Produced by David Widger
LUTTRELL OF ARRAN
By Charles James Lever
LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
MDCCCLXV.
TO JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU, ESQ.
He who can write such stories as “Wylder’s Hand” or “Uncle Silas,”
needs no praise of mine; but I can at least say how warmly I admire his
genius, how heartily I enjoy his genial humour, and how thoroughly I
appreciate his right to his second christian name, and if these be not
claims enough for success, let him be assured there are few men can show
more.
CHARLES LEVER.
Marola, La Spezia, January, 1865.
LUTTRELL OF ARRAN
CHAPTER I. A WILD LANDSCAPE
“One half the world knows not how the other half lives,” says the adage;
and there is a peculiar force in the maxim when applied to certain
remote and little-visited districts in these islands, where the people
are about as unknown to us as though they inhabited some lonely rock in
the South Pacific.
While the great world, not very far off, busies itself with all the
appliances of state and science, amusing its leisure by problems which,
once on a time, would have been reserved for the studies of philosophers
and sages, these poor creatures drag on an existence rather beneath
than above the habits of savage life. Their dwellings, their food, their
clothes, such as generations of their fathers possessed; and neither in
their culture, their aspirations, nor their ways, advanced beyond what
centuries back had seen them.
Of that group of islands off the north-west coast of Ireland called
the Arrans, Innishmore is a striking instance of this neglect and
desolation. Probably within the wide sweep of the British islands there
could not be found a spot more irretrievably given up to poverty and
barbarism. Some circular mud hovels, shaped like beehives, and with a
central aperture for the escape of the smoke, are the dwellings of
an almost naked, famine-stricken people, whose looks, language, and
gestures mark them out for foreigners if they chance to come over to the
mainland. Deriving their scanty subsistence almost entirely from fishing
and kelp-burning, they depend for life upon the chances of the seasons,
in a spot where storms are all but perpetual, and where a day of
comparative calm is a rare event.
Curious enough it is to mark that in this wild, ungenial spot
civilisation had once set foot, and some Christian pilgrims found a
resting-place. There is no certain record of whence or how they first
came, but the Abbey of St. Finbar dates from an early century, and
the strong walls yet attest the size and proportions of the ancient
monastery. Something like forty years ago the islanders learned that the
owner of the island, of whose existence they then heard for the first
time, proposed to come over and live there, and soon afterwards a few
workmen arrived, and, in some weeks, converted the old crypt of the
Abbey into something habitable, adding two small chambers to it, and
building a chimney--a work of art--which, whether meant for defence or
some religious object, was, during its construction, a much-debated
question by the people. The intention to resume a sovereignty which had
lain so long in abeyance would have been a bold measure in such a spot
if it had not been preceded by the assurance that the chief meant to
disturb nothing, dispute nothing of vested interests. They were told
that he who was coming was a man weary of the world and its ways, who
desired simply a spot of earth where he might live in peace, and where,
dying, he might leave his bones with the Luttrells, whose graves for
generations back thronged the narrow aisle of the church. These facts,
and that he had a sickly wife and one child, a boy of a few years old,
were all that they knew of him. If the bare idea of a superior was
distasteful in a community where common misery had taught brotherhood,
the notion was dispelled at sight of the sad, sorrow-stricken man who
landed on an evening of September, and walked from the boat through the
surf beside his wife, as two sailors carried her to shore. He held his
little boy’s hand, refusing the many offers that were made to carry
him, though the foaming water surged at times above the little fellow’s
waist, and made him plunge with childish glee and laughter; that infant
courage and light-heartedness going farther into the hearts of the wild
people than if the father had come to greet them with costly presents!
John Luttrell was not above six-and-thirty, but he looked fifty; his
hair was perfectly white, his blue eyes dimmed and circled with dark
wrinkles, his shoulders stooped, and his look downcast. Of his wife it
could be seen that she had once been handsome, but her wasted figure
and incessant cough showed she was in the last stage of consumption. The
child was a picture of infantile beauty, and that daring boldness which
sits so gracefully on childhood. If he was dressed in the very cheapest
and least costly fashion, to the islanders he seemed attired in
very splendour, and his jacket of dark crimson cloth and a little
feather that he wore in his cap sufficed to win for him the name of the
Prince, which he never lost afterward.
It could not be supposed that such an advent would not create a great
stir and commotion in the little colony; the ways, the looks, the
demeanour, and the requirements of the new comers, furnishing for weeks,
and even months, topics for conversation; but gradually this wore itself
out. Molly Ryan, the one sole domestic servant who accompanied the
Luttrells, being of an uncommunicative temper, contributed no anecdotic
details of in-door life to stimulate interest and keep curiosity alive.
All that they knew of Luttrell was to meet him in his walks, and receive
the short, not over-courteous nod with which he acknowledged their
salutations. Of his wife, they only saw the wasted form that half lay,
half sat at a window; so that all their thoughts were centred in the
child-the Prince--who came familiarly amongst them, uncared for and
unheeded by his own, and free to pass his days with the other children
as they heaped wood upon the kelp fires, or helped the fishermen to dry
their nets upon the shore. In the innocence of their primitive life this
familiarity did not trench upon the respect they felt they owed him.
They did not regard his presence as anything like condescension, they
could not think of it as derogation, but they felt throughout that he
was not one of them, and his golden hair and his tiny hands and feet
were as unmistakable marks of station as though he wore a coronet or
carried a sceptre.
The unbroken melancholy that seemed to mark Luttrell’s life, his
un-communicativeness, his want of interest or sympathy in all that
went on around him, would have inspired, by themselves, a sense of fear
amongst the people; but to these traits were added others that seemed
to augment this terror. His days were passed in search of relics and
antiquarian objects, of which the Abbey possessed a rich store, and to
their simple intelligence these things smacked of magic. To hear the
clink of his spade within the walls of the old church by day, and to see
the lone light in his chamber, where it was rumoured he sat sleepless
throughout the night, were always enough to exact a paternoster and a
benediction from the peasant, whose whole religious training began and
ended with these offices.
Nor was the child destined to escape the influence of this popular
impression. He was rarely at home, and, when there, scarcely noticed or
spoken to. His poor sick mother would draw him to her heart, and as she
pressed his golden locks close to her, her tears would fall fast upon
them, but dreading lest her sorrow should throw a shade over his sunny
happiness, she would try to engage him in some out-of-door pursuit
again--send him off to ask if the fishermen had taken a full haul, or
when some one’s new boat would be ready for launching.
Of the room in which the recluse sat, and wherein he alone ever entered,
a chance peep through the ivy-covered casement offered nothing very
reassuring. It was a narrow, lofty chamber, with a groined roof and
a flagged floor, formed of ancient gravestones, the sculptured sides
downwards. Two large stuffed seals sat guardwise on either side of the
fireplace, over which, on a bracket, was an enormous human skull, an
inscription being attached to it, with the reasons for believing its
size to be gigantic rather than the consequences of diseased growth.
Strange-shaped bones, and arrow-heads, and stone spears and javelins
decorated the walls, with amber ornaments and clasps of metal. A massive
font served as a washstand, and a broken stone cross formed a coat-rack.
In one corner, enclosed by two planks, stood an humble bed, and opposite
the fire was the only chair in the chamber--a rude contrivance, fashioned
from a root of bog-oak, black with centuries of interment.
It was late at night that Luttrell sat here, reading an old volume,
whose parchment cover was stained and discoloured by time. The window
was open, and offered a wide view over the sea, on which a faint
moonlight shone out at times, and whose dull surging plash broke with a
uniform measure on the shore beneath.
Twice had he laid down his book, and, opening the door, stood to listen
for a moment, and then resumed his reading; but it was easy to see that
the pages did not engage his attention, nor was he able, as he sought,
to find occupation in their contents.
At last there came a gentle tap to the door; he arose and opened it. It
was the woman-servant who formed his household, who stood tearful and
trembling before him.
“Well?” said he, in some emotion.
“Father Lowrie is come,” said she, timidly.
He only nodded, as though to say, “Go on.”
“And he’ll give her the rights,” continued she; “but he says he hopes
that you’ll come over to Belmullet on Sunday, and declare at the altar
how it was.”
“Declare what?” cried he; and his voice rose to a key of passionate
eagerness that was almost a shriek. “Declare what?”
“He means, that you’ll tell the people----”
“Send him here to me,” broke in Luttrell, angrily. “I’m not going to
discuss this with you.”
“Sure isn’t he giving her the blessed Sacrament!” said she, indignantly.
“Leave me, then--leave me in peace,” said he, as he turned away and
leaned his head on the chimney-piece; and then, without raising it,
added, “and tell the priest to come to me before he goes away.”
The woman had not gone many minutes, when a heavy step approached the
door, and a strong knock was heard. “Come in!” cried Luttrell, and there
entered a short, slightly-made man, middle-aged and active-looking,
with bright black eyes, and a tall, straight forehead, to whom Luttrell
motioned the only chair as he came forward.
“It’s all over, Sir. She’s in glory!” said he, reverently.
“Without pain?” asked Luttrell.
“A parting pang--no more. She was calm to the last. Indeed, her last
words were to repeat what she had pressed so often upon me.”
“I know--I know!” broke in Luttrell, impatiently. “I never denied it.”
“True, Sir; but you never acknowledged it,” said the priest, hardily.
“When you had the courage to make a peasant girl your wife, you ought to
have had the courage to declare it also.”
“To have taken her to the Court, I hope--to have presented her to
Royalty--to have paraded my shame and my folly before a world whose best
kindness was that it forgot me! Look here, Sir; my wife was brought up
a Catholic; I never interfered with her convictions. If I never spoke to
her on the subject of her faith, it was no small concession from a man
who felt on the matter as I did. I sent for you to administer to her
the rights of her Church, but not to lecture me on my duties or my
obligations. What I ought to do, and when, I have not to learn from a
Roman Catholic priest.”
“And yet, Sir, it is a Catholic priest will force you to do it. There
was no stain on your wife’s fame, and there shall be none upon her
memory.”
“What is the amount of my debt to you, Father Lowrie?” asked Luttrell,
calmly and even courteously.
“Nothing, Sir; not a farthing. Her father was a good friend to me
and mine before ruin overtook him. It wasn’t for money I came here
to-night.”
“Then you leave me your debtor, Sir, and against my will.”
“But you needn’t be, Mr. Luttrell,” said the priest, with eagerness.
“She that has just gone, begged and prayed me with her last breath to
look after her little boy, and to see and watch that he was not brought
up in darkness.”
“I understand you. You were to bring him into your own fold. If you hope
for success for such a scheme, take a likelier moment, father; this is
not your time. Leave me now, I pray you. I have much to attend to.”
“May I hope to have an early opportunity to see and talk with you, Mr.
Luttrell?”
“You shall hear from me, Sir, on the matter, and early,” said Luttrell.
“Your own good feeling will show this is not the moment to press me.”
Abashed by the manner in which these last words were spoken, the father
bowed low and withdrew.
“Well?” cried the servant-woman, as he passed out, “will he do it, your
reverence?”
“Not to-day, anyhow, Molly,” said he, with a sigh.
How Luttrell sorrowed for the loss of his wife was not known. It was
believed that he never passed the threshold of the door where she
lay--never went to take one farewell look of her. He sat moodily in his
room, going out at times to give certain orders about the funeral, which
was to take place on the third day. A messenger had been despatched to
his late wife’s relatives, who lived about seventy miles off, down the
coast of Mayo, and to invite them to attend. Of her immediate family
none remained. Her father was in banishment, the commutation of a
sentence of death. Of her two brothers, one had died on the scaffold,
and another had escaped to America, whither her three sisters had
followed him; so that except her uncle, Peter Hogan, and his family, and
a half-brother of her mother’s, a certain Joe Rafter, who kept a shop at
Lahinch, there were few to follow her to the grave as mourners.
Peter had four sons and several daughters, three of them married. They
were of the class of small farmers, very little above the condition
of the cottier; but they were, as a family, a determined, resolute,
hard-headed race, not a little dreaded in the neighbourhood where they
lived, and well known to be knit together by ties that made an injury to
any one of them a feud that the whole family would avenge.
For years and years Luttrell had not seen nor even heard of them. He
had a vague recollection of having seen Peter Hogan at his marriage, and
once or twice afterwards, but preserved no recollection of him. Nothing
short of an absolute necessity--for as such he felt it--would have
induced him to send for them now; but he knew well how rigid were
popular prejudices, and how impossible it would have been for him
to live amongst a people whose most cherished feelings he would have
outraged, had he omitted the accustomed honours to the dead.
He told his servant Molly to do all that was needful on the occasion--to
provide for those melancholy festivities which the lower Irish adhere
to with a devotion that at once blends their religious ardour with their
intensely strong imaginative power.
“There is but one thing I will not bear,” said he. “They must not come
in upon me. I will see them when they come, and take leave of them
when they go; but they are not to expect me to take any part in their
proceedings. Into this room I will suffer none to enter.”
“And Master Harry,” said the woman, wiping her eyes with her
apron--“what’s to be done with him? ‘Tis two days that he’s there, and
he won’t leave the corpse.”
“It’s a child’s sorrow, and will soon wear itself out.”
“Ay, but it’s killing him!” said she, tenderly--“it’s killing him in the
mean while.”
“He belongs to a tough race,” said he, with a bitter smile, “that
neither sorrow nor shame ever killed. Leave the boy alone, and he’ll
come to himself the sooner.”
The peasant woman felt almost sick in her horror at such a sentiment,
and she moved towards the door to pass out.
“Have you thought of everything, Molly?” asked he, more mildly.
“I think so, Sir. There’s to be twenty-eight at the wake--twenty-nine,
if Mr. Rafter comes; but we don’t expect him--and Father Lowrie would
make thirty; but we’ve plenty for them all.”
“And when will this--this feasting--take place?”
“The night before the funeral, by coorse,” said the woman.
“And they will all leave this the next morning, Molly?”
“Indeed I suppose they will, Sir,” said she, no less offended at the
doubt than at the inhospitable meanness of the question.
“So be it, then!” said he, with a sigh. “I have nothing more to say.”
“You know, Sir,” said she, with a great effort at courage, “that they’ll
expect your Honour will go in for a minute or two--to drink their
healths, and say a few words to them?”
He shook his head in dissent, but said nothing.
“The Hogans is as proud a stock as any in Mayo, Sir,” said she, eagerly,
“and if they thought it was any disrespect to her that was gone----”
“Hold your tongue, woman,” cried he, impatiently. “She was my wife, and
_I_ know better what becomes her memory than these ignorant peasants.
Let there be no more of this;” and he closed the door after her as she
went out, and turned the key in it, in token that he would not brook
more disturbance.