"Set is the sun of the Netterville's glory!
Down in the dust its bright banners are trailing!
Hoarse in our anguish we whisper the story,
And men, as they listen, like women are wailing.
"Woe! woe to us--woe! we shall see him no more;
Our tears like the rains of November are flowing;
Woe! woe to us--woe! for the chief we deplore
Alone to his exile of sorrow is going.
"Alone?--not alone! for our dastardly foemen--
As cruel as base in the day of their power--
Have lifted their hands against maidens and women;
Uprooted the tree, and then trampled the flower.
"And so they have sent her to weep by strange waters--
The joy of our hearts and the light of our eyes--
The latest and fairest of Netterville's daughters,
In whom the last link of their destiny lies.
"Sad will be, mother, thy waking to-morrow!
Waking to weep o'er thy dove-rifled nest;
Widowed and childless--two-fold is thy sorrow.
And two-edged the sword that is lodged in thy breast.
"Well may we mourn her--when we too deplore her--
The vassals and serfs of thy conquering race;
If blood could but do it, our blood should restore her--
Restore her to thee and thy loving embrace.
"Yet not for her only, or thee, are we weeping;
We weep for our country, fast bound in that chain
Which in blood from her wrung heart the foeman is steeping,
Till it looks as if reddened and rusted by rain.
"Oh! when shall a leader to true hearts be given.
To fall on the stranger and force him to flee?
And when shall the shackles that bind her be riven?
And Erin stand up in her strength, and be free!"
So sung Hamish, the son of the last of the long line of minstrels
who, with harp and voice, had recorded the triumphs of the house
of Netterville, or mourned over the death or sorrow of its
chieftains. For, in spite of the law by which it was strictly
forbidden, the English of the Pale had persisted in the national
custom of keeping a bard or minstrel--whose office was always, or
almost always, hereditary--attached to their households; and in
its palmy days of power the family of Netterville was far too
jealous of its own importance not to have been always provided
with a similar appendage. Its last recognized minstrel had
fallen, however, in the same battle which had deprived Nellie of
her father, and, Hamish being then too young to take up his
father's office, the harp had ever since, literally as well as
figuratively, hung mute and unstrung in the halls of Netterville.
But grief and indignation over its utter ruin had unlocked at
last the tide of poetry and song, ever ready to flow over in the
Celtic breast, and Hamish felt himself changed into a bard upon
the spot. Forgetting the presence of the English soldiers, or,
more probably, exulting in the knowledge that they did not
understand the language in which he gave expression to his
feelings, he stepped out into the midst of the people, pouring
forth his lamentations, stanza after stanza, with all the
readiness and fire of a born _improvisatore_; and when at
last he paused, more for want of breath than want of matter, the
keeners took up the tale, and told, in their wild, wailing chant,
of the goodness and greatness, the glory and honour of their
departed chieftain and his heiress, precisely as they would have
done had the twain over whom they were lamenting been that very
day deposited in their graves. Up to this moment Mrs. Netterville
had preserved in a marvellous degree that statue-like calmness of
outward bearing which hid, and even at times belied, the workings
of a heart full of generous emotions; but the wild wailing of the
keeners broke down the artificial restraint she had put upon her
conduct, and, unable to listen quietly to what seemed to her ears
a positive prophecy of death to her beloved ones, she hastily
reëntered the house and retreated to her own apartment.
{176}
This was a small, dark chamber, which in happier times had been
set apart as a quiet retreat for prayer and household purposes,
but which now was the only one the mistress of the mansion could
call her own--the soldiers having that very morning taken
possession of all the others, devoting some of them to their own
particular accommodation and locking up the others. It was, in
fact, as a very singular and especial favour, and as some return
for the kindness she had shown in nursing one of their number who
had been taken suddenly ill on the night of their arrival, that
the use even of this small chamber had been allowed her; for it
was not the custom of Cromwell's army to deal too gently by the
vanquished, and many of the "transplanted," as high-born and
well-educated as she was, had been compelled, in similar
circumstances, to retire to the outer offices of their own abode,
while the rough soldiery who displaced them installed themselves
in the luxurious apartments of the interior.
Hidden from all curious eyes in this dark retreat, Mrs.
Netterville yielded at last to the cry of her weak human heart,
and, flinging herself face downward on the floor, gave way to a
passion of grief which was all the more terrible that it was
absolutely tearless. One or two of the few remaining women of the
household, knowing how fearfully her soul, in spite of all
outward show of calmness, must be wrung, tapped occasionally at
the door; but either she did not hear or did not choose to
answer, and they dared not enter without permission.
At last one of them went to Hamish, feeling instinctively that,
if any one could venture to intrude unbidden, it would be the
foster-brother of Nellie, and said:
"The mistress, God help her! is just drowned with the sorrow, and
won't even answer when we call. Hamish, a-bouchal, couldn't you
manage to go in, just by accident like, and say something or
other to give a turn to her thoughts?"
"Give a turn to her thoughts?" said Hamish crustily; "give a turn
to her thoughts, do you say? My certie, but you take it easy!
Hasn't the woman lost husband and child, to say nothing of the
old lord, who was all as one to her as her own father? and isn't
she going, moreover, to be turned out of house and home, and sent
adrift upon the wide world? and you talk of giving a turn to her
thoughts, as if it was the toothache she was troubled with or a
wasp that had stung her?"
"As you please, Mr. Hoity-toity," said the girl angrily; "I only
thought that, as you were a bit of a pet like, on account of our
young mistress, you might have ventured on the liberty. Not
having set up in that line myself, I cannot, of course, attempt
to meddle in the matter."
But though Hamish had spoken roughly, his heart was very sore,
for all that, over the sorrows of his lonely mistress.
He waited until Cathleen had vanished in a huff, and then, going
quietly to the study-door, knocked softly for admission.
But Mrs. Netterville gave no sign, and, after knocking two or
three times in vain, he opened the door gently and looked in. The
room was naturally a gloomy one, being panelled in black oak; but
Hamish felt as if it never _could_ have looked before so
gloomy as it did that moment.
{177}
Half study, half oratory as it was, Mrs. Netterville had spent
here many a long hour of lonely and impassioned prayer, what time
her husband and her father-in-law were fighting the battles of
their royal and most ungrateful master. A tall crucifix, carved,
like the rest of the furniture, in black oak, stood, therefore,
on a sort of _prie-dieu_ at the farther end of the room, and
near it was a table arranged in desk-fashion, at which she had
been in the habit of transacting the business of her household.
Room and _prie-dieu_, crucifix and table, Hamish had them
all by heart already.
Here in his baby days he had been used to come, when he and his
little foster-sister were wearied with their own play, to sit at
the feet of Mrs. Netterville and listen to the tales which she
invented for their amusement. Here, as time went on, separating
Nellie outwardly from his society, yet leaving her as near to him
in heart as ever, he had been wont to bring his morning offerings
of fish from the running stream, or bunches of purple heather
from the rocks. Here he had come for news of the war, and of the
master, on that very day which brought tidings of his death; and
here, too, even while he tried to comfort Nellie, who had flung
herself down in her childish misery just on the spot where her
mother lay prostrate now, he had wondered, and, young as he was,
had in part, at least, comprehended the marvellous
self-forgetfulness of Mrs. Netterville, who, in the midst of her
own bereavement, had yet found heart and voice to comfort her
aged father-in-law and her child, as if the blow which had struck
them down had not fallen with three-fold force on her own head.
In the darkness of the room and the confusion of his own
thoughts, he did not, however, at first perceive Mrs. Netterville
in her lowly posture, and glanced instinctively toward the
_prie-dieu_, where he had so often before seen her take
refuge in the hour of trial.
But she was not there, and a thrill of terror ran through his
frame when he at last discovered her, face downward, on the
floor, her widow's coif flung far away, and her long locks,
streaked--by the hand of grief, not time--abundantly with gray,
streaming round her in a disorder which struck Hamish all the
more forcibly, that it was in such direct contrast to the natural
habits of order and propriety she had brought with her from her
English home. There she lay, not weeping--such misery as hers
knows nothing of the relief of tears--not weeping, but crushed
and powerless, as if her very body had proved unequal to the
weight of sorrow put upon it, and had fallen beneath the burthen.
She seemed, indeed, not in a swoon, but stunned and stupefied,
and quite unconscious that she was not alone. Hamish trembled for
her intellect; but young as he was, he was used to sorrow, and
understood both the danger and the remedy.
His lady must be roused at any cost, even at that the very
thought of which made him tremble, the recalling her to a full
knowledge of her misery. He advanced farther into the room,
moving softly, in his great reverence for her desolation, as we
move, almost unconsciously to ourselves, in the presence of the
dead, and occupied himself for a few minutes in arranging the
loose papers on her desk, and the flowers which Nellie had placed
upon the _prie dieu_ only a day or two before. They were
faded now--faded as the poor child's fortunes--but instead of
throwing them away, he poured fresh water into the vase which
held them, as if that could have restored their beauty.
{178}
Yet he sighed heavily as he did so for the thought would flash
across his mind that, whether he sought to give, back life to a
withered flower, or joy to the heart of a bereaved mother, in
either case his task was hopeless. Mrs. Netterville took no
notice of his proceedings, though, as he began to get used to the
situation, he purposely made rather more bustle than was needed,
in hopes of arousing her. At last, in despair of succeeding by
milder methods, he let fall a heavy inkstand, smashing it into a
thousand pieces, and scattering the ink in all directions, an
event that in happier times would certainly not have passed
unreproved. But now she lay within a few inches of the inky
stream, as heedless as though she were dead in earnest; and,
hopeless of recalling her to consciousness by anything short of a
personal appeal, he knelt down beside her and tapped her sharply
on the shoulder, half wondering at his own temerity as he did so.
She shuddered as if, light as the touch had been, it yet had hurt
her, and muttered impatiently, and like one half asleep:
"Not now, Hamish! not now!--leave me for the present, I entreat
you!"
"And why not now?" Hamish answered almost roughly. "Do you think
_you_ only have a cause for grieving? Tell me, my mistress,
if we, humble as we are, and not to be thought of in comparison
with your ladyship's honor, if we have not lost--are losing
nothing? Ah! if you could but hear the weeping and wailing that
is going on among the creatures down-stairs, you would never do
us such a wrong as to suppose that _your_ heart is the only
one sore and bleeding to-day!"
"Sore and bleeding! Yes! yes! I doubt it not," moaned the lady
sadly. "Sore and bleeding; but not widowed--not childless; they
have still husbands and children--they have not lost as I have
lost!"
"They have lost--not, may be, quite so much, but yet enough, and
more than enough, to set them wailing," answered Hamish firmly--
"they have lost a master, who was more like a father than a
master, and a young mistress, who was all as one as a daughter to
every one of them; and moreover," he added mournfully--"and
moreover, instead of the kind hand and generous heart that has
reigned over them till now, they are going to be handed over, (as
if they were so many stocks or stones encumbering the land,)
whether they like it or whether they don't, to the tender mercies
of those very men who thought it neither sin nor shame to make
the child a shield against the soldier's sword, when they fought
knee-deep in blood at the siege of Tredagh!"
"Why do you say these things, Hamish?" she almost shrieked in her
anguish. "Is it my fault? Could I help it? or why do you reproach
me with it?"
"_Your_ fault! No, indeed, it is not. More's the pity; for
if you could have helped it, to a dead certainty it never would
have happened," said Hamish, glad that he had roused her, even if
only to a fit of anger. "But though you cannot prevent these
things, my mistress, you can at all events comfort the creatures
that have to bear them, by showing that you have feelings for
their sorrows as well as for your own."
"I give comfort! God help me, I give comfort!" she answered, with
a sort of passionate irony in her manner; adding, however,
immediately afterward, in a softer tone, "How can I give comfort,
Hamish--I who need it so entirely myself?"
{179}
"That is the very thing," cried Hamish eagerly. "God love you,
madam! Do you not see that the only real comfort you could give
them would be the allowing them to try at least and comfort you?"
"Bid them pray, then, for the safe journey of my loved ones," she
answered hoarsely--"that is the only real comfort they can give
me."
"And why, then, couldn't we pray all together?" cried Hamish,
struck suddenly by a bright idea. "Why wouldn't you let them come
up here, madam? I warrant you they would pray as the best of them
never prayed before, if they only seen your ladyship's honor
kneeling and praying in the midst of them."
"I--I cannot pray--I cannot even think," she answered, laying her
head once more on her folded arms, like a weary or a chidden
child. "Go you, good Hamish, and pray yourself with them
down-stairs."
"In the kitchen, is it?" said Hamish, with a considerable portion
of irony in his voice. "Faix, my lady, and it's queer thoughts
we'd have, and queer prayers we would be saying there, with the
pot forenent us, boiling on the fire, and Cromwell's black rogues
of troopers coming and going, and flinging curses and scraps of
Scriptures (according to their usual custom) in equal measure at
our heads. No! no! my lady," he continued vehemently, "if you
would have us pray at all, it must be here--here where the cross
will mind us of a Mother who once stood at its foot, and who was
even more desolate than you are; a Mother silent and
heart-broken--not because her Child had gone before her into
exile, from whence He might any day return, but because she saw
Him dying--dying in the midst of tortures--and forsaken so
entirely that it might well have seemed to her (only she knew
_that_ never could be) as if God as well as man had utterly
abandoned Him."
"You are right, Hamish; you are right," cried Mrs. Netterville
suddenly, touched to the quick by his voice and eloquence. "Go
you down at once, good Hamish, and bid them come here directly. I
shall be ready by the time they are assembled."
As Mrs. Netterville spoke thus, she rose from the floor, and
then, all at once perceiving the strange disorder of her attire,
she began hastily to gather up her tresses, previous to placing
her widow's coif upon them.
Hamish waited to hear no more, but instantly left the room to do
her bidding. As he walked rapidly toward the lower part of the
mansion, he drew a long sigh of relief, like one who has just got
rid of a heavy burden, as in truth he had; for he felt that he
had gained his point, and that whatever his mistress might have
yet to suffer, she was safe, at all events, from the effects of
that first great shock of sorrow which had threatened to overturn
her intellect.
When he returned to announce that the household was assembled and
waiting for her further orders he found her kneeling at the
_prie-dieu_, in all the grave composure of her usual manner.
She did not trust herself, however, to look round, but merely
signed to him that they should come in; and the instant the noise
and bustle of their first entrance had subsided, she commenced
reading from her open missal.
But the very sound of her own voice in supplicatory accents
seemed to break the spell which had hitherto been laid upon her
faculties. She fairly broke down and burst into a flood of tears.
This was more than enough for the excitable hearts around her,
and the room was filled in a moment with the wailing of her
people.
{180}
Hamish was in despair; and yet, perhaps, no other mode of
proceeding could have done so much toward calming her as did this
sudden outburst; for Mrs. Netterville had a true Englishwoman's
aversion to "scenes," however real and natural to the
circumstances of the case they might be. She instantly checked
her tears, and waiting quietly until the storm of grief had in
some degree died out, she collected all her energies, and read in
a low, steady voice the prayer or collect for those travelling by
land or sea, as she found it in her missal. A few other short but
earnest prayers succeeded, and then she paused once more. Her
audience took the hint and quietly retired. Hamish was about to
follow, but she rose from the _prie-dieu_, and signed to him
to remain.
"Hamish," she said, gently but decidedly, "I have done your
bidding, and now I expect that you will do mine. I wish to be
alone for the rest of the day--do you understand? alone with God
and my great sorrow! To-morrow I will begin the work for which I
have been left here, but to-day must be my own. Come not here
yourself, and look to it that no one else disturbs me. Keep a
heedful watch upon the soldiers, and see that no mischance occurs
between them and any of our people, I trust to you for this and
all things. Now leave me. If I have need of anything, I will let
you know."
There was that in Mrs. Netterville's tone and manner which made
Hamish feel he had gone quite far enough already; so, without
another word of remonstrance or expostulation, he made his
reverence and retired.