It was one of those fresh and breezy days where brilliant flashes
of sunlight alternate with deep shadow, making of every landscape a
succession of pictures, that Kate Henderson set out on her way to the
cottage. Her path led through the demesne, but it was as wild as any
forest scene in Germany, now wending through dark woods, now issuing
forth over swelling lawns, from which the view extended many a mile
away,--at one moment displaying the great rugged mountains of Connemara,
and at another, the broad blue sea, heaving heavily, and thundering in
sullen roar against the rocks.
The fast-flitting clouds, the breezy grass, the wind-shaken foliage, and
the white-crested waves, all were emblems of life; there was motion and
sound and conflict! and yet to her heart, as she walked along, these
influences imparted no sense of pleasure or relief. For a few seconds,
perhaps, would she suddenly awake to the consciousness of the fair scene
before her, and murmur to herself, perchance, the lines of some favorite
poet; but in another moment her gloomy thoughtfulness was back again,
and with bent-down head was she again moving onward. At times she
walked rapidly forward, and then, relaxing her pace, she would stroll
listlessly along, as though no object engaged her. And so was it in
reality,--her main desire being to be free, in the open air; to be from
beneath that roof whose shadow seemed to darken her very heart! Could
that haughty spirit have humbled itself in sorrow, she might have found
relief; but her proud nature had no such resource, and in her full heart
injury and wrong had alone their place.
“And this,” burst she forth at length,--“and this is Home! this the
dreamland of those far away over the seas,--the cherished spot of all
affections,--the quiet nook wherein we breathe an atmosphere of love,
blending our lives with all dearest to us. Is it, then, that all is
hollow, false, and untrue; or is it that I alone have no part in the
happiness that is diffused around me? I know not which would be the
sadder!”
Thus, reasoning sadly, she went along, when suddenly, on the slope of a
gentle hill in front of her, gracefully encircled with a young wood
of larch and copper-beech, she caught sight of the cottage. It was a
tasteful imitation of those seen in the Oberland, and with its wild
background of lofty mountain, an appropriate ornament to the landscape.
A small stream running over a rocky, broken bed formed the boundary of
the little grounds, and over this a bridge of a single plank conducted
the way to the cottage. The whole was simple and unpretending; there
was none of that smart trimness which gives to such scenes the air of
an imitation. The lawn, it is true, was neatly shaven, and the
flower-plots, which broke its uniformity, clean from weeds; but the
flowers were of the simplest kind,--the crocus and the daffodil had to
stand no dangerous rivalry, and the hyacinth had nothing to vie with.
Kate loitered for some time here, now gazing at the wild, stern
landscape, now listening to the brawling rivulet, whose sounds were the
only ones in the stillness. As she drew nigh the cottage, she found
the windows of a little drawing-room open. She looked in: all was
comfortable and neat-looking, but of the strictest simplicity. She next
turned to the little porch, and pulled the bell; in a few seconds the
sounds of feet were heard approaching, and a very old woman, whose
appearance and dress were the perfection of neatness, appeared.
“Don't you know me, Mrs. Broon?” said Kate, gently.
“I do not, then, my Lady,” said she, respectfully, “for my eyes is
gettin' dimmer every day.”
“I 'm Kate Henderson, Mrs. Broon. Do you forget me?”
“Indeed I do not,” said Catty, gravely. “You were here with the master
and my Lady?”
“Yes. I went away with them to Germany; but I have come home for a
while, and wish to pay my respects to Miss Mary.”
“She isn't at home to-day,” was the dry response.
“But she will return soon, I conclude. She'll be back some time in the
evening, won't she?”
“If she plazes it, she will. There's nobody to control or make her do
but what she likes herself,” said Catty.
“I ask,” said Kate, “because I'm a little tired. I've come off a long
journey, and if you'd allow me to rest myself, and wait awhile in the
hope of seeing Miss Martin, I'd be very thankful.”
“Come in, then,” said Catty; but the faint sigh with which the words
were uttered, gave but a scant significance of welcome.
Kate followed her into the little drawing-room, and at a sign from the
old woman, took a seat.
“Miss Mary is quite well, I'm glad to hear,” said Kate, endeavoring to
introduce some conversation.
“Will they ever come back?” asked the old woman, in a stern, harsh
voice, while she paid no attention whatever to Kate's remark.
“It is very unlikely,” said Kate. “Your poor master had not long to live
when I came away. He was sinking rapidly.”
“So I heard,” muttered the other, dryly; “the last letter from Mr.
Repton said 'he was n't expected.'”
“I fear it will be a great shock to Miss Mary,” said Kate.
The old woman nodded her head slowly several times without speaking.
“And, perhaps, cause great changes here?” continued Kate.
“There's changes enough, and too many already,” muttered Catty. “I
remember the place upwards of eighty years. I was born in the little
house to the right of the road as you come up from Kelly's mills. There
was no mill there then, nor a school-house, no, nor a dispensary either!
Musha, but the people was better off, and happier, when they had none of
them.”
Kate smiled at the energy with which these words were uttered,
surmising, rightfully, that Catty's condemnation of progress had a
direct application to herself.
“Now it's all readin' and writin', teachin' honest people to be rogues,
and givin' them new contrivances to cheat their masters. When I knew
Cro' Martin first,” added she, almost fiercely, “there was n't a Scotch
steward on the estate; but there was nobody turned out of his houldin',
and there was n't a cabin unroofed to make the people seek shelter under
a ditch.”
“The world would then seem growing worse every day,” remarked Kate,
quietly.
“To be sure it is. Why would n't it? Money is in every one's heart.
Nobody cares for his own flesh and blood. 'T is all money! What will I
get if I take that farm over another man's head, or marry that girl that
likes somebody better than me? 'Tis to be rich they're all strivin',
and the devil never made people his own children so completely as by
teachin' them to love goold!”
“Your young mistress has but little of this spirit in her heart?” said
Kate.
“Signs on it! look at the life she leads: up before daybreak, and away
many times before I 'm awake. She makes a cup of coffee herself, and
saddles the pony, too, if Patsey is n't there to do it; and she 's off
to Glentocher, or Knock-mullen, twelve, fourteen miles down the coast,
with barley for one, and a bottle of wine for the other. Sometimes she
has a basket with her, just a load to carry, with tay and shugar; ay,
and--for she forgets nothing--toys for the children, too, and clothes,
and even books. And then to see herself, she 's not as well dressed
as her own maid used to be. There 's not a night she does n't sit up
patchin' and piecin' her clothes. 'T is Billy at the cross-roads made
her shoes last time for her, just because he was starvin' with nothing'
to do. She ordered them, and she wears them, too; it makes him so proud,
she says, to see them. And this is the niece of the Martins of
Cro' Martin! without one of her kith or kin to welcome her home at
nightfall,--without father or mother, brother or sister,--without a kind
voice to say 'God bless her,' as she falls off to sleep many a time in
that big chair there; and I take off her shoes without her knowin' it,
she does be so weary and tired; and in her dhrames it 's always talking
to the people, givin' them courage, and cheerin' them up, tellin' them
there 's good times for every one; and once, the other evenin', she
sang a bit of a song, thinkin' she was in Mat Leahy's cabin amusin' the
children, and she woke up laughin', and said, 'Catty, I 've had such a
pleasant dhrame. I thought I had little Nora, my godchild, on my knee,
and was teachin' her “Why are the daisies in the grass?” I can't tell
you how happy I felt!' There it was: the only thing like company to her
poor heart was a dhrame!”
“I do not wonder that you love her, Catty,” said Kate; and the words
fell tremulously from her lips.
“Love her! what's the use of such as me lovin' her?” cried the old
woman, querulously. “Sure, it's not one of my kind knows how good she
is! If you only seen her comin' in here, after dark, maybe, wet and
weary and footsore, half famished with cold and hunger,--out the whole
livelong day, over the mountains, where there was fever and shakin'
ague, and starvin' people, ravin' mad between disease and destitution;
and the first word out of her mouth will be, 'Oh, Catty, how grateful
you and I ought to be with our warm roof over us, and our snug fire to
sit at,' never thinkin' of who she is and what she has the right to, but
just makin' herself the same as _me_. And then she 'd tell me where she
was, and what she seen, and how well the people was bearin' up under
their trials,--all the things they said to her, for they 'd tell her
things they would n't tell the priest. 'Catty,' said she, t' other
night, 'it looks like heartlessness in me to be in such high spirits
in the midst of all this misery here; but I feel as if my courage was a
well that others were drinking out of; and when I go into a cabin, the
sick man, as he turns his head round, looks happier, and I feel as if
it was my spirit that was warmin' and cheerin' him; and when a poor
sick sufferin' child looks up at me and smiles, I 'm ready to drop on my
knees and thank God in gratitude.'”
Kate covered her face with her hands, and never spoke; and now the old
woman, warming with the theme she loved best, went on to tell various
incidents and events of Mary's life,--the perilous accidents which
befell her, the dangers she braved, the fatigues she encountered. Even
recounted by _her_, there was a strange adventurous character that ran
through these recitals, showing that Mary Martin, in all she thought and
said and acted, was buoyed and sustained by a sort of native chivalry
that made her actually court the incidents where she incurred the
greatest hazard. It was plain to see what charm such traits possessed
for her who recorded them, and how in her old Celtic blood ran the
strong current of delight in all that pertained to the adventurous and
the wild.
“'Tis her own father's nature is strong in her,” said Catty, with
enthusiasm. “Show him the horse that nobody could back, tell him of a
storm where no fisherman would launch his boat, point out a cliff that
no man could climb, and let me see who 'd hould him! She 's so like him,
that when there 's anything daring to be done you would n't know her
voice from his own. There, now, I hear her without,” cried the old
woman, as, rising suddenly, she approached the window. “Don't you hear
something?”
“Nothing but the wind through the trees,” said Kate.
“Ay, but _I_ did, and my ears are older than yours. She's riding through
the river now; I hear the water splashin'.”
Kate tried to catch the sounds, but could not; she walked out upon the
lawn to listen, but except the brawling of the stream among the rocks,
there was nothing to be heard.
“D' ye see her comin'?” asked Catty, eagerly.
“No. Your ears must have deceived you. There is no one coming.”
“I heard her voice, as I hear yours now. I heard her spake to the mare,
as she always does when she 's plungin' into the river. There, now,
don't you hear that?”
“I hear nothing, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Broon. It is your own
anxiety that is misleading you; but if you like, I 'll go down towards
the river and see.” And without waiting for a reply Kate hastened
down the slope. As she went, she could not help reflecting over the
superstition which attaches so much importance to these delusions,
giving them the character of actual warnings. It was doubtless from the
mind dwelling so forcibly on Miss Martin's perilous life that the old
woman's apprehensions had assumed this palpable form, and thus invented
the very images which should react upon her with terror.
“Just as I thought,” cried Kate, as she stood on the bank of the stream;
“all silent and deserted, no one within sight.” And slowly she retraced
her steps towards the cottage. The old woman stood at the door, pale and
trembling; an attempt to smile was on her features, but her heart denied
the courage of the effort.
“Where is she now?” cried Catty, wildly. “She rang the bell this minute,
and I heerd the mare trottin' round to the stable by herself, as she
always does. But where 's Miss Mary?”
“My dear Mrs. Broon,” said Kate, in her kindest accents, “it is just as
I told you. Your mind is anxious and uneasy about Miss Martin; you are
unhappy at her absence, and you think at every stir you hear her coming;
but I have been to the river-side, and there is no one there. I 'll go
round to the stables, if you wish it.”
“There 's no tracks of a hoof on the gravel,” muttered the old woman, in
a broken voice; “there was nobody here!”
“So I said,” replied Kate. “It was a mere delusion,--a fancy.”
“A delusion,--a fancy!” cried Catty, scornfully; “that's the way they
always spake of whatever they don't understand. It's easier to say that
than confess you don't see how to explain a thing; but I heerd the same
sounds before you came to-day; ay, and I went down to see why she was
n't comin', and at the pool there was bubbles and froth on the water,
just as if a baste had passed through, but no livin' thing to be seen.
Was n't that a delusion, too?”
“An accident, perchance. Only think, what lives of misery we should lead
were we ever tracing our own fears, and connecting them with all the
changes that go on around us!”
“It's two days she's away, now,” muttered the old woman, who only
heeded her own thoughts; “she was to be back last night, or early this
mornin'.”
“Where had she gone to?” asked Kate, who now saw that the other had
lapsed into confidence.
“She's gone to the islands!--to Innishmore, and maybe, on to Brannock!”
“That's a long way out to sea,” said Kate, thoughtfully; “but still, the
weather is fine, and the day favorable. Had she any other object than
pleasure in this excursion?”
“Pleasure is it?” croaked Catty. “'Tis much pleasure she does be given
herself! Her pleasure is to be where there 's fever and want,--in the
lonely cabin, where the sick is lyin'! It 's to find a poor crayture
that run away from home she 's gone now,--one Joan Landy. She's missin'
this two months, and nobody knows where she 's gone to! and Miss Mary
got so uneasy at last that she could n't sleep by night nor rest by
day,--always talkin' about her, and say in' as much as it was all her
fault; as if _she_ could know why she went, or where?”
“Did she go alone on this errand, then?”
“To be sure she did. Who could she have with her? She towld Loony she 'd
want the boat with four men in it, and maybe to stay out three days, for
she 'd go to all the islands before she came back.”
“Loony 's the best sailor on the coast, I 've heard; and with such
weather as this there is no cause for alarm.”
Catty did not seem to heed the remark; she felt that within her against
which the words of consolation availed but little, and she sat brooding
sorrowfully and in silence.
“The night will soon be fallin' now,” said she, at last. “I hope she's
not at sea!”
In spite of herself, Kate Henderson caught the contagion of the old
woman's terrors, and felt a dreamy, undefined dread of coming evil. As
she looked out, however, at the calm and fair landscape, which, as
day declined, grew each moment more still, she rallied from the gloomy
thoughts, and said,--“I wish I knew how to be of any service to you,
Mrs. Broon. If you could think of anything I could do--anywhere I could
go--” She stopped suddenly at a gesture from the old woman, who, lifting
her hand to impress silence, stood a perfect picture of eager anxiety
to hear. Bending down her head, old Catty stood for several seconds
motionless.
“Don't ye hear it now?” broke she in. “Listen! I thought I heerd
something like a wailin' sound far off, but it is the wind. See how the
tree-tops are bendin'!--That's three times I heerd it now,” said Catty.
“If ye live to be as old as me, you 'll not think light of a warnin'.
You think your hearin' better because you're younger; but I tell you
that there 's sounds that only reach ears that are goin' to where the
voices came from. When eyes grow dim to sights of this world, they are
strainin' to catch a glimpse of them that's beyond it.” Although no
tears rose to her eyes, the withered face trembled in her agony, and her
clasped hands shook in the suffering of her sorrow.
Against impressions of this sort, Kate knew well enough how little
reasoning availed, and she forbore to press arguments which she was
aware would be unsuccessful. She tried, however, to turn the current of
the old woman's thoughts, by leading her to speak of the condition of
the country and the state of the people. Catty gave short, abrupt, and
unwilling answers to all she asked, and Kate at length arose to take her
leave.
“You're goin' away, are ye?” said Catty, half angrily.
“I have only just remembered that I have a long way to walk, and it is
already growing late.”
“Ay, and ye 're impatient to be back again, at home, beside your own
fire, with your own people. But _she_ has no home, and her own has
deserted her!”
“Mine has not many charms for me!” muttered Kate to herself.
“It's happy for you that has father and mother,” went on the old woman.
“Them 's the only ones, after all!--the only ones that never loves the
less, the less we desarve it! I don't wonder ye came back again!” And in
a sort of envious bitterness Catty wished her a good-night.
If the distance she had to walk was not shortened by the tenor of her
thoughts, as little did she feel impatient to press onward. Dreary and
sad enough were her reveries. Of the wild visionary ambitions which once
had stirred her heart, there remained nothing but disappointments. She
had but passed the threshold of life to find all dreary and desolate;
but perhaps the most painful feeling of the moment was the fact that now
pressed conviction on her, and told that in the humble career of such a
one as Mary Martin there lay a nobler heroism and a higher devotion
than in the most soaring path of political ambition, and that all the
theorizing as to popular rights made but a sorry figure beside the
actual benefits conferred by one true-hearted lover of her kind. “She
is right, and I am wrong!” muttered she to herself. “In declining to
entertain questions of statecraft she showed herself above, and not
beneath, the proud position she had taken. The very lowliness of
this task is its glory. Oh, if I could but win her confidence and be
associated in such a labor! and yet my very birth denies me the prestige
that hers confers.” And then she thought of home, and all the coldness
of that cheerless greeting smote upon her heart.
The moon was up ere Kate arrived at her father's door. She tapped at
it gently, almost timidly. Her stepmother, as if expecting her, came
quickly, and in a low, cautious whisper told her that she would find her
supper ready in her bedroom.
“To-morrow, perhaps, he may be in better humor or better spirits.
Good-night.” And so Kate silently stole along to her room, her proud
heart swelling painfully, and her tearless eye burning with all the heat
of a burning brain.