The Osprey's Nest was, I have said, like a direct challenge hurled at
the face of western gales and Atlantic storms. With what success, its
aspect of dilapidation and decay but too plainly betrayed. The tangled
seaweed that hung in dripping festoons over the porch, the sea-shells
that rattled against the window-panes, seemed like an angry denunciation
of the attempt to brave the elements by the mere appliances of ease and
luxury.
It was better, however, in the inside, where, in a roomy apartment, most
comfortably furnished, a lady and gentleman sat at breakfast. The table
stood in a little projection of the room, admitting of a wide sea-view
over the bay and the distant islands of Lettermullen, but as carefully
excluded all prospect of the port,--a locality which held no high place
in the esteem of the lady of the house, and which, by ignoring, she half
fancied she had annihilated. Wild promontories of rocks, jutting out
here and there, broke the coast line, and marked the shore with a
foaming stream of white water, as the ever-restless sea dashed over
them. The long booming swell of the great ocean bounded into many a
rocky cavern, with a loud report like thunder, and issued forth again
with a whole cataract of falling stones, that rattled like the crash
of small-arms. It was unceasing, deafening clamor in the midst of
death-like desolation.
Let me, however, turn once more to the scene within, and present the
living elements to my reader. They were both past the prime of life.
The lady might still be called handsome; her features were perfectly
regular, and finely cut, bearing the impress of a proud and haughty
spirit that never quailed beneath the conflict of a long life, and even
yet showed a firm front to fortune. Her hair was white as snow; and as
she wore it drawn back, after the fashion of a bygone time, it gave
her the air of a fine lady of the old French Court, in all the pomp of
powder and pomatum. Nor did her dress correct the impression, since the
deep falls of lace that covered her hands, the lengthy stomacher, and
trailing folds of her heavy brocade gown, all showed a lurking fondness
for the distinctive toilette of that era. Lady Dorothea Martin had been
a beauty and an earl's daughter; two facts that not even the seclusion
of the wild west could erase from her memory.
Mr. Martin himself was no unworthy “pendant” to this portrait. He was
tall and stately, with a lofty forehead, and temples finely and
well fashioned; while full, deep-set blue eyes of the very sternest
determination, and a mouth, every line of which betrayed firmness, gave
the character to a face that also could expand into the most genial
good-fellowship, and become at times the symbol of a pleasant and
convivial Irish gentleman. In his youth he had been a beau of the Court
of Versailles. Scandal had even coupled his name with that of Marie
Antoinette; and more truthful narratives connected him with some of the
most extravagant adventures of that profligate and brilliant period.
After a career of the wildest dissipation and excess, he had married,
late in life, the daughter of the Earl of Exmere, one of the proudest
and poorest names in the British Peerage. Two or three attempts to shine
in the world of London,--not as successful as they were expected to
have proved,--an effort at ascendancy in Irish political life, also a
failure, coupled with disappointment on the score of an only brother,
who had married beneath him, and was reputed to have “lost himself,”
seemed to have disgusted Godfrey Martin with the world, and he had
retired to his lonely mansion in the west, which now for eighteen years
he had scarcely quitted for a single day.
His only son had joined a cavalry regiment in India a few years before
the period our story opens, and which, I may now state, dates for about
four or five and twenty years back; but his family included a niece,
the only child of his brother, and whose mother had died in giving her
birth.
Between Mr. Martin and Lady Dorothea, as they sat at breakfast,
little conversation passed. He occupied himself with the newly arrived
newspapers, and she perused a mass of letters which had just come by
that morning's post; certain scraps of the intelligence gleaned from
either of these sources forming the only subjects of conversation
between them.
“So they have resolved to have a new Parliament. I knew it would come
to that; I always said so; and, as usual, the dissolution finds us
unprepared.”
“Plantagenet's regiment is ordered to Currachee, wherever that may be,”
said Lady Dorothea, languidly.
“Call him Harry, and we shall save ourselves some trouble in discussing
him,” replied he, pettishly. “At all events, he cannot possibly be here
in time for the contest; and we must, I suppose, give our support to
Kilmorris again.”
“Do you mean, after his conduct about the harbor, and the shameful way
he sneaked out of the Port Martin project?”
“Find anything better, madam; there is the difficulty. Kilmorris is
a gentleman, and no Radical; and, as times go, these are rather rare
qualities.”
“Lady Sarah Upton's match is off,” said Lady Dorothea, reading from a
note beside her. “Sir Joseph insisted upon the uncontrolled possession
of all her Staffordshire property.”
“And perfectly right.”
“Perfectly wrong to give it to him.”
“A fool if he married without it.”
“A mean creature she, to accept him on such terms.”
“The woman is eight-and-thirty,--if not more. I remember her at
Tunbridge. Let me see, what year was it?”
“I detest dates, and abhor chronologies. Reach me the marmalade,” said
Lady Dorothea, superciliously.
“What's this balderdash here from the 'Galway Indicator'? 'The haughty
and insolent, aye, and ignorant aristocracy will have to swallow a
bitter draught erelong; and such petty despots as Martin of Cro' Martin
will learn that the day is gone by for their ascendancy in this county.'
“They tell me we have a law of libel in the land; and yet see how this
scoundrel can dare to drag me by name before the world; and I 'll wager
a thousand pounds I 'd fail to get a verdict against him if I prosecuted
him to-morrow,” said Martin, as he dashed the newspaper to the ground,
and stamped his foot upon it. “We are constantly reading diatribes about
absentee landlords, and the evils of neglected property; but I ask, what
inducements are there held out to any gentleman to reside on his estate,
if every petty scribbler of the press can thus attack and assail him
with impunity?”
“Is that Mary I see yonder?” asked Lady Dorothea, languidly, as she
lifted her double eye-glass, and then suffered it to fall from her
fingers.
“So it is, by Jove!” cried Martin, springing up, and approaching the
window. “I wish she 'd not venture out in that small boat in this
treacherous season. What a swell there is, too! The wind is from the
sea.”
“She's coming in, I fancy,” drawled out Lady Dorothea.
“How is she to do it, though?” exclaimed he, hurriedly; “the sea is
breaking clear over the piers of the harbor. I can only see one man in
the boat. What rashness! what folly! There, look, they're standing out
to sea again!” And now, throwing open the window, Martin stepped out
on the rocks, over which the white foam flashed by like snow. “What
are they at, Peter? What are they trying to do?” cried he to an old
fisherman, who, with the coil of a net he was just mending on his arm,
had now come down to the shore to watch the boat.
“They 're doing right, your honor,” said he, touching his cap
respectfully. “'Tis Loony my Lady has in the boat, and there's no better
man in trouble! He's just going to beat out a bit, and then he 'll run
in under the shelter of the blue rocks. Faix, she 's a fine boat, then,
for her size,--look at her now!”
But Martin had covered his eyes with his hand, while his lips murmured
and moved rapidly.
“May I never, but they 're letting out the reef!” screamed the old man
in terror.
“More sail, and in such a sea!” cried Martin, in a voice of horror.
“Aye, and right, too,” said the fisherman, after a pause; “she 's rising
lighter over the sea, and steers better, besides. It's Miss Mary has the
tiller,” added the old fellow, with a smile. “I 'll lay a shilling she
's singing this minute.”
“You think so,” said Martin, glad to catch at this gleam of confidence.
“I know it well, your honor. I remember one day, off Lettermullen, it
was worse than this. Hurrah!” screamed he out suddenly; “she took in a
great sea that time!”
“Get out a boat, Peter, at once; what are we standing here for?” cried
Martin, angrily. “Man a boat this instant.”
“Sure no boat could get out to sea with this wind, sir,” remonstrated
the old man, mildly; “she'd never leave the surf if she had forty men at
her!”
“Then what's to be done?”
“Just let them alone; themselves two know as well what to do as any
pair in Ireland, and are as cool besides. There, now, she 's putting her
about, as I said, and she 'll run for the creek.” The frail boat, a mere
speck upon the dark green ocean, seemed now to fly, as with a slackened
sheet she darted over the water. Her course was bent for a little cove
concealed from view by a rugged promontory of rock, up which the old
fisherman now clambered with the alacrity of a younger man. Martin tried
to follow; but overcome by emotion, he was unable, and sat down upon a
ledge of rock, burying his face within his hands.
By this time the whole fishing population of the little village had
gathered on the beach around the cove, to watch the boat as she came in;
numbers had gone out to meet her, and stood up to their waists in the
white and boiling surf, ready to seize upon the skiff and run her high
and dry upon the sand. Even they were obliged to be lashed together by
a rope, lest the receding waves should carry them out to sea, or the
“under tow” suck them beneath the surface. As the boat came within
speaking distance, a wild shout arose from the shore to “down sail” and
suffer her to come in on her way alone; but with all the canvas spread,
they came flying along, scarce seeming more than to tip the waves as
they skipped over them, while a shower of spray appeared to cover them
as the sea broke upon the stern. Instead of rendering aid, the utmost
the fishermen could do was to clear a path amongst them for the skiff to
pass, as with lightning speed she flitted by and drove her bow high up
on the hard beach.
A wild, glad cheer of joy and welcome burst from the hearty fishermen
as they crowded about the young girl, who stepped out of the boat with
a heavy bundle in her arms. Her hair hung in great masses over her neck
and shoulders, her cheeks were flushed, and her dark eyes gleamed with
all the excitement of peril and triumph.
“Here, Margaret,” said she to a young woman, who, pale with terror and
with face streaming in tears, rushed towards her,--“here 's your little
fellow, all safe and sound; I 'd not have put back but for his sake.”
And with this she placed in his mother's arms a little boy of about
three years of age, sound asleep. “He must wait for better weather if
he wants to see his grandmother. And,” added she, laughing, “I scarcely
think you 'll catch me going to sea again with so precious a cargo. Poor
little man!” and she patted his ruddy cheeks; “he behaved so well, like
a stout fisherman's son as he is,--never showed fear for a moment.”
A murmur of delighted hearts ran through the crowd; some thinking of the
child, but many more in warm admiration of the brave and beautiful young
girl before them. “Loony,” said she to her boatman, “when you 've got
the tackle to rights, come up to the house for your breakfast.” And
with that, and a few words of grateful recognition as she passed, she
clambered up the rock and hastened homeward.
As for her uncle, no sooner had he heard of her safe arrival on shore
than he hurried back, anxious to reach the house before her. For a
considerable time back Martin had schooled himself into an apparent
indifference about his niece's perils. Lady Dorothea had probably given
the initiative to this feeling by constantly asserting that the young
lady would incur few risks when they ceased to create alarm.
It was a somewhat ungracious theory, and excited in Martin's mind, when
he first heard it, a sensation the very reverse of agreeable. Without
accepting its truth, however, it made a deep impression upon him, and
at last, by way of policy, he resolved to feign a degree of callous
indifference very foreign to his nature; and, by dint of mere habit, he
at length acquired a semblance of calm under circumstances that sorely
tested his powers of self-control.
“Has the heroine arrived safe on shore?” asked Lady Dorothea in her own
languid drawl. And Martin almost started at the question, and seemed for
a moment as if the indignation it excited could not be repressed; then
smiling superciliously at the impassive air of her features, he said,--
“Yes, and by rare good luck, too! The sea is a terrific one this
morning!”
“Is it ever anything else in this heavenly climate?” said she, sighing.
“I have counted two fine days since the 8th of June; and, indeed, it
rained a little on one of them.”
Martin winced impatiently under the remark, but never lifted his eyes
from the newspaper.
“I had hoped your niece was making arrangements for our return to Cro'
Martin,” said she, querulously, “instead of planning marine excursions.
I told her yesterday, or the day before,--I forget which; but who could
remember time in such a place?--that I was bored to death here. The
observation seems to amuse you, Mr. Martin; but it is a simple fact.”
“And you are bored to death at Cro' Martin, too, if I mistake not?” said
he, with a very significant dryness.
“I should think I was, sir; and nothing very astonishing in the
confession, besides.”
“And Dublin, madam?”
“Don't speak of it. If one must endure prison discipline, at least
let us have a cell to ourselves. Good-morning, Miss Martin. I hope you
enjoyed your party on the water?”
This speech was addressed to Mary, who now entered the room dressed in
a plain morning costume, and in her quiet, almost demure look resembling
in nothing the dripping and dishevelled figure that sprung from the
boat.
“Good-morning, aunt,” said she, gayly. “Good-morning, uncle,” kissing,
as she spoke, his cheek, and patting him fondly on the shoulder. “I saw
you out on the rocks as we were coming in.”
“Pooh, pooh!” said he, in affected indifference. “I knew there was no
danger--”
“Yes, but there was, though,” said she, quickly. “If we had n't set all
sail on her, she 'd have been pooped to a certainty; and I can tell you
I was in a rare fright, too.”
“Oh, indeed; you confess to such an ignoble emotion?” said Lady
Dorothea, with a sneer.
“That I do, aunt, for I had poor Madge Lennan's little boy on my lap all
the time; and if it came to a swim, I don't see how he was to be saved.”
“You 'd not have left him to his fate, I suppose?” said Lady Dorothea.
“I scarcely know what I should have done. I sincerely hope it would have
been my best; but in a moment like that, within sight of home, too--”
Her eyes met her uncle's as she said this; he had raised them from
his newspaper, and bent them fully on her. There was that in their
expression which appealed so strongly to her heart that instead of
finishing her speech she sprung towards him and threw her arms around
his neck.
“Quite a scene; and I detest scenes,” said Lady Dorothen, as she arose
and swept out of the room contemptuously; but they neither heard the
remark nor noticed her departure.