On the day after that some of whose events we have just recorded, and
towards nightfall, Mary Martin slowly drove along the darkly wooded
avenue of Cro' Martin. An unusual sadness overweighed her. She was just
returning from the funeral of poor old Mat Landy, one of her oldest
favorites as a child. He it was who first taught her to hold an oar;
and, seated beside him, she first learned to steer a “corragh” through
the wild waves of the Atlantic. His honest, simple nature, his fine
manly contentedness with a very humble lot, and a cheerful gayety of
heart that seemed never to desert him, were all traits likely to impress
such a child as she had been and make his companionship a pleasure. With
a heavy heart was it, therefore, now that she thought over these things,
muttering to herself as she went along snatches of the old songs he used
to sing, and repeating mournfully the little simple proverbs he would
utter about the weather.
The last scene itself had been singularly mournful. Two fishermen of the
coast alone accompanied the car which bore the coffin; death or sickness
was in every house; few could be spared to minister to the dead, and
even of those, the pale shrunk features and tottering limbs bespoke how
dearly the duty cost them. Old Mat had chosen for his last resting-place
a little churchyard that crowned a cliff over the sea,--a wild, solitary
spot,--an old gable, a ruined wall, a few low gravestones, and no more.
The cliff itself, rising abruptly from the sea to some four hundred
feet, was perforated with the nests of sea-fowl, whose melancholy cries,
as they circled overhead, seemed to ring out a last requiem. There it
was they now laid him. Many a time from that bleak summit had he lighted
a beacon fire to ships in distress.
Often and often, from that same spot, had he gazed out over the sea,
to catch signs of those who needed succor, and now that bold heart was
still and that strong arm stiffened, and the rough, deep voice that used
to sound above the tempest, silent forever.
[Illustration: 188]
“Never mind, Patsey,” said Mary, to one of the fishermen, who was
endeavoring with some stray fragments of a wreck to raise a little
monument over the spot, “I'll look to that hereafter.” And so saying,
she turned mournfully away to descend the cliff. A stranger, wrapped in
a large boat-cloak, had been standing for some time near the place; and
as Mary left it, he drew nigh and asked who she was.
“Who would she be?” said the fisherman, gruffly, and evidently in no
humor to converse.
“A wife, or a daughter, perhaps?” asked the other again.
“Neither one nor the other,” replied the fisherman.
“It is Miss Mary, sir,--Miss Martin,--God bless her!” broke in the
other; “one that never deserts the poor, living or dead. Musha! but
she's what keeps despair out of many a heart!”
“And has she come all this way alone?” asked he.
“What other way could she come, I wonder?” said the man he had first
addressed. “Did n't they leave her there by herself, just as if she was
n't belonging to them? They were kinder to old Henderson's daughter than
to their own flesh and blood.”
“Hush, Jerry, hush!--she 'll hear you,” cried the other. And saluting
the stranger respectfully, he began to follow down the cliff.
“Are there strangers stopping at the inn?” asked Mary, as she saw lights
gleaming from some of the windows as she passed.
“Yes, miss, there's him that was up there at the churchyard--ye didn't
remark him, maybe--and one or two more.”
“I did not notice him,” said Mary; and, wishing the men good-night, set
out homeward. So frequent were the halts she made at different cabins as
she drove along, so many times was she stopped to give a word of advice
or counsel, that it was already duskish as she reached Cro' Martin,
and found herself once more near home. “You're late with the post this
evening, Billy,” said she, overtaking the little fellow who carried the
mail from Oughterard.
“Yes, miss, there was great work sortin' the letters that came in this
morning, for I believe there's going to be another election; at least I
heard Hosey Lynch say it was all about that made the bag so full.”
“I 'm sorry for it, Billy,” said she. “We have enough to think of,
ay, and troubles enough, too, not to need the strife and bitterness of
another contest amongst us.”
“Thrue for ye, miss, indeed,” rejoined Billy. '“Tis wishing them far
enough I am, them same elections; the bag does be a stone heavier every
day till it's over.”
“Indeed!” said Mary, half smiling at the remark.
“Thrue as I 'm here, miss. I would n't wonder if it was the goold for
bribin' the chaps makes it weigh so much.”
“And is there any other news stirring in the town, Billy?”
“Next to none, miss. They were talkin' of putting up ould Nelligan's son
for the mimber; and more says the Magennis of Barnagheela will stand.”
“A most excellent choice that would be, certainly,” said Mary, laughing.
“Faix! I heerd of another that wasn't much better, miss.”
“And who could that be?” asked Mary, in astonishment.
“But sure you'd know better than me, if it was thrue, more by token it
would be the master's own orders.”
“I don't understand you, Billy.”
“I mean, miss, that it's only his Honer, Mr. Martin, could have the
power to make Maurice Scanlan a Parlimint man.”
“And has any one hinted at such a possibility?” said she, in
astonishment.
“Indeed, then, it was the talk of the market this mornin', and many a
one said he's the very fellow would get in.”
“Is he such a general favorite in Oughterard?”
“I'm not sure it's that, miss,” said Billy, thoughtfully.
“Maybe some likes him, and more is afraid of him; but he himself knows
everybody and everybody's business. He can raise the rent upon this man,
take it off that; 'tis his word can make a barony-constable or one of
the watch. They say he has the taxes, too, in his power, and can cess
you just as he likes. Be my conscience, he 's all as one as the Prime
Minister.”
Just as Billy had delivered this sage reflection they had reached the
hall door, where, having consigned the letter-bag to the hands of a
servant, he turned his steps to the kitchen, to take an “air of the
fire” before he set out homeward. Mary Martin had not advanced many
steps within the hall when both her hands were cordially grasped, and a
kind voice, which she at once recognized as Mr. Repton's, said, “Here
I am, my dear Miss Martin; arrived in time, too, to welcome you home
again. You paid me a visit yesterday--”
“Yes,” broke she in; “but you were shaking your ambrosial curls at the
time, browbeating the bench, or cajoling the jury, or something of that
sort.”
“That I was; but I must own with scant success. You 've heard how that
young David of Oughterard slew the old Goliath of Dublin? Well, shall
I confess it? I'm glad of it. I feel proud to think that the crop of
clever fellows in Ireland is flourishing, and that when I, and a dozen
like me, pass away, our places will be filled by others that will keep
the repute of our great profession high in the public estimation.”
“This is worthy of you, sir,” cried Mary, pressing the arm ahe leaned on
more closely.
“And now, my dear Miss Mary,” said he, as they entered the
drawing-room,--“now that I have light to look at you, let me make
my compliments on your appearance. Handsomer than ever, I positively
declare. They told me in the town that you half killed yourself with
fatigue; that you frequently were days long on horseback, and nights
watching by sick-beds; but if this be the result, benevolence is indeed
its own reward.”
“Ah, my dear Mr. Repton, I see you do not keep all your flatteries for
the jury-box.”
“My moments are too limited here to allow me time for an untruth. I
must be off; to-night I have a special retainer for a great record at
Roscommon, and at this very instant I should be poring over deeds
and parchments, instead of gazing at 'orbs divinely blue;' not but, I
believe, now that I look closer, yours are hazel.”
“Let me order dinner, then, at once,” said she, approaching the bell.
“I have done that already, my dear,” said he, gayly; “and what is more,
I have dictated the bill of fare. I guessed what a young lady's simple
meal might be, and I have been down to the cook, and you shall see the
result.”
“Then it only remains for me to think of the cellar. What shall it be,
sir? The Burgundy that you praised so highly last winter, or the Port
that my uncle preferred to it?”
“I declare that I half suspect your uncle was right. Let us move for a
new trial, and try both over again,” said he, laughing, as she left the
room.
“Just to think of such a girl in such a spot,” cried he to himself, as
he walked alone, up and down the room; “beauty, grace, fascination,--all
that can charm and attract; and then, such a nature, childlike in
gayety, and chivalrous,--ay, chivalrous as a chevalier!”
“I see, sir, you are rehearsing for Roscommon,” said Mary, who entered
the room while he was yet declaiming alone; “but I must interrupt you,
for the soup is waiting.”
“I obey the summons,” said he tendering his arm. And they both entered
the dinner-room.
So long as the meal lasted, Repton's conversation was entirely devoted
to such topics as he might have discussed at a formal dinner-party. He
talked of the world of society, its deaths, births, and marriages; its
changes of place and amusement. He narrated the latest smart things that
were going the round of the clubs, and hinted at the political events
that were passing. But the servants gone, and the chairs drawn closer
to the blazing hearth, his tone changed at once, and in a voice of
tremulous kindness he said,--“I can't bear to think of the solitude of
this life of yours!--nay, hear me out. I say this, not for _you_, since
in the high devotion of a noble purpose you are above all its penalties;
but I cannot endure to think that _we_ should permit it.”
“First of all,” said Mary, rapidly, “what you deem solitude is scarcely
such; each day is so filled with its duties, that when I come back here
of an evening, it often happens that my greatest enjoyment is the very
sense of isolation that awaits me. Do you know,” added she, “that
very often the letter-bag lies unopened by me till morning? And as to
newspapers, there they lie in heaps, their covers unbroken to this hour.
Such is actually the case to-day. I haven't read my letters yet.”
“I read mine in my bed,” cried Repton. “I have them brought to me by
candlelight in winter, and I reflect over all the answers while I am
dressing. Some of the sharpest things I have ever said have occurred to
me while I was shaving; not,” added he, hastily, “but one's really
best things are always impromptu. Just as I said t' other day to the
Viceroy,--a somewhat felicitous one. He was wishing that some historian
would choose for his subject the lives of Irish Lord-Lieutenants;
not, he remarked, in a mere spirit of party, or with the levity of
partisanship, but in a spirit becoming the dignity of history,--such
as Hume himself might have done. 'Yes, my Lord,' I replied, 'your
observation is most just; it should be a continuation of Rapine.' Eh! it
was a home-thrust, wasn't it?--'a continuation of Rapine.'” And the old
man laughed till his eyes ran over.
“Do these great folk ever thoroughly forgive such things?” asked Mary.
“My dear child, their self-esteem is so powerful they never feel them;
and even when they do, the chances are that they store them up in their
memories, to retail afterwards as their own. I have detected my own
stolen property more than once; but always so damaged by wear, and
disfigured by ill-usage, that I never thought of reclaiming it.”
“The affluent need never fret for a little robbery,” said Mary, smiling.
“Ay, but they may like to be the dispensers of their own riches,”
rejoined Repton, who never was happier than when able to carry out
another's illustration.
“Is Lord Reckington agreeable?” asked Mary, trying to lead him on to any
other theme than that of herself.
“He is eminently so. Like all men of his class, he makes more of a small
stock in trade than we with our heads full can ever pretend to. Such men
talk well, for they think fluently. Their tact teaches them the popular
tone on every subject, and they have the good sense never to rise above
it.”
“And Massingbred, the secretary, what of him?”
“A very well-bred gentleman, strongly cased in the triple armor of
official dulness. Such men converse as stupid whist-players play
cards; they are always asking to 'let them see the last trick;' and the
consequence is they are ever half an hour behind the rest of the world.
Ay, Miss Mary, and this is an age where one must never be half a second
in arrear. This is really delicious Port; and now that the Burgundy is
finished, I think I prefer it. Tell Martin I said so when you write to
him. I hope the cellar is well stocked with it.”
“It was so when my uncle went away, but I fear I have made great inroads
upon it. It was my chief remedy with the poor.”
“With the poor! such wine as this,--the richest grape that ever purpled
over the Douro! Do you tell me that you gave this to these--Heaven
forgive me, what am I saying? Of course you gave it; you gave them
what was fifty times more precious,--the kind ministerings of your own
angelic nature, the soft words and soft looks and smiles that a prince
might have knelt for. I 'm not worthy to drink another glass of it,”
added he, as he pushed the decanter from him towards the centre of the
table.
“But you shall, though,” said Mary, filling his glass, “and it shall be
a bumper to my health.”
“A toast I'd stake my life for,” said he, reverently, as he lifted her
hand to his lips and kissed it with all the deference of a courtier.
“And now,” added he, refilling his glass, “I drink this to the worthy
fellow whose portrait is before me; and may he soon come back again.”
He arose as he spoke, and giving his hand to Mary, led her into the
drawing-room. “Ay, my dear Miss Mary,” said he, following up the theme
in his own thoughts, “it is here your uncle ought to be. When the army
is in rout and dismay, the general's presence is the talisman that
restores discipline. Everything around us at this moment is full of
threatening danger. The catalogue of the assizes is a dark record; I
never saw its equal, no more have I ever witnessed anything to compare
with the dogged indifference of the men arraigned. The Irishman is half
a fatalist by nature; it will be an evil hour that makes him wholly
one!”
“But still,” said Mary, “you 'd scarcely counsel his return here at this
time. The changes that have taken place would fret him deeply, not to
speak of even worse!”
She delivered the last few words in a voice broken and trembling; and
Repton, turning quickly towards her, said,--“I know what you point at:
the irritated feeling of the people, and that insolent menace they dared
to affix to his own door.”
“You heard of that, then?” cried she, eagerly.
“To be sure, I heard of it; and I heard how your own hands tore it down,
and riding with it into the midst of them at Kiltimmon market, you said,
'I 'll give five hundred pounds to him who shows me who did this, and I
'll forfeit five hundred more if I do not horsewhip the coward from the
county.'”
Mary hid her face within her hands; but closely as she pressed them
there, the warm tears would force their way through, and fall, dropping
on her bosom.
“You are a noble girl,” cried he, in ecstasy; “and in all your
great trials there is nothing finer than this, that the work of your
benevolence has never been stayed by the sense of ill-requital, and you
have never involved the character of a people in the foul crime of a
miscreant.”
“How could I so wrong them, sir?” broke she out. “Who better than myself
can speak of their glorious courage, their patient resignation, their
noble self-devotion? Has not the man, sinking under fever, crawled
from his bed to lead me to the house of another deeper in misery than
himself? Have I not seen the very poorest sharing the little alms
bestowed upon their wretchedness? Have I not heard the most touching
words of gratitude from lips growing cold in death? You may easily
show me lands of greater comfort, where the blessings of wealth and
civilization are more widely spread; but I defy you to point to any
where the trials of a whole people have been so great and so splendidly
sustained.”
“I'll not ask the privilege of reply,” said Repton; “perhaps I 'd rather
be convinced by you than attempt to gainsay one word of your argument.”
“At your peril, sir,” said she, menacing him with her finger, while a
bright smile lit up her features.
“The chaise is at the door, sir,” said a servant, entering and
addressing Repton.
“Already!” exclaimed he. “Why, my dear Miss Mary, it can't surely be
eight o'clock. No; but,” added he, looking at his watch, “it only wants
a quarter of ten, and I have not said one half of what I had to say, nor
heard a fourth of what you had to tell me.”
“Let the postboy put up his horses, William,” said Miss Martin, “and
bring tea.”
“A most excellent suggestion,” chimed in Repton. “Do you know, my dear,
that we old bachelors never thoroughly appreciate all that we have
missed in domesticity till we approach a tea-table. We surround
ourselves with fifty mockeries of home-life; we can manage soft carpets,
warm curtains, snug dinners, but somehow our cup of tea is a rude
imitation that only depicts the inaccuracy of the copy. Without the
priestess the tea-urn sings forth no incantation.”
“How came it that Mr. Repton remained a Benedict?” asked she, gayly.
“By the old accident, that he would n't take what he might have, and
could n't get what he wished. Add to that,” continued he, after a pause,
“when a man comes to a certain time of life without marrying, the world
has given to him a certain place, assigned to him, as it were, a certain
part which would be utterly marred by a wife. The familiarity of one's
female acquaintance--the pleasantest spot in old bachelorhood--could n't
stand such an ordeal; and the hundred-and-one eccentricities pardonable
and pardoned in the single man would be condemned in the married one.
You shake your head. Well, now, I 'll put it to the test. Would you, or
could you, make me your confidant so unreservedly if there were such a
person as Mrs. Repton in the world? Not a bit of it, my dear child. We
old bachelors are the lay priests of society, and many come to us with
confessions they 'd scruple about making to the regular authorities.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said she, thoughtfully; “at all events, _I_
should have no objection to you as my confessor.”
“I may have to claim that promise one of these day yet,” said he,
significantly. “Eh, here comes William again. Well, the postboy won't
wait, or something has gone wrong. Eh, William, what is it?”
“The boy's afraid, sir, if you don't go soon, that there will be no
passing the river at Barnagheela,--the flood is rising every minute.”
“And already the water is too deep,” cried Mary. “Give the lad his
supper, William. Let him make up his cattle, and say that Mr. Repton
remains here for the night.”
“And Mr. Repton obeys,” said he, bowing; “though what is to become of
'Kelly _versus_ Lenaham and another,' is more than I can say.”
“They 'll have so many great guns, sir,” said Mary, laughing; “won't
they be able to spare a twenty-four pounder?”
“But I ought, at least, to appear in the battery, my dear. They 'll say
that I stayed away on account of that young fellow Nelligan; he has a
brief in that cause, and I know he 'd like another tussle with me. By
the way, Miss Mary, that reminds me that I promised him to make his--no,
not his excuses, he was too manly for that; but his--his explanations
to you about yesterday's business. He was sorely grieved at the part
assigned him; he spoke feelingly of all the attentions he once met at
your uncle's hands, but far more so of certain kindnesses shown to
his mother by yourself; and surmising that you might be unaware of the
exacting nature of our bar etiquette, that leaves no man at liberty
to decline a cause, he tortured himself inventing means to set himself
right with you.”
“But I know your etiquette, sir, and I respect it; and Mr. Nelligan
never stood higher in my estimation than by his conduct of yesterday.
You can tell him, therefore, that you saw there was no necessity to
touch on the topic; it will leave less unpleasantness if we should meet
again.”
“What a diplomatist it is!” said Repton, smiling affectionately at her.
“How successful must all this tact be when engaged with the people! Nay,
no denial; you know in your heart what subtle devices it supplies you
with.”
“And yet, I 'm not so certain that what you call my diplomacy may not
have involved me in some trouble,--at least, there is the chance of it.”
“As how, my dear child?”
“You shall hear, sir. You know the story of that poor girl at
Barnagheela, whom they call Mrs. Magennis? Well, her old grandfather--as
noble a heart as ever beat--had never ceased to pine after her fall. She
had been the very light of his life, and he loved her on, through
her sorrow, if not her shame, till, as death drew nigh him, unable to
restrain his craving desire, he asked me to go and fetch her, to give
her his last kiss and receive his last blessing. It was a task I had
fain have declined, were such an escape open to me, but I could not. In
a word, I went and did his bidding. She stayed with him till he breathed
his last breath, and then--in virtue of some pledge I hear that she
made him--she fled, no one knows whither. All trace of her is lost; and
though I have sent messengers on every side, none have yet discovered
her.”
“Suicide is not the vice of our people,” said Repton, gravely.
“I know that well, and the knowledge makes me hopeful. But what
sufferings are yet before her, what fearful trials has she to meet!”
“By Jove!” cried Repton, rising and pacing the room, “you have courage,
young lady, that would do honor to a man. You brave the greatest perils
with a stout-heartedness that the best of us could scarcely summon.”
“But, in this case, the peril is not mine, sir.”
“I am not so sure of that, Miss Mary,” said Repton, doubtingly,--“I
'm not so sure of that.” And, with crossed arms and bent-down head, he
paced the room slowly back and forwards. “Ay,” muttered he to himself,
“Thursday night--Friday, at all events--will close the record. I can
speak to evidence on the morning, and be back here again some time in
the night. Of course it is a duty,--it is more than a duty.” Then he
added, aloud, “There 's the moon breaking out, and a fine breezy sky. I
'll take the road, Miss Mary, and, with your good leave, I 'll drink tea
with you on Friday evening. Nay, my dear, the rule is made absolute.”
“I agree,” said she, “if it secures me a longer visit on your return.”
A few moments afterwards saw Repton seated in the corner of his chaise,
and hurrying onward at speed. His eyes soon closed in slumber, and as
he sank off to rest, his lips murmured gently, “My Lord, in rising to
address the Court, under circumstances of no ordinary difficulty, and in
a case where vast interest, considerable influence, and, I may add--may
add--” The words died away, and he was asleep.