A little to the northwest of the island of Innishmore are scattered a
number of small islets, some scarcely more than barren rocks, called
the Brannocks. One of these alone was inhabited, and that by a single
family. No isolation could be more complete than that of these poor
people, who thus dwelt amid the wide waste of waters, never seeing the
face of a stranger, and only at long intervals visiting the mainland.
Indeed the only intercourse they could be said to maintain with their
fellow-men was when by chance they fell in with some homeward-bound ship
at sea, and sold the little produce of their nets; for they lived by
fishing, and had no other subsistence.
The largest of these islands was called “Brannock-buoy,” or the Yellow
Brannock, from the flower of a kind of crocus which grew profusely over
it. It was a wild, desolate spot, scarcely rising above the waves around
it, save in one quarter, where a massive column of rock rose to the
height of several hundred feet, and formed the only shelter against the
swooping wind, which came without break or hindrance from the far-away
shores of Labrador. At the foot of this strong barrier--so small and
insignificant as to escape notice from the sea--stood the little cabin
of Owen Joyce. Built in a circular form, the chimney in the middle, the
rude structure resembled some wigwam of the prairies rather than the
home of civilized beings.
Certain low partitions within subdivided the space into different
chambers, making the centre the common apartment of the family, where
they cooked and ate and chatted; for, with all their poverty and
privation, theirs was a life not devoid of its own happiness, nor did
they believe that their lot was one to repine at.
Seasons of unprofitable labor, years of more or less pressure, they had
indeed experienced, but actual want had never visited them; sickness,
too, was almost as rare. Owen Joyce was, at the time we speak of,
upwards of eighty; and although his hair was white as snow, his cheek
was ruddy, his white teeth were perfect, and his eye--like that of
Moses--“was not dim.” Surrounded by his children and grandchildren, the
old man lived happy and contented, his daily teaching being to impress
upon them the blessings they derived from a life so sheltered from all
the accidents of fortune; to have, as he called the island, “the little
craft all their own.”
The traits of race and family, the limited range of their intercourse
with the world, served to make them all wonderfully alike, not only in
feature but expression; so that even the youngest child had something of
the calm, steadfast look which characterized the old man. The jet-black
hair and eyes and the swarthy skin seemed to indicate a Spanish origin,
and gave them a type perfectly distinctive and peculiar.
In the midst of them moved one who, though dressed in the light-blue
woollen kirtle, the favorite costume of the islands, bore in her fresh
bright features the traces of a different blood; her deep blue eye, soft
and almost sleepy, her full, well-curved lips, were strong contrasts to
the traits around her. The most passing glance would have detected
that she was not “one of them,” nor had she been long an inmate of this
dwelling.
It chanced that some short time before, one of Joyce's sons, in boarding
an outward-bound American ship, had heard of a young countrywoman
who, having taken her passage for New York, no sooner found herself at
sea--parted, as she deemed it, forever from home and country--than she
gave way to the most violent grief; so poignant, indeed, was her sorrow
that the captain compassionately offered to relinquish her passage-money
if Joyce would take charge of her, and re-land her on the shores of
Ireland. The offer was accepted, and the same evening saw her safely
deposited on the rocky island of Brannock. Partly in gratitude to her
deliverer, partly in the indulgence of a secret wish, she asked leave
to remain with them and be their servant; the compact was agreed to, and
thus was she there.
Theirs was not a life to engender the suspicions and distrusts which
are current in the busier walks of men. None asked her a reason for her
self-banishment, none inquired whether the cause of her exile was
crime or misfortune. They had grown to feel attachment to her for the
qualities of her gentle, quiet nature, a mild submissive temper, and a
disposition to oblige, that forgot nothing save herself. Her habits had
taught her resources and ways which their isolated existence had denied
them, and she made herself useful by various arts, which, simple as they
were, seemed marvellous to the apprehension of her hosts; and thus, day
by day, gaining on their love and esteem, they came at length to regard
her with an affection mingled with a sort of homage.
Poor Joan Landy--for we have not to explain that it was she--was
happy,--happier than ever she had been before. The one great sorrow of
her life was, it is true, treasured in her heart; her lost home,
her blighted hope, her severed affection--for she actually loved
Magennis--were griefs over which she wept many an hour in secret;
but there was a sense of duty, a conscious feeling of rectitude,
that supported her in her sacrifice, and as she thought of her old
grandfather's death-bed, she could say to her heart, “I have been true
to my word with him.”
The unbroken quiet, the unchanging character of the life she led,--its
very duties following a routine that nothing ever disturbed,--gave her
ample time for thought; and thought, though tinged with melancholy, has
its own store of consolation; and if poor Joan sorrowed, she sorrowed
like one who rather deplored the past than desired to re-live it! As
time wore on, a dreamy indistinctness seemed to spread itself over the
memory of her former life: it appeared little other than a mind-drawn
picture. Nothing actual or tangible remained to convince her of its
reality. It was only at rare intervals, and in the very clearest
weather, the outline of the mountains of the mainland could be seen; and
when she did behold them, they brought only some vague recollection to
her; and so, too, the memories of her once home came through the haze of
distance, dim and indistinct.
It was at the close of a day in June that the Joyces sat in front of
the little cabin, repairing their nets, and getting their tackle in
readiness for the sea. For some time previous the weather had been
broken and unfavorable. Strong west winds and heavy seas--far from
infrequent in these regions, even in midsummer--had rendered fishing
impracticable; but now the aspect of a new moon, rising full an hour
before sunset, gave promise of better, and old Joyce had got the launch
drawn up on shore to refit, and sails were spread out upon the rocks to
dry, and coils of rope, and anchors, and loose spars littered the little
space before the door. The scene was a busy and not an unpicturesque
one. There was every age, from the oldest to very infancy, all active,
all employed. Some were calking the seams of the boat, others overhauled
sails and cordage; some were preparing the nets, attaching cork floats
or sinkers; and two chubby urchins, mere infants, laughing, fed the
fire that blazed beneath a large pitch-pot, the light blue smoke rising
calmly into the air, and telling those far away that the lone rock
was not without inhabitants. To all seeming, these signs of life and
habitation bad attracted notice; for a small boat which had quitted
Innishmore for the mainland some time before, now altered her course,
and was seen slowly bearing up towards the Brannocks. Though the sea was
calm and waveless, the wind was only sufficient to waft her along at the
slowest rate; a twinkling flash of the sea at intervals showed, however,
that her crew were rowing, and at length the measured beat of the oars
could be distinctly heard.
Many were the speculations of those who watched her course. They knew
she was not a fishing-craft; her light spars and white sails were
sufficient to refute that opinion. Neither was she one of the
revenue-boats. What could she be, then, since no large ship was in sight
to which she could have belonged? It is only to those who have at some
one period or other of life sojourned in some lone spot of earth, away
from human intercourse, that the anxiety of these poor people could be
intelligible. If, good reader,--for to you we now appeal,--it has not
been your lot to have once on a time lived remote from the world and
its ways, you cannot imagine how intensely interesting can become the
commonest of those incidents which mark ordinary existence. They assume,
indeed, very different proportions from the real, and come charged with
innumerable imaginings about that wondrous life, far, far away, where
there are thoughts and passions and deeds and events which never enter
into the dreamland of exile! It was a little after sunset that the boat
glided into the small creek which formed the only harbor of the island;
and the moment after, a young girl sprang on the shore, and hastened
towards them.
[Illustration: 334]
Before the Joyces had recovered from their first surprise, they saw Joan
burst from the spot, and, rushing down the slope, throw herself at the
stranger's feet.
“And have I found you at last, dear Joan?” cried a soft, low voice,
while the speaker raised her tenderly from the ground, and took her hand
kindly within both her own.
“Oh, Miss Mary, to think you 'd come after me this far! over the say!”
burst out Joan, sobbing through her joy; for joy it was that now lit
up her features, and made her eyes sparkle even through the fresh tears
that filled them.
“They told me you had sailed from Galway,” resumed Mary, “and I wrote
to the ship-agent and found it was correct: your name was in the list of
passengers, and the date of the day you sailed; but, I know not how it
was, Joan, I still clung to the notion that you had contrived this plan
to escape being discovered, and that you were concealed somewhere along
the coast or in the islands. I believe I used to dream of this at first,
but at last I thought of it all day long.”
“Thought of _me_ all day long?” broke in Joan, sobbing.
“And why not, poor child? Was I not the cause of your leaving your
home? Was it not my persuasion that induced you to leave the roof that
sheltered you? I have often wondered whether I had right and reason on
my side. I know at the time I believed I had such. At all events, but
for me you had never quitted that home; but see, Joan, how what we are
led to do with an honest purpose, if it fail to effect what we had in
view, often leads to better and happier ends than we ever dreamed of.
I only thought of conveying to you the last message of your poor
grandfather. I little imagined how so simple an act could influence
all your future fortune in life; and such it has done. Mr. Magennis,
suspecting or discovering what share I had in your flight, has begun a
law proceeding against me, and to give him a rightful claim for redress,
has declared you to be--all that you wish, dear Joan--his lawful, wedded
wife.”
It was some time before the poor girl could stifle the sobbing which
burst from her very heart. She kissed Mary's hands over and over with
rapture, and cried out at length, in broken, faltering accents, “Did
n't they say well that called you a saint from heaven? Didn't they tell
truth that said, God gave you as a blessing to us?”
“My poor Joan, you are grateful to me for what I have no share in. I am
nothing but the bearer of good tidings. But tell me, how have you fared
since we parted? Let me hear all that has happened to you.”
Joan told her simple story in a few words, never deviating from the
narrative, save to speak her heartfelt gratitude to the poor people who
had sheltered and befriended her.
“There they are!” cried she, pointing to the group, who, with a delicacy
of sentiment that might have graced the most refined class, sat
apart, never venturing by a look to obtrude upon the confidence of the
others,--“there they are; and if the world was like them, life would n't
have many crosses!”
Mary rose, and drew nigh the old man, who stood up respectfully to
receive her.
“He does n't know much English, Miss Mary,” whispered Joan in her ear.
“Nor am I well skilled in Irish,” said Mary, smiling; “but I 'll do my
best to thank him.”
However imperfectly she spoke the native tongue, the words seemed to
act like a charm on those who heard them; and as, young and old, they
gathered around her, their eager looks and delighted faces beamed with a
triumphant joy. They had learned from the boatmen that it was the young
princess--as in the language of the people she was called--was before
them, and their pride and happiness knew no bounds.
Oh, if courtiers could feel one tithe of the personal devotion to the
sovereign that did these poor peasants to her they regarded as their
chief, what an atmosphere of chivalry would breathe within the palace
of royalty! There was nothing they would not have done or dared at her
bidding; and as she crossed their threshold, and sat down beside their
hearth, the tears of joy that rose to every eye showed that this was an
event to be treasured till memory could retain no more!
If Mary did not speak the native dialect fluently, there was a grace and
a charm about the turn of the expressions she used that never failed to
delight those who heard her. That imaginative thread that runs through
the woof of Irish nature in every rank and condition of life--more
conspicuous, probably, in the very humblest--imparted an intense
pleasure to hearing and listening to her; and she, on her side, roused
and stimulated by the adventurous character of the incident, the strange
wild spot, the simple people, their isolation and their innocence, spoke
with a warmth and an enthusiasm that were perfectly captivating.
She had seen much of the peasantry,--known them in the most unfrequented
tracts, remote from all their fellow-men,--in far-away glens, by dreary
mountains, where no footpaths led; but anything so purely simple and
unsophisticated as these poor people she had never met with. The sons
had been--and that rarely, too--on the mainland, but the children and
their mothers had never left the Brannocks; they had never beheld a
tree, nor even a flower, save the wild crocus on their native rock. With
what eager delight, then, did they hear Mary describe the gardens of the
castle,--pictures that glowed with all the gorgeous colors of a fairy
tale. “You shall all come and see me, some of these days. I'll send you
a messenger, to say the time,” said Mary; “and I'll promise that what
you 'll witness will be far above my description of it!”
It was a sad moment when Mary arose to say good-bye. Joan, too, was to
accompany her, and the grief at parting with her was extreme. Again and
again the children clung round her, entreating her not to leave them;
and she herself half faltered in her resolution. That lonely rock, that
rude cabin, had been her refuge in the darkest hour of her life, and she
felt the superstitious terror of her class at now deserting them.
“Come, come, dear Joan, remember that you have a home now that you
can rightfully return to,” whispered Mary. “It is not in shame, but in
honor, that you go back to it.”
It was already dark ere they left the Brannocks: a long, heavy swell,
too, the signs of a storm, coming from the westward, made the boatmen
eager to hasten their departure. As yet, however, the air was calm and
still, but it was with that oppressive stillness that forebodes change.
They hoisted their sail, but soon saw that they must, for a while at
least, trust to their oars. The unbroken stillness, save by the measured
stroke of the rowers, the dense dark atmosphere, and the reaction, after
a day of toil and an event of a most moving kind, so overcame Mary that,
leaning on Joan's shoulder, she fell off fast asleep. For a while Joan,
proud of the burden she supported, devoted all her care to watch
and protect her from the night air; but at last weariness stole over
herself, and she dropped off to slumber.
Meanwhile the sea was rising; heavy waves struck the boat, and washed
over her in sheets of spray, although no wind was stirring.
“We 'll have rain, or a gale of wind before long,” said one of the men.
“There 's some heavy drops falling now,” muttered another.
“Throw that sail over Miss Mary, for it will soon come down heavily.”
A loud clap of thunder burst forth, and as suddenly, like a torrent, the
rain poured down, hissing over the dark sea, and filling the air with a
dull, discordant noise. Still they slept on, nor heard nor felt aught of
that gathering storm.
“There now, sure enough, it 's coming,” cried a boatman, as the sail
shook tremulously; and two great waves, in quick succession, broke over
the bow.
“We'll have to run for Innishmore,” said another, “and lucky if we get
there before it comes on worse.”
“You ought to wake her up, Loony, and ask her what we are to do.”
“I 'll make straight for the harbor of Kilkieran,” replied the helmsman.
“The wind is with us, and she's a good sea-boat. Take in the jib,
Maurice, and we'll shorten all sail on her, and--”
The rest of his speech was drowned in the uproar of a tremendous sea,
which struck the boat on her quarter and nearly overset her. Not another
word was now uttered, as, with the instinct of their calling, they
set about to prepare for the coming conflict. The mainsail was quickly
lowered and reefed, the oars and loose spars secured, and then, seating
themselves in the bottom of the boat, they waited in silence. By this
time the rain had passed over, and a strong wind swept over the sea.
“She's going fast through the water, anyway!” said one of the men. But
though the speech was meant to cheer, none felt or acknowledged the
encouragement.
“I 'd rather than own Cro' Martin Castle Miss Mary was safe at home!”
said Loony, as he drew the rough sleeve of his coat across his eyes,
“for it's thicker it's getting over yonder!”
“It would be a black day that anything happened her!” muttered another.
“Musha! we've wives and childer,” said a third, “but she's worth a
thousand of us!”
And thus, in broken whispers, they spoke; not a thought save of her, not
a care save for her safety. They prayed, too, fervently, and her name
was in all their supplications.
“She's singing to herself in her sleep,” whispered Loony. And the rough
sailors hushed to hear her.
Louder and louder, however, grew the storm, sheets of spray and drift
falling over the boat in showers, and all her timbers quivering as she
labored in the stormy sea. A sailor whispered something in Loony's ear,
and he grumbled out in reply,--“Why would I wake her up?”
“But I _am_ awake, Loony,” said Mary, in a low, calm voice, “and I see
all our danger; but I see, too, that you are meeting it like brave men,
and, better still, like good ones.”
“The men was thinking we ought to bear up for Innish-more, Miss Mary,”
said Loony, as though ashamed of offering on his own part such counsel.
“You'll do what you think best and safest for us all, Loony.”
“But you were always the captain, miss, when you were aboord!” replied
he, with an effort to smile.
“And so I should be now, Loony, but that my heart is too full to be as
calm and resolute as I ought to be. This poor thing had not been here
now, but for _me_.” And she wrapped her shawl around Joan as she spoke.
“Maybe it's anxiety, perhaps fatigue, but I have not my old courage
to-night!”
“Faix! it will never be fear that will distress you!” said he.
“If you mean for myself and my own safety, Loony, you are right. It is
not for me to repine at the hour that calls me away, but I cannot
bear to think how you and others, with so many dear to you, should be
perilled just to serve _me!_ And poor Joan, too, at the moment when life
was about to brighten for her!” She held down her head for a minute or
two, and then suddenly, as it were, rallying, she cried out, “The boat
is laboring too much for'ard, Loony; set the jib on her!”
“To be sure, if you ordher it, Miss Mary; but she has more sail now than
she can carry.”
“Set the jib, Loony. I know the craft well; she 'll ride the waves all
the lighter for it. If it were but daylight, I almost think I 'd enjoy
this. We 've been out in as bad before.”
Loony shook his head as he went forward to bend the additional sail.
“You see she won't bear it, miss,” cried he, as the boat plunged
fearfully into the trough of the sea.
“Let us try,” said she, calmly. “Stand by, ready to slack off, if I
give the word.” And so saying, she took the tiller from the sailor, and
seated herself on the weather-gunwale. “There, see how she does it now!
Ah, Loony, confess, I am the true pilot. I knew my nerve would come back
when I took my old post here. I was always a coward in a carriage, if I
was n't on the box and the reins in my hands; and the same at sea.
Sit up to windward, men, and don't move; never mind baling, only keep
quiet.”
“Miss Mary was right,” muttered one of the men; “the head-sail is
drawing her high out of the water!”
“Is that dark mass before us cloud, or the land?” cried she.
“It's the mountains, miss. There to the left, where you see the dip in
the ridge, that's Kilkieran. I think I see the lights on shore now.”
“I see them now myself,” cried Mary. “Oh, how the sight of land gives
love of life! They called earth truly who named her mother!” said she to
herself. “What was that which swept past us, Loony?”
“A boat, miss; and they're hailing us now,” cried he, peeping over the
gunwale. “They've put her about, and are following our course. They came
out after us.”
“It was gallantly done, on such a night as this! I was just thinking to
myself that poor old Mat Landy would have been out, were he living. You
must take the tiller now, Loony, for I don't understand the lights on
shore.”
“Because they're shifting every minute, miss. It's torches they have,
and they 're moving from place to place; but we 'll soon be safe now.”
“Let us not forget this night, men,” said Mary, in a fervent voice. And
then, burying her face within her hands, she spoke no more.
It was already daybreak when they gained the little harbor, well-nigh
exhausted, and worn out with fatigue and anxiety. As for Mary, wet
through and cold, she could not rise from her seat without assistance,
and almost fainted as she put her foot on shore. She turned one glance
seaward to where the other boat was seen following them, and then,
holding Joan's hand, she slowly toiled up the rocky ascent to the
village. To the crowd of every age that surrounded her she could only
give a faint, sickly smile of recognition, and they, in deep reverence,
stood without speaking, gazing on her wan features and the dripping
garments which clung to her.
“No, not to the inn, Loony,” said she, to a question from him. “The
first cabin we meet will shelter us, and then--home!” There was
something of intense sorrow in the thought that passed then through her
mind, for her eyes suddenly filled up, and heavy tears rolled along her
cheeks. “Have they got in yet?” said she, looking towards the sea.
“Yes, miss; they're close alongside now. It's the revenue boat that went
after us.”
“Wirra, wirra! but that's bad news for her now,” muttered a boatman, in
conversation with an old woman at his side.
“What's the bad news, Patsey?” said Mary, overhearing him.
But the man did not dare to answer; and though he looked around on every
side, none would speak for him.
“You used to be more frank with me,” said Mary, calmly. “Tell me what
has happened.”
Still not a word was uttered, a mournful silence brooded over the crowd,
and each seemed to shun the task of breaking it.
“You will make me fear worse than the reality, perhaps,” said she,
tremulously. “Is the calamity near home? No. Is it then my uncle?” A
low faint cry burst from her, and she dropped down on her knees; but
scarcely had she joined her hands to pray, than she fell back, fainting,
to the ground.
They carried her, still insensible as she was, into a fisherman's cabin,
till they went in search of a conveyance to take her to the cottage.