THE NEW ARISTOCRACY FAILS.
From this moment the mystery of the new aristocracy began to fade
away, and get itself abolished. Men and women began to feel that
there might be something worse in store for them than the old course
of policemen, juries, and judges. It had seemed, at first, as though
these evil things could be brought to an end, and silenced altogether
as far as their blessed country was concerned. A time was coming in
which everyone was to do as he pleased, without any fear that another
should tell of him. Though a man should be seen in the broad daylight
cutting the tails off half a score of oxen it would be recognised
in the neighbourhood as no more than a fair act of vengeance, and
nothing should be told of the deed, let the policemen busy themselves
as they might. And the beauty of the system consisted in the fact
that the fear of telling was brought home to the minds of all men,
women, and children. Though it was certain that a woman had seen a
cow's tail mangled, though it could be proved beyond all doubt that
she was in the field when the deed was done, yet if she held her
peace no punishment would await her. The policeman and the magistrate
could do nothing to her. But Thady O'Leary, the man who had cut a
cow's tail off, could certainly punish her. If nothing else were done
she could be boycotted, or, in other words, not allowed to buy or
sell the necessaries of life. Or she could herself be murdered, as
had happened to Pat Gilligan. The whole thing had seemed to run so
smoothly!
But now there had come, or would soon come, a change o'er the spirit
of the dream. The murder of Pat Gilligan, though it had made one in
the necessary sequence of events, one act in the course of the drama
which, as a whole, had appeared to be so perfect, seemed to them all
to have about it something terrible. No one knew what offence Pat
Gilligan had given, or why he had been condemned. Each man began to
tremble as he thought that he too might be a Pat Gilligan, and each
woman that she might be a Mrs. Kelly. It was better to go back to the
police and the magistrates than this!
I do not know that we need lean too heavily on the stupidity of the
country's side in not having perceived that this would be so. The
country's side is very slow in perceiving the course which things
will take. These ten murderers had been brought together, each from
fear of the others; and they must have felt that though they were
ten,--a number so great when they considered the employment on
which they were engaged as to cause horror to the minds of all of
them,--the ten could not include all who should have been included.
Had the other three been taken in, if that were possible, how much
better it would have been! But the desire for murder had not gone so
far,--its beauty had not been so perfectly acknowledged as to make
it even yet possible to comprise a whole parish in destroying one
family.
Then the three had seen that the whole scheme, the mystery of the
thing, the very plan upon which it was founded, must be broken down
and thrown to the winds. And we can imagine that, when the idea first
came upon the minds of those three, that the entire family of the
Kellys was to be sacrificed to stop the tongue of one talkative
old woman, a horror must have fallen upon them as they recognised
the duty which was incumbent on them. The duty of saving those six
unfortunates they did not recognise. They could not screw themselves
up to the necessary pitch of courage to enable them to enter in among
loaded pistols and black-visaged murderers. The two women and the
children had to die, though the three men were so close to them; so
close as to have been certainly able to save them, or some of them,
had they rushed into the cabin and created the confusion of another
advent. To this they could not bring themselves, for are not the
murderers armed? But an awful horror must have crept round their
minds as they thought of the self-imposed task they had undertaken.
They waited until the murders had been completed, and then they went
back home and told the police.
From this moment the mystery by which murders in County Galway and
elsewhere were for a short period protected was over in Ireland. Men
have not seen, as yet, how much more lovely it is to tell frankly all
that has been done, to give openly such evidence as a man may have to
police magistrates and justices of the peace, than to keep anything
wrapped within his own bosom. The charm of such outspoken truth does
not reconcile itself at once to the untrained mind; but the fact of
the loveliness does gradually creep in, and the hideous ugliness
of the other venture. On the minds of those men of Kerrycullion
something of the ugliness and something of the loveliness must have
made itself apparent. And when this had been done it was not probable
that a return to the utter ugliness of the lie should be possible.
Whether the ten be hanged,--to the intense satisfaction of Hunter and
his master,--or some fewer number, such as may suffice the mitigated
desire for revenge which at present is burning in the breasts of men,
the thing will have been done, and the mystery with all its beauty
will have passed away.
At Castle Morony the beginning of the passing away of the mystery was
hailed with great delight. It took place in this wise. A little girl
who had been brought up there in the kitchen, and had reached the age
of fifteen under the eyes of Ada and Edith,--a slip of a girl, whose
feet our two girls had begun to trammel with shoes and stockings, and
who was old enough to be proud of the finery though she could not
bear the confinement,--had gone under the system of boycotting, when
all the other servants had gone also. Peter, who was very stern in
his discipline to the younger people, had caught hold of her before
she went, and had brought her to Mr. Jones, recommending that at any
rate her dress should be stripped from her back, and her shoes and
stockings from her feet. "If you war to wallop her, sir, into the
bargain, it would be a good deed done," Peter had said to his master.
"Why should I wallop her for leaving my service?"
"She ain't guv' no notice," said the indignant Peter.
"And if I were to wallop you because you had taken it into your
stupid head to leave me at a moment's notice, should I be justified
in doing so?"
"There is differences," said Peter, drawing himself up.
"You are stronger, you mean, and Feemy Carroll is weak. Let her go
her own gait as she pleases. How am I to take upon myself to say that
she is not right to go? And for the shoes and stockings, let them go
with her, and the dress also, if I am supposed to have any property
in it. Fancy a Landleaguer in Parliament asking an indignant question
as to my detaining forcibly an unwilling female servant. Let them
all go; the sooner we learn to serve ourselves the better for us. I
suppose you will go too before long."
This had been unkind, and Peter had made a speech in which he had
said so. But the little affair had taken place in the beginning of
the boycotting disarrangements, and Mr. Jones had been bitter in
spirit. Now the girls had shown how deftly they could do the work,
and had begun to talk pleasantly how well they could manage to save
the wages and the food. "It's my food you'll have to save, and my
wages," said Captain Clayton. But this had been before he had a hole
driven through him, and he was only awed by a frown.
But now news was brought in that Feemy had crept in at the back door.
"Drat her imperence," said Peter, who brought in the news. "It's
like her ways to come when she can't get a morsel of wholesome food
elsewhere."
Then Ada and Edith had rushed off to lay hold of the delinquent, who
had indeed left a feeling in the hearts of her mistresses of some
love for her little foibles. "Oh! Feemy, so you've come back again,"
said Ada, "and you've grown so big!" But Feemy cowered and said not
a word. "What have you been doing all the time?" said Edith. "Miss
Ada and I have had to clean out all the pots and all the pans, and
all the gridirons, though for the matter of that there has been very
little to cook on them." Then Ada asked the girl whether she intended
to come back to her old place.
"If I'm let," said the girl, bursting into tears.
"Where are the shoes and stockings?" said Ada.
But the girl only wept.
"Of course you shall come back, shoes or no shoes. I suppose
times have been too hard with you at home to think much of
shoes or stockings. Since your poor cousin was shot in Galway
court-house,"--for Feemy was a cousin of the tribe of Carrolls,--"I
fear it hasn't gone very well with you all." But to this Feemy had
only answered by renewed sobs. She had, however, from that moment
taken up her residence as of yore in the old house, and had gone
about her business just as though no boycotting edict had been
pronounced against Castle Morony.
And gradually the other servants had returned, falling back into
their places almost without a word spoken. One boy, who had in former
days looked after the cows, absolutely did come and drive them in to
be milked one morning without saying a word.
"And who are you, you young deevil?" said Peter to him.
"I'm just Larry O'Brien."
"And what business have you here?" said Peter. "How many months ago
is it since last year you took yourself off without even a word said
to man or woman? Who wants you back again now, I wonder?"
The boy, who had grown half-way to a man since he had taken his
departure, made no further answer, but went on with the milking of
his cows.
And the old cook came back again from Galway, though she came after
the writing of a letter which must have taken her long to compose,
and the saying of many words.
"Honoured Miss," the letter went, "I've been at Peter Corcoran's
doing work any time these twelve months. And glad I've been to find
a hole to creep into. But Peter Corcoran's house isn't like Castle
Morony, and so I've told him scores of times. But Peter is one
of them Landleaguers, and is like to be bruk', horse, foot, and
dragoons, bekaise he wouldn't serve the gentry. May the deevil go
along with him, and with his pollytiks. Sure you know, miss, they
wouldn't let me stay at Castle Morony. Wasn't one side in pollitiks
the same as another to an old woman like me, who only wants to 'arn
her bit and her sup? I don't care the vally of a tobacco-pipe for
none of them now. So if the squire would take me back again, may God
bless him for iver and iver, say I." Then this letter was signed
Judy Corcoran,--for she too was of the family of the Corcorans,--and
became the matter for many arrangements, in the course of which she
once more was put into office as cook at Castle Morony.
Then Edith wrote the following letter to her friend Rachel, who still
remained in London, partly because of her health and partly because
her father had not yet quite settled his political affairs. But that
shall be explained in another chapter.
DEAREST RACHEL,
Here we are beginning to see daylight, after having been
buried in Cimmerian darkness for the best part of two
years. I never thought how possible it would be to get
along without servants to look after us, and how much
of the pleasures of life might come without any of its
comforts. Ada and I for many months have made every bed
that has been slept in in the house, till we have come to
think that the making of beds is the proper employment for
ladies. And every bit of food has been cooked by us, till
that too has become ladylike in our eyes. And it has been
done for papa, who has, I think, liked his bed and his
dinner all the better, because they have passed through
his daughters' hands. But, dear papa! I'm afraid he has
not borne the Cimmerian darkness as well as have we, who
have been young enough to look forward to the return of
something better.
What am I to say to you about Frank, who will not talk
much of your perfections, though he is always thinking
of them? I believe he writes to you constantly, though
what he says, or of what nature it is, I can only
guess. I presume he does not send many messages to Lord
Castlewell, who, however, as far as I can see, has behaved
beautifully. What more can a girl want than to have a lord
to fall in love with her, and to give her up just as her
inclination may declare itself?
What I write for now, specially, is to add a word to what
I presume Frank may have said in one of his letters. Papa
says that neither you nor Mr. O'Mahony are to think of
leaving this side of the water without coming down to
Castle Morony. We have got a cook now, and a cow-boy. What
more can you want? And old Peter is here still, always
talking about the infinite things which he has done for
the Jones family. Joking apart, you must of course come
and see us again once before you start for New York. Is
Frank to go with you? That is a question to which we can
get no answer at all from Frank himself.
In your last you asked me about my affairs. Dear girl,
I have no affairs. I am in such a position that it is
impossible for me to have what you would call affairs.
Between you and Frank everything is settled. Between
me and the man to whom you allude there is nothing
settled,--except that there is no ground for settlement.
He must go one way and I another. It is very sad, you will
say. I, however, have done it for myself and I must bear
the burden.
Yours always lovingly,
EDITH.