to Knocktiernan, Miss Martin. They ‘re afraid that a case of cholera has occurred there.”

“May God forbid!” ejaculated Mary, with deep emotion; “we have great distress and poverty around us. I hope we may be spared this scourge.”

“It is what papa feared always,” rejoined Ellen, gravely; “that want and destitution would bring on the malady.”

“Have you heard who it is is ill?”

“Simon Hanley, the carpenter, Miss Martin; he worked at the castle once – ”

“Yes, yes I remember him; he made me my first little garden-rake. Poor fellow! And he has a large family. Your father will, I trust, have seen him in time. Knocktiernan is but four miles of a good road.”

“Papa went by the Mills, Miss Martin, for shortness, for he was on foot.”

“Why did he not ride?”

“He has sold Bluebell, – the pony, I mean, Miss Martin.”

Mary’s face became crimson with a blush that seemed to burn through the forehead into her very brain, and she could only mutter, —

“I ‘m sorry I did n’t know; my carriage and pony were in the stable. If I had but heard of this – ” and was silent.

They had now reached the entrance to the little churchyard, where the few members of the small flock lingered, awaiting the arrival of the clergyman. Amidst many a respectful salutation and gaze of affectionate interest, Mary walked to the end of the aisle, where, shrouded in heavy curtains, soft-cushioned and high-panelled, stood the castle pew.

It must be, indeed, hard for the rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. The very appliances of his piety are the offshoots of his voluptuous habits; and that his heart should feel humble, his hassock must be of down! It was not often that the words of the pastor were heard within that solemn, small enclosure with the same reverent devotion. Mary was now alone there; her mind no longer distracted by the petty incidents of their coming, her proud station seemed to have vanished, and she felt herself but as one of an humble flock, supplicating and in sorrow!

Dr. Leslie had heard of the terrible visitation which menaced them, and made it the subject of his sermon. The fact of his own great age and fast declining strength gave a deeper meaning to all he said, and imparted to the faltering words of his benediction the solemnity of a farewell.

“You are a little fatigued to-day, doctor,” said Mary, as he came out of church. “Will you allow me to offer you my arm?”

“Willingly, my dear Miss Mary. But this is not our road.”

“Why so? – this is the path to the vicarage.”

“They ‘ve made some change, my dear; they ‘ve altered the approach.”

“And you came round by the avenue, – a distance of two miles?” cried she, deep crimson with shame.

“And kept you all waiting; but not very long, I trust,” said he, smiling benevolently. “But come, talk to me of yourself, and when I am to come and see you.”

“Oh, my dear Dr. Leslie, you must not think that I – that my uncle – ” She stopped, and he pressed her hand gently, and said, —

“Do not speak of it; do not give importance to things which are trifles, if we have but good temper to leave them so. Is to-morrow a free day with you; or when shall I hope to find you at leisure?”

“My dear doctor, every day will be so in future; all my functions have ceased here. I am to be nothing in future.”

“I had heard something of that, and I said to myself, ‘Now will Mary Martin display her real character. No longer carried away by the mere enthusiasm of her great power and her high station, not exalted to herself by the flatteries around her, we shall see whether the sterling qualities of her nature will not supply higher and greater resources than all the credit at a banker’s!’ I never undervalued all you did here, Mary Martin; I saw your noble purpose, even in failures; but I always felt that to make these efforts react favorably on yourself, there should be something of sacrifice. To do good was a luxury to you; and it was a luxury very easy to purchase. You were rich, you were powerful; none controlled you. Your benefits were acknowledged with all the enthusiasm of peasant gratitude. Why should you not be beneficent? what other course of conduct could bring you one half the pleasure? For the future, it is from another source you must dispense wealth; but happily it is one which there is no exhausting, for the heart exercised to charity has boundless stores. Let these be your riches now. Go amongst the people; learn to know them, – rather their friend than their benefactor, – and believe me that all the gold you have scattered so generously will not have sown such seeds of goodness as the meek example of your own noble submission to altered fortune. There, my dear,” said he, smiling, “I ‘ll say no more, lest you should tell me that I have preached half an hour already. And I may come to-morrow, you say?”

“What a happiness it will be for me to speak to you!” said Mary, ardently. “There are so many things I want to say, – so much on which I need advice.”

“I ‘m but little practised in the ways of the world,” said he, with a gentle sigh, “but I have ever found great wisdom in an honest purpose; and then,” added he, more warmly, “it is a fine philosophy that secures us against humiliation, even in defeat!”

They now walked along for some time without speaking, when a sudden angle of the path brought them directly in front of the castle. They both halted suddenly, struck, as it were, by the aspect of the spacious and splendid structure, all silent and deserted. The doors were closed, the windows shuttered, – not a living creature moved about the precincts, – and the lone flagstaff on the tower unfurled no “banner to the breeze.” Even the trimly kept parterres were beginning to show signs of neglect, and tangled flowers fell across the gravel.

“What a lonely home for her!” muttered the old doctor to himself; then suddenly exclaimed, “Here comes some one in search of you, Miss Martin.”

And a servant approached and whispered a few words in her ear.

“Yes, immediately,” said she, in reply.

She entreated the old man to rest himself for a while ere he continued his walk homeward; but he declined, and with an affectionate farewell they parted, – he towards the vicarage, and she to re-enter the castle.

There is no need to practise mystery with our reader; and he who had just arrived, and was eager to see Miss Martin, was only Maurice Scanlan! As little use is there also in denying the fact that Mary was much annoyed at his inopportune coming. She was in no mood of mind to meet either him or such topics as he would certainly discuss.

However, she had, so to say, given him a permission to be admitted at all times, and there was no help for it!

These same people that one “must see,” are very terrible inflictions sometimes. They are ever present at the wrong time and the wrong place. They come in moments when their presence is a discord to all our thoughts; and what is to the full as bad, they don’t know it, – or they will not know it. They have an awful amount of self-esteem, and fancy that they never can be but welcome. A type of this class was Maurice Scanlan. Thrust forward by the accidents of life into situations for which nothing in his own humble beginnings seemed to adapt him, he had, like all the other Maurice Scanlans of the world, taken to suppose that he was really a very necessary and important ingredient in all affairs. He found, too, that his small cunning served to guide him, where really able men’s wisdom failed them, – for so it is, people won’t take soundings when they think they can see the bottom; and, finally, he conceived a very high opinion of his faculties, and thought them equal to much higher purposes than they had ever been engaged in.

Since his last interview with Mary Martin, he had never ceased to congratulate himself on the glorious turn of his affairs. Though not over-sanguine about others, Maurice was always hopeful of himself. It is one of the characteristics of such men, and one of the greatest aids to their activity, this ever-present belief in themselves. To secure the good opinion he had already excited in his favor was now his great endeavor; and nothing could so effectually contribute to this, as to show an ardent zeal and devotion to her wishes. He had read somewhere of a certain envoy who had accomplished his mission ere it was believed he had set out; and he resolved to profit by the example. It was, then, in the full confidence of success, that he presented himself on this occasion.

Mary received him calmly, almost coldly. His presence was not in harmony with any thought that occupied her, and she deemed the task of admitting him something like an infliction.

“I drove over, Miss Mary,” said he, rather disconcerted by her reserve, – “I drove over to-day, though I know you don’t like business on a Sunday, just to say that I had completed that little matter you spoke of, – the money affair. I did n’t sleep on it, but went to work at once; and though the papers won’t be ready for some days, the cash is ready for you whenever you like to draw it.”

“You have been very kind and very prompt, sir,” said she, thankfully, but with a languor that showed she was not thinking of the subject.

“He said five per cent,” continued Scanlan, “and I made no objection; for, to tell you the truth, I expected he’d have asked us six, – he’s generally a hard hand to deal with.”

It was evident that he hoped her curiosity might have inquired the name of him thus alluded to; but she never did so, but heard the fact with a calm indifference.

Scanlan was uneasy; his heaviest artillery had opened no breach. What should be his next manouvre?

“The money-market is tight just now,” said he, speaking only to gain time for further observation; “and there’s worse times even before us.”

If Mary heard, she did not notice this gloomy speculation.

“I ‘m sure it will be no easy job to get the last November rent paid up. It was a bad crop; and now there ‘s sickness coming amongst them,” said he, half as though to himself. “You’ll have to excuse me to-day, Mr. Scanlan,” said she, at last. “I find I can think of nothing; I am in one of my idle moods.”

“To be sure, why not, Miss Mary?” said he, evidently piqued at the ill-success of all his zeal. “It was I made a mistake. I fancied, somehow, you were anxious about this little matter; but another day will do as well, – whenever it’s your own convenience.”

“You are always considerate, always good-natured, Mr. Scanlan,” said she, with a vagueness that showed she was scarcely conscious of what she uttered.

“If you think so, Miss Mary, I ‘m well repaid,” said he, with a dash of gallantry in the tone; “nor is it by a trifle like this I’d like to show my – my – my – devotion.” And the last word came out with an effort that made his face crimson.

“Yes,” muttered she, not hearing one word of his speech.

“So that I’ll come over to-morrow, Miss Mary,” broke he in.

“Very well, to-morrow!” replied she, as still musing she turned to the window, no more thinking of the luckless attorney than if he had been miles away; and when at length she did look round, he was gone! It was some minutes ere Mary could perfectly reconcile herself to the fact that he had been there at all; but as to how and when and why he took his leave, were mysteries of which she could make nothing. And yet Mr. Scanlan had gone through a very ceremonious farewell. He had bowed, and sidled, and simpered, and smirked, and sighed; had thrown himself into attitudes pictorially devoted and despairing, looked unutterable things in various styles, and finally made an exit, covered with as much shame and discomfiture as so confident a spirit could well experience, muttering, as he paced the corridor, certain prospective reprisals for this haughty indifference, when a certain time should arrive, and a certain fair lady – But we have no right to push his speculations further than he himself indulged them; and on the present occasion Maurice was less sanguine than his wont.

“I fed the mare, sir,” said Barnes, as he held the stirrup for Scanlan to mount.

“And gave her water, too,” said the attorney, doggedly.

“Devil a drop, then,” resumed the other. “I just sprinkled the oats, no more; that’s Miss Mary’s orders always.”

“She understands a stable well,” said Scanlan, half questioning.

“Does n’t she?” said the other, with a sententious smack of the lip. “To bit a horse or to back him, to tache him his paces and cure him of bad tricks, to train him for harness, double and single, to show him the way over a wall or a wide ditch, to make him rise light and come down easy, she has n’t a match on this island; and as for training,” added he, with fresh breath, “did you see Sir Lucius?”

“No,” said Scanlan, with awakened interest.

“Wait till I bring him out, then. I’ll show you a picture!” And Barnes disappeared into the stable. In five minutes after, he returned, leading a dark brown horse, who, even shrouded in all the covering of hood and body-clothes, displayed in his long step and lounging gait the attributes of a racer.

In a few minutes Barnes had unbuckled strap and surcingle, and sweeping back the blankets dexterously over the croup, so as not to ruffle a hair of the glossy coat, exhibited an animal of surpassing symmetry, in all the pride of high condition.

“There’s a beast,” said he, proudly, “without speck or spot, brand or blemish about him! You ‘re a good judge of a horse, Mr. Scanlan; and tell me when did you see his equal?”

“He’s a nice horse!” said Scanlan, slowly, giving to each word a slow and solemn significance; then, casting a keen glance all around and over him, added, “There ‘s a splint on the off leg!”

“So there is, the least taste in life,” said Barnes, passing his hand lightly over it; “and was there ever a horse – worth the name of a horse – that hadn’t a splint? Sure, they ‘re foaled with them! I wanted Miss Mary to let me take that off with an ointment I have, but she would n’t. ‘It’s not in the way of the tendon,’ says she. ‘It will never spoil his action, and we ‘ll not blemish him with a mark.’ Them’s her very words.”

“He’s a nice horse,” said Scanlan, once more, as if the very parsimony of the praise was the highest testimony of the utterer; “and in rare condition, too,” added he.

“In the very highest,” said Barnes. “He was as sure of that cup as I am that my name ‘s Tim.”

“What cup?” asked Scanlan.

“Kiltimmon, – the June race; he’s entered and all; and now he’s to be sold, – them ‘s the orders I got yesterday; he’s to be auctioned at Dycer’s on Saturday for whatever he’ll bring!”

“And now, what do you expect for him, Barnes?” said Maurice, confidentially.

“Sorrow one o’ me knows. He might go for fifty, – he might go for two hundred and fifty! and cheap he’d be of it. He has racing speed over a flat course, and steeplechase action for his fences. With eleven stone on his back – one that can ride, I mean, of course – he ‘d challenge all Ireland.”

“I would n’t mind making a bid for him myself,” said Scanlan, hesitating between his jockeyism and the far deeper game which he was playing.

“Do then, sir, and don’t draw him for the race, for he ‘ll win it as sure as I ‘m here. ‘T is Jemmy was to ride him; and Miss Mary would n’t object to give you the boy, jacket and all, her own colors, – blue, with white sleeves.”