About an hour after Massingbred's departure for Kilkieran, Mr. Repton
set out for Cro' Martin Castle. The inn had furnished him its best
chaise and four of its primest horses; and had the old lawyer been
disposed to enjoy the pleasure which a great moralist has rated so
highly, of rapid motion through the air, he might have been gratified on
that occasion. Unhappily, however, he was not so minded. Many and very
serious cares pressed upon him. He was travelling a road, too, which he
had so often journeyed in high spirits, fancying to himself the pleasant
welcome before him, and even rehearsing to his own mind the stores of
agreeability he was to display,--and now it was to a deserted mansion,
lonely and desolate, he was turning! Death and ruin both had done their
work on that ancient family, whose very name in the land seemed already
hastening to oblivion!
Few men could resist the influence of depression better than Repton. It
was not alone that his temperament was still buoyant and energetic,
but the habits of his profession had taught him the necessity of being
prepared for emergencies, and he would have felt it a dereliction of
duty were his sentiments to overmaster his power of action.
Still, as he went along, the well-known features of the spot would
recall memories of the past. There lay a dense wood, of which he
remembered the very day, the very hour, poor Martin had commenced the
planting. There was the little trout-stream, where, under pretence
of fishing, he had lounged along the summer day, with Horace for his
companion; that, the school-house Mary had sketched, and built out of
her own pocket-money. And now the great massive gates slowly opened, and
they were within the demesne,--all silent and noiseless. As they came in
sight of the castle, Repton covered his face with his hands, and sat for
some minutes thus. Then, as if mastering his emotion, he raised his head
and folded his arms on his chest.
“You are true to time, I perceive, Dr. Leslie,” said he, as the chaise
stopped at the door and the venerable clergyman came forward to greet
him.
“I got your note last night, sir, but I determined not to keep you
waiting, for I perceive you say that time is precious now.”
“I thank you heartily,” said Repton, as he shook the other's hand. “I am
grateful to you also for being here to meet me, for I begin to feel my
courage fail me as to crossing that threshold again!”
“Age has its penalties as well as its blessings, sir,” said Leslie,
“and amongst these is to outlive those dear to us!” There was a painful
significance to his own desolate condition that made these words doubly
impressive.
Repton made no reply, but pulled the bell strongly; and the loud, deep
sounds rung out clearly through the silent house. After a brief interval
a small window above the door was opened, and a man with a blunderbuss
in his hand sternly demanded their business.
“Oh, I ax pardon, sir,” said he, as suddenly correcting himself. “I
thought it was that man that 's come to take the place,--'the Jew,'
they call him,--and Mr. Magennis said I was n't to let him in, or one
belonging to him.”
“No, Barney, we are not his friends,” said Dr. Leslie; “this is Mr.
Repton.”
“Sure I know the Counsellor well, sir,” said Barney. “I 'll be down in a
minute and open the door.”
“I must go to work at once,” said Repton, in a low and somewhat broken
voice, “or this place will be too much for me. Every step I go is
calling up old times and old scenes. I had thought my heart was
of sterner stuff. Isn't this the way to the library? No, not that
way,--that was poor Martin's own breakfast-room!” He spoke hurriedly,
like one who wished to suppress emotion by very activity of thought.
While the man who conducted them opened the window-shutters and the
windows, Repton and his companion sat down without speaking. At last he
withdrew, and Repton, rising, said,--“Some of the happiest hours of my
life were passed in this same room. I used to come up here after the
fatigues of circuit, and, throwing myself into one of those easy-chairs,
dream away for a day or two, gazing out on that bold mountain yonder,
above the trees, and wondering how those fellows who never relaxed, in
this wise, could sustain the wear and tear of life; for that junketing
to Harrow-gate, that rattling, noisy steamboating up the Rhine, that
Cockney heroism of Swiss travel, is my aversion. The calm forenoon
for thought, the pleasant dinner-table for genial enjoyment
afterwards,--these are true recreations. And what evenings we have had
here! But I must not dwell on these.” And now he threw upon the table a
mass of papers and letters, amongst which he sought out one, from which
he took a small key. “Dr. Leslie,” said he, “you might have been assured
that I have not called upon you to meet me to-day without a sufficient
reason. I know that, from certain causes, of which I am not well
informed, you were not on terms of much intimacy with my poor friend
here. This is not a time to think of these things; _you_, I am well
assured, will never remember them.”
Leslie made a motion of assent; and the other went on, his voice
gradually gaining in strength and fulness, and his whole manner by
degrees assuming the characteristic of the lawyer.
“To the few questions to which I will ask your answers, now, I have to
request all your attention. They are of great importance; they may, very
probably, be re-asked of you under more solemn circumstances; and I have
to bespeak, not alone all your accuracy for the replies, but that you
may be able, if asked, to state the manner and even the words in which
I now address you.--You have been the incumbent of this parish for a
length of time,--what number of years?”
“Sixty-three. I was appointed to the vicarage on my ordination, and
never held any other charge.”
“You knew the late Darcy Martin, father of the last proprietor of this
estate?”
“Intimately.”
“You baptized his two children, born at the same birth. State what you
remember of the circumstance.”
“I was sent for to the castle to give a private baptism to the two
infants, and requested that I would bring the vestry-book along with
me for the registration. I did so. The children were accordingly
christened, and their births duly registered and witnessed.”
“Can you remember the names by which they were called?”
“Not from the incident in question, though I know the names from
subsequent knowledge of them, as they grew up to manhood.”
“What means, if any, were adopted at the time to distinguish the
priority of birth?”
“The eldest was first baptized, and his birth specially entered in
the vestry-book as such; all the witnesses who signed the entry
corroborating the fact by special mention of it under their signature.
We also heard that the child wore a gold bracelet on one arm; but I did
not remark it.”
“You have this vestry-book in your keeping?”
“No; Mr. Martin retained it, with some object of more formal
registration. I repeatedly asked for it, but never could obtain it. At
length some coolness grew up between us, and I could not, or did not
wish to press my demand; and at last it lapsed entirely from my memory,
so that from that day I never saw it.”
“You could, however, recognize it, and be able to verify your
signature?”
“Certainly.”
“Was there, so far as you could see, any marked distinction made between
the children while yet young?”
“I can remember that at the age of three or four the eldest boy wore a
piece of red or blue ribbon on his sleeve; but any other mark I never
observed. They were treated, so far as I could perceive, precisely
alike; and their resemblance to each other was then so striking, it
would have been a matter of great nicety to distinguish them. Even
at school, I am told, mistakes constantly occurred, and one boy once
received the punishment incurred by the other.”
“As they grew up, you came to recognize the eldest by his name?”
“Yes. Old Mr. Darcy Martin used to take the elder boy more about with
him. He was then a child of ten or eleven years old. He was particular
in calling attention to him, saying, 'This fellow is to be my heir;
he 'll be the Martin of Cro' Martin yet'”
“And what name did the boy bear?”
“Godfrey,--Godfrey Martin. The second boy's name was Barry.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Quite sure. I have dined a number of times at the castle, when Godfrey
was called in after dinner, and the other boy was generally in disgrace;
and I could remark that his father spoke of him in a tone of irritation
and bitterness, which he did not employ towards the other.”
“Mr. Martin died before his sons came of age?”
“Yes; they were only nineteen at his death.”
“He made a will, I believe, to which you were a witness?”
“I was; but somehow the will was lost or mislaid, and it was only by
a letter to the Honorable Colonel Forbes, of Lisvally, that Martin's
intentions about appointing him guardian to his elder boy were
ascertained. I myself was named guardian to the second son, an office
of which he soon relieved me by going abroad, and never returned for a
number of years.”
“Godfrey Martin then succeeded to the estate in due course?”
“Yes, and we were very intimate for a time, till after his marriage,
when estrangement grew up between us, and at last we ceased to visit at
all.”
“Were the brothers supposed to be on good terms with each other?”
“I have heard two opposite versions on that subject. My own impression
was that Lady Dorothea disliked Barry Martin, who had made a marriage
that was considered beneath him; and then his brother was, from easiness
of disposition, gradually weaned of his old affection for him. Many
thought Barry, with all his faults, the better-hearted of the two.”
“Can you tell what ultimately became of this Barry Martin?”
“I only know, from common report, that after the death of his wife,
having given his infant child, a girl, in charge to his brother, he
engaged in the service of some of the Southern American Republics,
and is supposed yet to be living there,--some say in great affluence;
others, that he is utterly ruined by a failure in a mining speculation.
The last time I ever heard Godfrey speak of him was in terms of sincere
affection, adding the words, 'Poor Barry will befriend every one but
himself.'”
“So that he never returned?”
“I believe not; at least I never heard of it.”
“I have written down these questions and your answers to them,” said
Repton; “will you read them over, and if you find them correct, append
your signature. I am expecting Mr. Nelligan here, and I 'll go and see
if there be any sign of his arrival.”
Repton just reached the door as Mr. Nelligan drove up to it.
“All goes on well and promptly to-day,” said the old lawyer. “I have got
through a good deal of business already, and I expect to do as much more
ere evening sets in. I have asked you to be present, as a magistrate,
while I examine the contents of a certain closet in this house. I am led
to believe that very important documents are deposited there, and it is
in your presence, and that of Mr. Leslie, I purpose to make the inquiry.
Before I do so, however, I will entreat your attention to a number of
questions, and the answers to them, which will be read out to you. You
will then be in a better position to judge of any discovery which the
present investigation may reveal. All this sounds enigmatically enough,
Mr. Nelligan; but you will extend your patience to me for a short while,
and I hope to repay it.”
Nelligan bowed in silence, and followed him into the house.
“There,” said Mr. Leslie, “I have written my name to that paper; it is,
so far as I can see, perfectly correct.”
“Now, let me read it for Mr. Nelligan,” said Repton; and, without
further preface, recited aloud the contents of the document. “I
conclude, sir,” said he, as he finished, “that there is nothing in what
you have just heard very new or very strange to your ears. You knew
before that Darcy Martin had two sons; that they were twins; and that
one of them, Godfrey, inherited the estate. You may also have heard
something of the brother's history; more, perhaps, than is here alluded
to.”
“I have always heard him spoken of as a wild, reckless fellow, and that
it was a piece of special good fortune he was not born to the property,
or he had squandered every shilling of it,” said Nelligan.
“Yes,” said Leslie, “such was the character he bore.”
“That will do,” said Repton, rising. “Now, gentlemen, I'm about to
unlock this cabinet, and, if I be correctly informed, we shall find
the vestry-book with the entries spoken of by Mr. Leslie, and the long
missing will of Darcy Martin. Such, I repeat, are the objects I expect
to discover; and it is in your presence I proceed to this examination.”
In some astonishment at his words, the others followed him to the corner
of the room, where, half concealed in the wainscot, a small door was
at length discovered, unlocking which, Repton and the others entered a
little chamber, lighted by a narrow, loopholed window. Not stopping to
examine the shelves loaded with old documents and account-books, Repton
walked straight to a small ebony cabinet, on a bracket, opening which,
he drew forth a square vellum-bound book, with massive clasps.
“The old vestry-book. I know it well,” said Leslie.
“Here are the documents in parchment,” continued Repton, “and a sealed
paper. What are the lines in the corner, Mr. Nelligan,--your eyes are
better than mine?”
“'Agreement between Godfrey and Barry Martin. To be opened by whichever
shall survive the other.' The initials of each are underneath.”
“With this we have no concern,” said Repton; “our business lies with
these.” And he pointed to the vestry-book. “Let us look for the entry
you spoke of.”
“It is easily found,” said Leslie. “It was the last ever made in that
book. Here it is.” And he read aloud: “'February 8th, 1772. Privately
baptized, at Cro' Martin Castle, by me, Henry Leslie, Incumbent and
Vicar of the said parish, Barry and Godfrey, sons of Darcy Martin and
Eleanor his wife, both born on the fourth day of the aforesaid month;
and, for the better discrimination of their priority in age, it is
hereby added that Barry Martin is the elder, and Godfrey the second
son, to which fact the following are attesting witnesses: Michael Keirn,
house-steward; George Dorcas, butler; and Catharine Broon, maid of
still-room.'”
“Is that in your handwriting, sir?” asked Repton.
“Yes, every word of it, except the superscription of the witnesses.”
“Why, then it would appear that the eldest son never enjoyed his
rights,” cried Nelligan. “Is that possible?”
“It is the strict truth, sir,” said Repton. “The whole history of the
case adds one to the thousand instances of the miserable failures men
make who seek by the indulgence of their own caprices to obstruct the
decrees of Providence. Darcy Martin died in the belief that he had
so succeeded; and here, now, after more than half a century, are the
evidences which reverse his whole policy, and subvert all his plans.”
“But what could have been the object here?” asked Nelligan.
“Simply his preference for the younger-born. No sooner had the children
arrived at that time of life when dispositions display themselves, than
he singled out Godfrey as his favorite. He distinguished him in every
way, and as markedly showed that he felt little affection for the other.
Whether this favoritism, so openly expressed, had its influence on the
rest of the household, or that really they grew to believe that the
boy thus selected for peculiar honor was the heir, it would be very
difficult now to say. Each cause may have contributed its share; all we
know is, that when sent to Dr. Harley's school, at Oughterard, Godfrey
was called the elder, and distinguished as such by a bit of red ribbon
in his button-hole. And thus they grew up to youth and manhood,--the
one flattered, indulged, and caressed; the other equally depreciated and
undervalued. Men are, in a great measure, what others make them.
Godfrey became proud, indolent, and overbearing; Barry, reckless and a
spendthrift Darcy Martin died, and Godfrey succeeded him as matter of
course; while Barry, disposing of the small property bequeathed to him,
set out to seek adventures in the Spanish Main.
“I am not able to tell, had you even the patience to hear, of what
befell him there; the very strangest, wildest incidents are recorded
of his life, but they have no bearing on what we are now engaged in. He
came back, however, with a wife, to find his brother also married. This
is a period of his life of which little is known. The brothers did not
live well together. There were serious differences between them; and
Lady Dorothea's conduct towards her sister-in-law, needlessly cruel and
offensive, as I have heard, imbittered the relations between them.
At last Barry's wife died, it was said, of a broken heart, and Barry
arrived at Cro' Martin to deposit his infant child with his brother, and
take leave of home and country forever.
“Some incident of more than usual importance, and with circumstances
of no common pain, must now have occurred; for one night Barry left the
castle, vowing nevermore to enter it. Godfrey followed, and tried to
detain him. A scene ensued of entreaty on one side, and passionate
vehemence on the other, which brought some of the servants to the spot.
Godfrey imperiously ordered them away; they all obeyed but Catty. Catty
Broon followed Barry, and never quitted him that night, which he spent
walking up and down the long avenue of the demesne, watching and waiting
for daybreak. We can only conjecture what, in the violence of her grief
and indignation, this old attached follower of the house might have
revealed. Barry had always been her favorite of the two boys; she knew
his rights; she had never forgotten them. She could not tell by what
subtleties of law they had been transferred to another, but she felt in
her heart assured that in the sight of God they were sacred. How far,
then, she revealed this to him, or only hinted it, we have no means of
knowing. We can only say that, armed with a certain fact, Barry demanded
the next day a formal meeting with his brother and his sister-in-law. Of
what passed then and there, no record remains, save, possibly, in
that sealed packet; for it bears the date of that eventful morning.
I, however, am in a position to prove that Barry declared he would not
disturb the possession Godfrey was then enjoying. 'Make that poor
child,' said he, alluding to his little girl, your own daughter, and it
matters little what becomes of _me_.' Godfrey has more than once
adverted to this distressing scene to me. He told me how Lady Dorothea's
passion was such that she alternately inveighed against himself for
having betrayed her into a marriage beneath her, and abjectly implored
Barry not to expose them to the shame and disgrace of the whole world by
the assertion of his claim. From this she would burst out into fits of
open defiance of him, daring him as an impostor; in fact, Martin said,
'That morning has darkened my life forever; the shadow of it will be
over me to the last hour I live!' And so it was! Self-reproach never
left him: at one time, for his usurpation of what never was his; at
another, for the neglect of poor Mary, who was suffered to grow up
without any care of her education, or, indeed, of any attention whatever
bestowed upon her.
“I believe that, in spite of herself, Lady Dorothea visited the
dislike she bore Barry on his daughter. It was a sense of hate from the
consciousness of a wrong,--one of the bitterest sources of enmity!
At all events, she showed her little affection,--no tenderness. Poor
Godfrey did all that his weak and yielding nature would permit to repair
this injustice; his consciousness that to that girl's father he owed
position, fortune, station, everything, was ever rising up in his mind,
and urging him to some generous effort in her behalf. But you knew him;
you knew how a fatal indolence, a shrinking horror of whatever demanded
action or energy overcame all his better nature, and made him as
useless to all the exigencies of life as one whose heart was eaten up by
selfishness.
“The remainder of this sad story is told in very few words. Barry Martin,
from whom for several years before no tidings had been received, came
suddenly back to England. At first it had not been his intention to
revisit Ireland. There was something of magnanimity in the resolve to
stay away. He would not come back to impose upon his brother a renewal
of that lease of gratitude he derived from him; he would rather spare
him the inevitable conflict of feeling which the contrast of his own
affluence with the humble condition of an exile would evoke. Besides, he
was one of those men whom, whatever Nature may have disposed them to be,
the world has so crushed and hardened that they live rather to indulge
strong resentments and stern duties than to gratify warm affections.
Something he had accidentally heard in a coffee-room--the chance mention
by a traveller recently returned from Ireland--about a young lady of
rank and fortune whom he had met hunting her own harriers alone in the
wildest glen of Connemara, decided him to go over there, and, under the
name of Mr. Barry, to visit the scenes of his youth.
“I have but to tell you that it was in that dreary month of November,
when plague and famine came together upon us, that he saw this country;
the people dying on every side, the land until led, the very crops in
some places uncut, terror and dismay on every side, and they who alone
could have inspired confidence, or afforded aid, gone! Even Cro' Martin
was deserted,--worse than deserted; for one was left to struggle alone
against difficulties that the boldest and the bravest might have shrunk
from. Had Barry Martin been like any other man, he would at once have
placed himself at her side. It was a glorious occasion to have shown
her that she was not the lone and friendless orphan, but the loved and
cherished child of a doting father. But the hard, stern nature of the
man had other and very different impulses; and though he tracked her
from cottage to cottage, followed her in her lonely rambles, and watched
her in her daily duties, no impulse of affection ever moved him to call
her his daughter and bring her home to his heart. I know not whether it
was to afford him these occasions of meeting her, or really in a spirit
of benevolence, but he dispensed large sums in acts of charity among the
people, and Mary herself recounted to me, with tears of delight in her
eyes, the splendid generosity of this unknown stranger. I must hasten
on. An accident, the mere circumstance of a note-book dropped by some
strange chance in Barry's room, revealed to him the whole story of
Captain Martin's spendthrift life; he saw that this young man had
squandered away not only immense sums obtained by loans, but actually
bartered his own reversionary right to the entire estate for money
already lost at the gaming-table.
“Barry at once set out for Dublin to call upon me and declare himself;
but I was, unfortunately, absent at the assizes. He endeavored next to
see Scanlan. Scanlan was in London; he followed him there. To Scanlan he
represented himself as a money-lender, who, having come to the knowledge
of Merl's dealings with young Martin, and the perilous condition of the
property in consequence, offered his aid to re-purchase the reversion
while it was yet time. To effect this bargain, Scanlan hastened over to
Baden, accompanied by Barry, who, however, for secrecy' sake, remained
at a town in the neighborhood. Scanlan, it seems, resolved to profit
by an emergency so full of moment, and exacted from Lady Dorothea--for
Martin was then too ill to be consulted--the most advantageous terms for
himself. I need not mention one of the conditions,--a formal consent to
his marriage with Miss Martin! and this, remember, when that young lady
had not the slightest, vaguest suspicion that such an indignity could
be offered her, far less concurred in by her nearest relatives! In the
exuberance of his triumph, Scanlan showed the formal letter of assent
from Lady Dorothea to Barry. It was from this latter I had the account,
and I can give you no details, for all he said was, 'As I crushed it in
my hand, I clenched my fist to fell him to the ground! but I refrained.
I muttered a word or two, and got out into the street. I know very
little more.'
“That night he set out for Baden; but of his journey I know nothing. The
only hint of it he ever dropped was when, giving me this key, he said,
'I saw Godfrey.'
“He is now back here once more; come to insist upon his long unasserted
rights, and by a title so indisputable that it will leave no doubt of
the result.
“He is silent and uncommunicative; but he has said enough to show me
that he is possessed of evidence of the compact between Godfrey and
himself; nor is he the man to fail for lack of energy.
“I have now come to the end of this strange history, in which it is not
impossible you yourselves may be called to play a part, in confirmation
of what you have seen this day.”
“Then this was the same Mr. Barry of whom we spoke last night?” said
Nelligan, thoughtfully. “When about to describe him to you, I was really
going to say, something like what Mr. Martin might look, if ten years
older and white-haired.”
“There is a strong resemblance still!” said Repton, as he busied himself
sealing up the vestry-book and the other documents. “These I mean to
deposit in your keeping, Mr. Nelligan, till they be called for. I have
sent over Massingbred to Barry to learn what his wishes may be as to the
next legal steps; and now I am ready to return with you to Oughterard.”
Talking over this singular story, they reached the town, where
Massingbred had just arrived a short time before.
“I have had a long chase,” said Jack, “and only found him late in the
afternoon at the cottage.”
“You gave him the packet, then, and asked when we should meet?” asked
Repton, hurriedly.
“Yes; he was walking up and down before the door with the doctor, when
we rode up. He scarcely noticed us; and taking your letter in his hand
he placed it, without breaking the seal, on a seat in the porch. I then
gave him your message, and he seemed so lost in thought that I fancied
he had not attended to me. I was about to repeat it, when he interrupted
me, saying, 'I have heard you, sir; there is no answer.' As I stood
for a moment or two, uncertain what to do or say, I perceived that
Joe Nelligan, who had been speaking to the doctor, had just staggered
towards a bench, ill and fainting. 'Yes,' said Barry, turning his eyes
towards him, 'she is very--very ill; tell Repton so, and he 'll feel for
me!'”
Repton pressed his handkerchief to his face and turned away.
“I 'm afraid,” said Massingbred, “that her state is highly dangerous.
The few words the doctor dropped were full of serious meaning.”
“Let us hope, and pray,” said Repton, fervently, “that, amidst all the
calamities of this sorrow-struck land, it may be spared the loss of one
who never opened a cabin door without a blessing, nor closed it but to
shut a hope within.”