Once more, but for the last time, we are at Kilkieran. To a dreary day
of incessant rain succeeded an evening still drearier. Wild gusts swept
along the little shore, and shook the frail windows and ill-fitting
doors of the cottages, while foam and sea-drift were wafted over the
roofs, settling like snow-flakes on the tall cliffs above them. And yet
it was midsummer! By the almanac the time was vouched to be the opening
of the season; a fact amply corroborated by the fashionable assemblage
then enjoying the hospitalities of Mrs. Cronan's tea-table. There they
were, with a single exception, the same goodly company already presented
to the reader in an early chapter of our story. We have already
mentioned the great changes which time had worked in the appearance
of the little watering-place. The fostering care of proprietorship
withdrawn, the ornamental villa of the Martins converted into a
miserable village inn, the works of the pier and harbor suspended, and
presenting in their unfinished aspect the dreary semblance of ruin and
decay,--all conspired with the falling fortunes of the people to make
the scene a sad one. Little evidence of this decline, however, could be
traced in the aspect of that pleasant gathering, animated with all its
ancient taste for whist, scandal, and shrimps; their appetite for such
luxuries seeming rather to have increased than diminished by years.
Not that we presume to say they could claim any immunity against the
irrevocable decrees of age. Unhappily, the confession may be deemed not
exactly in accordance with gallantry; but it is strictly true, time
had no more forgotten the living than the inanimate accessories of
the picture. Miss Busk, of the Emporium, had grown more sour and more
stately. The vinegar of her temperament was verging upon verjuice, and
the ill opinion of mankind experience enforced had written itself
very legibly on her features. The world had not improved upon her by
acquaintance. Not so Captain Bodkin; fatter and more wheezy than ever,
he seemed to relish life rather more than when younger. He had given up,
too, that long struggle with himself about bathing, and making up his
mind to suffer no “sea-change;” he was, therefore, more cheerful than
before.
As for Mrs. Cronan, “the little comforts she was used to” had sorely
diminished by the pressure of the times, and, in consequence, she
drew unlimited drafts upon the past to fill up the deficiencies of the
present. Strange enough is it, that the faults and follies of society
are just as adhesive ingredients as its higher qualities! These
people had grown so used to each other in all their eccentric ways
and oddities, that they had become fond of them; like a pilot long
accustomed to rocks and sandbanks, they could only steer their course
where there was something to avoid!
The remainder of the goodly company had grown stouter or thinner,
jollier or more peevish, as temperament inclined; for it is with human
nature as with wine: if the liquor does not get racier with years, it
degenerates sadly.
The first act of the whist and backgammon playing was over, and the
party now sat, stood, crouched, lounged, or lay, as chance and the state
of the furniture permitted, at supper. At the grand table, of course,
were the higher dignitaries, such as Father Maher, the Captain, Miss
Busk, and Mrs. Clinch; but cockles were eaten, and punch discussed in
various very odd quarters; bursts of joyous laughter, too, came from
dark pantries, and sounds of merriment mingled with the jangling crash
of kitchen utensils. Reputations were roasted and pancakes fried,
characters and chickens alike mangled, and all the hubbub of a festival
prevailed in a scene where the efforts of the fair hostess were directed
to produce an air of unblemished elegance and gentility.
Poor Clinch, the revenue officer, who invariably eat what he called “his
bit” in some obscure quarter, alone and companionless, was twice “had
up” before the authorities for the row and uproar that prevailed, and
underwent a severe cross-examination, “as to where he was when Miss
Cullenane was making the salad,” and, indeed, cut a very sorry figure
at the conclusion of the inquiry. All the gayeties and gravities of
the scene, however, gradually toned down as the serious debate of the
evening came on; which was no other than the lamentable condition of
the prospects of Kilkieran, and the unanimous opinion of the ruinous
consequences that must ensue from the absence of the proprietor.
“We 've little chance of getting up the news-room now,” said the
Captain. “The Martins won't give a sixpence for anything.”
“It is something to give trade an impulse we want, sir,” broke in
Miss Busk,--“balls and assemblies; evening reunions of the _élite_ of
society, where the elegance of the toilet should rival the _distingué_
air of the company.”
“That's word for word out of the 'Intelligence,'” cried the Captain.
“It's unparliamentary to quote the newspapers.”
“I detest the newspapers,” broke in Miss Busk, angrily; “after
advertising the Emporium for two seasons in the 'Galway Celt,' they gave
me a leading article beginning, 'As the hot weather is now commencing,
and the season for fashion approaches, we cannot better serve the
interests of our readers than by directing attention to the elegant
“Symposium!”' 'Symposium!'--I give you my word of honor that's what they
put it.”
“On my conscience! it might have been worse,” chuckled out the Captain.
“It was young Nelligan explained to me what it was,” resumed Miss Busk;
“and Scanlan said, 'I'd have an action against them for damages.'”
“Keep out of law, my dear!--keep out of law!” sighed Mrs. Cronan. “See
to what it has reduced me! I, that used to go out in my own coach, with
two men in green and gold; that had my house in town, and my house in
the country; that had gems and ornaments such as a queen might wear! And
there's all that's left me now!” And she pointed to a brooch about the
size of a cheese-plate, where a melancholy gentleman in uniform was
represented, with a border of mock pearls around him. “The last pledge
of affection!” sobbed she.
“Of course you wouldn't pledge it, my dear,” muttered the deaf old Mrs.
Few; “and they'd give you next to nothing on it, besides.”
[Illustration: 324]
“We 'll have law enough here soon, it seems,” said Mrs. Cronan, angrily;
for the laugh this blunder excited was by no means flattering and
pleasant. “There 's Magennis's action first for trial at the Assizes.”
“That will be worth hearing,” said Mrs. Clinch. “They 'll have the first
lawyers from Dublin on each side.”
“Did you hear the trick they played off on Joe Nelligan about it?” asked
the Captain. “It was cleverly done. Magennis found out, some way or
other, that Joe wanted to be engaged against him; and so what does he
do but gets a servant dressed up in the Martin livery, and sends him to
Joe's house on the box of a coach, inside of which was a gentleman
that begged a word with the Counsellor. 'You 're not engaged, I hope,
Counsellor Nelligan,' says he, 'in Magennis against Martin?' 'No,' says
Joe, for he caught a glimpse of the livery. 'You're quite free?' says
the other. 'Quite free,' says he. 'That's all I want, then,' says he;
'here's your brief, and here's your retainer;' and he put both down on
the table, and when Joe looked down he saw he was booked for Magennis.
You may imagine how he felt; but he never uttered a word, for there was
no help for it.”
“And do you mean to tell me,” cried Mrs. Clinch, “that the lawyers can't
help themselves, but must just talk and rant and swear for any one that
asks them first?”
“It's exactly what I mean, ma'am,” responded the Captain. “They 've no
more choice in the matter than the hangman has as to who be 'll hang.”
“Then I'd as soon be a gauger!” exclaimed the lady, with a contemptuous
glance at poor Clinch, who winced under the observation.
“But I don't see what they wanted young Nelligan for,” said Miss Busk;
“what experience or knowledge has _he?_”
“He's just the first man of the day,” said Bodkin. “They tell me that
whether it be to crook out a flaw in the enemy's case, to pick a hole in
a statement, to crush a witness, or cajole the jury, old Repton himself
is n't his equal.”
“I suppose, from the airs he gives himself, he must be something
wonderful,” said Mrs. Cronan.
“Well, now, I differ from you there, ma'am,” replied Bodkin. “I think
Joe is just what he always was. He was cold, silent, and distant as a
boy, and he 's the same as a man. Look at him when he comes down here at
the Assizes, down to the town where his father is selling glue and hides
and tenpenny-nails, and he 's just as easy and unconstrained as if the
old man was Lord of Cro' Martin Castle.”
“That's the height of impertinence,” broke in Miss Busk; “it's only
real blood has any right to rise above the depreciating accidents of
condition. I know it by myself.”
“Well, I wonder what he 'll make of this case, anyhow,” said feodkin, to
escape a controversy he had no fancy for. “They tell me that no action
can lie on it. It's not abduction--”
“For shame, Captain; you forget there are ladies here,” said Mrs.
Clinch.
“Indeed I don't,” sighed he, with a half-comic melancholy in his look.
“I'll tell you how they do it, sir,” chimed in Father Maher. “Whenever
there 's anything in law that never was foreseen or provided for,
against which there is neither act nor statute, they 've one grand and
unfailing resource,--they charge it as a conspiracy. I 've a brother an
attorney, and he tells me that there is n't a man, woman, or child in
the kingdom but could be indicted for doing something by a conspiracy.”
“It's a great comfort to know that,” said Bodkin, gravely.
“And what can they do to her if she's found guilty?” asked Mrs. Cronan.
“Make her smart for the damages, ma'am; leave her something less to
expend on perversion and interference with the people,” said the priest.
“The parish isn't the same since she began visiting this one and reading
to that. Instead of respect and confidence in their spiritual guides,
the people are running after a young girl with a head full of wild
schemes and contrivances. We all know by this time how these things end,
and the best receipt to make a Protestant begins, 'First starve your
Papist.'”
“I rise to order,” called out Bodkin. “We agreed we'd have no polemics
nor party discussions.”
“Why am I appealed to, then, for explanations that involve them?”
cried the priest, angrily. “I'm supported, too, in my observations by a
witness none will dispute,--that Scotchman, Henderson--”
“By the way, isn't his daughter come home to him?” asked Bodkin, eager
for a diversion.
“Indeed she is, sir; and a pretty story there is about it, too. Miss
Busk knows it all,” said Mrs. Cronan.
“I have it in confidence, ma'am, from Jemima Davis,--Lady Dorothea's
second maid; but I don't think it a fit subject for public
conversation.”
“And ain't we in committee here?” chimed in Bodkin; “have we any secrets
from each other?” The racy laugh of the old fellow, as he threw a
knowing glance around the table, rather disconcerted the company. “Let's
hear about Henderson's daughter.”
“The story is soon told, sir. Lady Dorothea detected her endeavoring to
draw young Martin into a private marriage. The artful creature, by
some means or other, had obtained such an insight into the young man's
difficulties that she actually terrorized over his weak mind.
She discovered, too, it is suspected, something rather more than
indiscretions on his part.”
A long low whistle from the priest seemed to impart a kind of gratified
surprise at this announcement.
“He had got into a habit of signing his name, they say; and whether he
signed it to something he had no right to, or signed another name by
mistake--”
“Oh, for shame,” broke in Bodkin; “that wouldn't be one bit like a
Martin.”
“Perhaps you are acquainted with all the circumstances better than
myself, sir?” said Miss Busk, bristling up with anger. “Maybe you 've
heard how the Henderson girl was turned away out of the French duke's
family,--how she was found in correspondence with the leaders of the mob
in Paris? Maybe, sir, you are aware that she has some mysterious hold
over her father, and he dares not gainsay one word she says?”
“I don't know one word of it; and if it wasn't thought rude, I'd say I
don't believe it, either,” said Bodkin, stoutly.
“I believe the worst that could be said of her,” said Mrs. Clinch.
“Well, well, make her as bad as you like; but how does that prove
anything against young Martin? and if you can find nothing heavier to
say of him than that he wanted to marry a very handsome girl--”
“A low creature!” broke in Miss Busk.
“The lowest of the low!” chimed in Mrs. Cronan.
“An impudent, upsetting minx!” added Mrs. Clinch. “Nothing would serve
her but a post-chaise the morning she arrived by the mail for Dublin;
and, signs on it, when she got home she had n't money to pay for it.”
“It was n't that she left her place empty-handed, then,” said Miss Busk.
“Jemima tells me that she managed the whole house,--paid for everything;
and we all know what comes of that.”
Miss Busk, in delivering this sentiment, was seated with her back to
the door, towards which suddenly every eye was now turned in mingled
astonishment and confusion; she moved round to see the cause, and there
beheld the very object of her commentary standing close behind her
chair. Closely wrapped in a large cloak, the hood of which she wore
over her head, her tall figure looked taller and more imposing in its
motionless attitude.
“I have to ask pardon for this intrusion, ladies,” said she, calmly;
“but you will forgive me when I tell the reason of it. I have just
received very sad tidings, which ought to be conveyed to Miss Martin;
she is at the islands, and I have no means of following her, unless Mr.
Clinch will kindly lend me the revenue boat--”
“And accompany you, I hope,” broke in Mrs. Clinch, with a sneer.
Kate did not notice the taunting remark, but went on, “You will be
grieved to hear that Mr. Martin is no more.”
“Martin dead!” muttered the Captain.
“Dead! When did he die?” “Where did it happen?” “How?” “Of what
malady?” “Are his remains coming home?” were asked in quick succession
by several voices.
“This letter will tell you all that I know myself,” said she, laying it
on the table. “May I venture to hope Mr. Clinch will so far oblige me?
The fishermen say the sea is too rough for their craft.”
“It's not exactly on the King's service, I opine, ma'am,” broke in Mrs.
Clinch; “but of course he is too gallant to oppose your wishes.”
“Faith! if you wanted any one with you, and would accept of myself,”
broke in Bodkin, “I'm ready this minute; not that exactly salt water is
my element.”
“The young lady is accustomed to travel alone, or she is much belied,”
said Miss Busk, with a sneer.
“I suppose you'd better let her have the boat, Clinch,” said his wife,
in a whisper. “There's no knowing what might come of it if you refused.”
“I 'll go down and muster the crew for you, Miss Henderson,” said
Clinch, not sorry to escape, although the exchange was from a warm cabin
to the beating rain without.
“Poor Martin!” sighed Bodkin; “he was the first of the family for many a
long year that did n't breathe his last under his own roof. I 'm sure it
weighed heavily on him.”
“I trust his son will follow his example, nevertheless,” said the
priest. “I don't want to see one of the name amongst us.”
“You might have worse, Father Maher,” said Bodkin, angrily.
And now a lively discussion ensued as to the merits of him they
had lost, for the most part with more of charity than many of their
dissertations; from this they branched off into speculations about the
future. Would the “present man” reside at home? would her Ladyship come
back? what would be Mary's position? how would Scanlan fare? what of
Henderson, too? In fact, casualties of every kind were debated,
and difficulties started, that they might be as readily reconciled.
Meanwhile Kate was hastening down to the shore, followed, rather than
escorted, by little Clinch, who even in the darkness felt that the
conjugal eye was upon him.