The reaction that succeeds to a period of festivity has always an air of
peculiar sadness and gloom about it. The day after a ball, the withered
flowers, the faded decorations, the disordered furniture,--all tell
the tale of departed pleasure and past enjoyment. The afternoon of that
morning which has witnessed a wedding-breakfast,--the April landscape of
joy and grief, the bridal beauty, and the high-beating hope of the happy
lover, have all fled; and in the still and silent chambers there seems
to brood a sense of sorrow and mourning. Still with these thoughts
happier memories are mingled. The bright pageant of the past rises again
before the mind; and smiles and music and laughter and graceful forms
come back, and people space with their images. But how different from
all this was the day after the election at Cro' Martin!
For a week had the Martins condescended to derogate from their proud
station and “play popular” to the electors of Oughterard. They had
opened their most sumptuous apartments to vulgar company, and made
guests of those they deemed inferior to their own domestics. They had
given dinners and suppers and balls and picnics. They had lavished all
the flatteries of attentions on their rude neighbors. They had admitted
them to all the privileges of a mock equality, “so like the real article
as not to be detected.” They had stored their minds with all the lives
and adventures of these ignoble intimates, so as to impart a false color
of friendship to their conversation with them; in a word, and to use one
by which her Ladyship summed up all the miseries of the occasion, they
had “demoralized” more in a week than she believed it possible could
have been effected in ten years. Let us be just, and add that my Lady
had taken the phrase bodily out of her French vocabulary, and in her
ardor applied it with its native signification,--that is, she alluded to
the sad consequences of association with underbred company, and not
by any means to any inroads made upon her sense of honor and high
principle.
Still, whatever pangs the sacrifice was costing within, it must be owned
that no signs of them displayed themselves on the outside. Even Repton,
stern critic as he was, said that “they did the thing well.” And now it
was all over, the guests gone, the festivities ended, the election lost,
and nothing in prospect save to settle the heavy outlay of the contest,
and pay the high price for that excessively dear article which combines
contamination with disappointment.
In her capacity of head of the administration, Lady Dorothea had assumed
the whole guidance of this contest. With Miss Henderson as her private
secretary, she had corresponded and plotted and bribed and intrigued to
any extent; and although Repton was frequently summoned to a council,
his advice was very rarely, if ever, adopted. Her Ladyship's happy
phrase--“one ought to know their own borough people better than
a stranger”--usually decided every vexed question in favor of her
judgment.
It is a strange characteristic of human nature that at no time do people
inveigh so loudly against bad faith, treachery, and so on, as when
themselves deeply engaged in some very questionable enterprise. Now her
Ladyship had so fully made up her mind to win in this contest that she
had silenced all scruples as to the means. She had set out with some
comfortable self-assurance that she knew what was good for those “poor
creatures” infinitely better than they did. That it was her duty--a
very onerous and disagreeable one, too--to rescue them from the evil
influence of demagogues and such like; and that when represented by
a member of _her_ family, they would be invested with a pledge that
everything which proper legislation could do for them would be theirs.
So far she had the approval of her own conscience; and for all that was
to follow after, she never consulted that tribunal. It is not at all
improbable that there was little opportunity of doing so in a week of
such bustle and excitement. Every day brought with it fresh cares and
troubles; and although Kate Henderson proved herself invaluable in her
various functions, her Ladyship's fatigues and exertions were of the
greatest.
The day after the election Lady Dorothea kept her bed. The second day,
too, she never made her appearance; and it was late in the afternoon
of the third that she stole languidly into her library, and ordered her
maid to send Miss Henderson to her.
As Kate entered the room, she could not help feeling struck by the
alteration that had taken place in her Ladyship's appearance, who, as
she lay back in a deep chair, with closed eyes and folded hands, looked
like one risen from a long sick-bed.
As she started and opened her eyes, however, at Kate's approach, the
features assumed much of their wonted expression, and their haughty
character was only tinged, but not subdued, by the look of sorrow
they wore. With the low and pleasant voice which Kate possessed in
perfection, she had begun to utter some words of pleasure at seeing her
Ladyship again, when the other interrupted her hastily, saying,--
“I want you to read to me, child. There, take that volume of Madame
de Sevigne, and begin where you see the mark. You appear weak
to-day,--tired, perhaps?”
“Oh, a mere passing sense of fatigue, my Lady,” said Kate, assuming her
place, and preparing her book.
“Chagrin, annoyance--disgust I would call it--are far more wearing than
mere labor. For my own part, I think nothing of exertion. But let us not
speak of it. Begin.”
And Kate now commenced one of those charming letters, wherein the
thought is so embellished by the grace of expression that there is
a perpetual semblance of originality, without that strain upon the
comprehension that real novelty exacts. She read, too, with consummate
skill. To all the natural gifts of voice and utterance she added a most
perfect taste, and that nicely subdued dramatic feeling which lends to
reading its great fascination. Nearly an hour had thus passed, and not
a word nor a gesture from Lady Dorothea interrupted the reader. With
slightly drooped eyelids, she sat calm and tranquil; and as Kate, at
moments, stole a passing glance towards her, she could not guess whether
she was listening to her or not.
“You'd have succeeded on the stage, Miss Henderson,” said she at length,
raising her eyes slowly. “Did it never occur to you to think of that
career?”
“Once I had some notion of it, my Lady,” said Kate quietly. “I played
in a little private theatre of the Duchess's, and they thought that I
had some dramatic ability.”
“People of condition have turned actors, latterly,--men, of course, I
mean; for women, the ordeal is too severe,--the coarse familiarity of a
very coarse class, the close association with most inferior natures--By
the way, what a week of it we have had! I 'd not have believed any one
who told me that the whole globe contained as much unredeemed vulgarity
as this little neighborhood. What was the name of the odious little
woman that always lifted the skirt of her dress before sitting down?”
“Mrs. Creevy, my Lady.”
“To be sure,--Mrs. Creevy. And her friend, who always came with her?”
“Miss Busk--”
“Yes, of course; Miss Busk, of the Emporium. If I don't mistake, I 've
given her an order for something,--bonnets, or caps; what is it?”
“A head-dress. Your Ladyship told her--”
“You 'll make me ill, child--positively ill--if you remind me of such
horrors. I told you to come and read for me, and you begin to inflict
me with what--I declare solemnly--is the most humiliating incident of my
life.”
Kate resumed her book, and read on. Lady Dorothea was now, however,
unmistakably inattentive, and the changing color of her cheek betrayed
the various emotions which moved her.
“I really fancy that Miss Martin liked the atrocious creatures we have
received here the past week; she certainly showed them a species
of attention quite distinct from mere acceptance; and then they all
addressed her like old acquaintance. Did you observe that?”
“I thought that they assumed a degree of familiarity with Miss Martin
which was scarcely consistent with their station.”
“Say highly ridiculous, child,--perfectly preposterous; for although she
will persist in a style of living very opposite to the requirements of
her position, she is Miss Martin, and _my_ niece!”
There was now a dead pause of some seconds. At length her Ladyship
spoke:--
“To have been beaten in one's own town, where we own every stick and
stone in the place, really requires some explanation; and the more I
reflect upon it, the more mysterious does it seem. Repton, indeed, had
much to say to it. He is so indiscreet,--eh, don't you think so?”
“He is very vain of his conversational powers, my Lady, and, like all
clever talkers, says too much.”
“Just so. But I don't think him even agreeable. I deem him a bore,”
said my Lady, snappishly. “That taste for story-telling--that anecdotic
habit--is quite vulgar; nobody does it now.”
Kate listened, as though too eager for instruction to dare to lose a
word, and her Ladyship went on:--
“In the first place, everybody--in society, I mean--knows every story
that can or ought to be told; and, secondly, a narrative always
interrupts conversation, which is a game to be played by several.”
Kate nodded slightly, as though to accord as much acquiescence as
consorted with great deference.
“It is possible, therefore,” resumed her Ladyship, “that he may have
divulged many things in that careless way he talked; and my niece, too,
may have been equally silly. In fact, one thing is clear,--the enemy
acquired a full knowledge of our tactics, and met every move we made by
another. I was prepared for all the violence, all the insult, all the
licentious impertinence and ribaldry of such a contest; but certainly
I reckoned on success.” Another long and dreary pause ensued, and Lady
Dorothea's countenance grew sadder and more clouded as she sat in moody
silence. At length a faint tinge of color marked her cheek; her eyes
sparkled, and it was in a voice of more than ordinary energy she said:
“If they fancy, however, that we shall accept defeat with submission,
they are much mistaken. They have declared the war, and it shall not
be for them to proclaim peace on the day they 've gained a victory. And
Miss Martin also must learn that her Universal Benevolence scheme must
give way to the demands of a just retribution. Have you made out the
list I spoke of?”
“Yes, my Lady, in part; some details are wanting, but there are eighteen
cases here quite perfect.”
“These are all cottiers,--pauper tenants,” said Lady Dorothea, scanning
the paper superciliously through her eyeglass.
“Not all, my Lady; here, for instance, is Dick Sheehan, the blacksmith,
who has worked for the castle twenty-eight years, and who holds a farm
called Mulianahogue, on a terminable lease.”
“And he voted against us?” broke she in.
“Yes; and made a very violent speech, too.”
“Well, turn him out, then,” said Lady Dorothea, interrupting her. “Now,
where 's your father? Send for Henderson at once; I 'll have no delay
with this matter.”
“I have sent for him, my Lady; he 'll be here within half an hour.”
“And Scanlan also. We shall want him.”
“Mr. Scanlan will be here at the same time.”
“This case here, with two crosses before it, what does this refer to?”
said her Ladyship, pointing to a part of the paper.
“That's Mr. Magennis, my Lady, of Barnagheela, who has been making
incessant appeals for a renewal of his tenure--”
“And how did he behave?”
“He seconded Mr. Massingbred's nomination, and made a very outrageous
speech on the occasion.”
“To be sure, I remember him; and he had the insolence--the unparalleled
insolence--afterwards to address Miss Martin, as she sat beside me in
the carriage, and to tell her that if the rest of the family had been
like her the scene that had been that day enacted would never have
occurred! Who is this Hosey Lynch? His name is so familiar to me.”
“He is a postmaster of Oughterard, and a kind of factotum in the town.”
“Then make a note of him. He must be dismissed at once.”
“He is not a freeholder, my lady, but only mentioned as an active agent
of the Liberal party.”
“Don't adopt that vulgar cant, Miss Henderson,--at least, when speaking
to _me_, They are not--they have no pretensions to be called the Liberal
party. It is bad taste as well as bad policy to apply a flattering
epithet to a faction.”
“What shall I call them in future, my Lady?” asked Kate, with a most
admirably assumed air of innocence.
“Call them Papists, Radicals, Insurgents,--anything, in fact, which may
designate the vile principles they advocate. You mentioned Mr. Nelligan,
and I own to you I felt ill--positively ill--at the sound of his name.
Just to think of that man's ingratitude,--base ingratitude. It is but
the other day his son was our guest here,--actually dined at the table
with us! You were here. _You_ saw him yourself!”
“Yes, my Lady,” was the quiet reply.
“I 'm sure nothing could be more civil, nothing more polite, than our
reception of him. I talked to him myself, and asked him something--I
forget what--about his future prospects, and see if this man, or his
father--for it matters not which--is not the ringleader of this same
movement! I tell you, child, and I really do not say so to hurt your
feelings, or to aggravate your natural regrets at your condition in
life, but I say it as a great moral lesson,--that low people are
invariably deceitful. Perhaps they do not always intend it; perhaps--and
very probably, indeed--their standard of honorable dealing is a low one;
but of the fact itself you may rest assured. They are treacherous, and
they are vindictive!”
“Ennis Cafferty, my Lady, who lives at Broguestown,” said Kate,
reading from the list, “sends a petition to your Ladyship, entreating
forgiveness if he should have done anything to cause displeasure to the
family.”
“What _did_ he do? that is the question.”
“He carried a banner inscribed 'Down with Monopoly!'”
“Mark him for eviction. I'll have no half measures. Miss Martin has
brought the estate to such a pass that we may draw the rents, but never
aspire to the influence of our property. These people shall now know
their real masters. Who is that knocking at the door?--Come in.”
And at this summons, uttered in a voice not peculiar for suavity, Mr.
Henderson entered, bowing profoundly, and smoothing the few glossy hairs
that streaked rather than covered his bald head. A momentary glance
passed between the father and daughter; so fleeting, however, was it,
that the most sharp-eyed observer could not have detected its meaning.
Lady Dorothea was too deeply occupied with her own thoughts to waste a
second's consideration on either of them, and promptly said,--
“I want you, Henderson, to inform me who are the chief persons who
have distinguished themselves in this outrageous insult to us in the
borough.”
Mr. Henderson moved from one foot to the other, once more stroked down
his hair, and seemed like a man suddenly called upon to enter on a very
unpleasant and somewhat difficult task.
“Perhaps you don't like the office, sir?” said she, hastily. “Perhaps
your own principles are opposed to it?”
“Na, my Leddy,” said he, deferentially, “I ha' nae principles but such
as the family sanctions. It's nae business o' mine to profess poleetical
opinions.”
“Very true, sir,--very just; you comprehend your station,” replied she,
proudly. “And now to my demand. Who are the heads of this revolt?--for
it is a revolt!”
“It's nae sa much a revolt, my Leddy,” rejoined he, slowly and
respectfully, “as the sure and certain consequence of what has been
going on for years on the property. I did my best, by warning, and
indeed by thwarting, so far as I could, these same changes. But I was
not listened to. I foretold what it would all end in, this amelearating
the condition of the small farmer--this raising the moral standard of
the people, and a' that. I foresaw that if they grew richer they 'd grow
sturdier; and if they learned to read, they'd begin to reflact. Ah, my
leddy, a vara dangerous practice this same habit of reflection is, to
folk who wear ragged clothes and dine on potatoes!”
“I apprehend that the peril is not felt so acutely in your own country,
sir!”
“Vara true, my Leddy; your remark is vara just; but there's this
difference to be remembered: the Scotch are canny folk, and we do many
a thing that might n't be safe for others, but we take care never to do
them ower much.”
“I don't want your philosophizing, sir, about national characteristics.
I conclude that you know--it is your duty to know--whence this spirit
took its rise. I desire to be informed on this head, and also what
measures you have to advise for its suppression.”
Another pause, longer and more embarrassing than the first, followed on
this speech, and Mr. Henderson really seemed balancing within himself
whether he would or not give evidence.
“Your reluctance has only to go a step further, Henderson, to impress me
with the worst suspicions of yourself!” said Lady Dorothea, sternly.
“I 'm vara sorry for it, my Leddy; I don't deserve them,” was the calm
reply.
Had Lady Dorothea been quick-sighted, she might have detected a glance
which the daughter directed towards her father; but she had been more
than quick-minded if she could have read its meaning, so strange was the
expression it bore.
“In plain words, sir, do you know the offenders? and if so, how can we
punish them?”
“Your Leddyship has them all there,” said he, pointing to the list on
the table; “but there's nae sa much to be done wi' them, as the chief o'
the lot are men o' mark and means, wi' plenty o' siller, and the sperit
to spend it.”
“I hear of nothing but defaulters till a moment like this arrives, sir,”
said her Ladyship, passionately. “The burden of every song is arrears
of rent; and now I am told that the tenantry are so prosperous that they
can afford to defy their landlord. Explain this, sir!”
Before Mr. Henderson had completed that hesitating process which with
him was the prelude to an answer, the door opened, and Mary Martin
entered. She was in a riding-dress, and bore the traces of the road on
her splashed costume; but her features were paler than usual, and her
lip quivered as she spoke.
“My dear aunt,” cried she, not seeming to notice that others were
present, “I have come back at speed from Kyle's Wood to learn if it be
true--but it cannot be true--however the poor creatures there believe
it--that they are to be discharged from work, and no more employment
given at the quarries. You have n't seen them, dear aunt--you haven't
beheld them, as I did this morning--standing panic-stricken around the
scene of their once labor, not speaking, scarcely looking at each other,
more like a shipwrecked crew upon an unknown shore than fathers and
mothers beside their own homesteads!”
“It was I gave the order, Miss Martin,” said Lady Dorothea, proudly. “If
these people prefer political agitation to an honest subsistence, let
them pay the price of it.”
“But who says that they have done so?” replied Mary. “These poor
creatures have not a single privilege to exercise; they have n't a vote
amongst them. The laws have forgotten them just as completely as human
charity has.”
“If they have no votes to record, they have voices to outrage and insult
their natural protectors. Henderson knows that the worst mobs in the
borough were from this very district.”
“Let him give the names of those he alludes to. Let him tell me
ten--five--ay, three, if he can, of Kyle's Wood men who took any share
in the disturbances. I am well aware that it is a locality where he
enjoys little popularity himself; but at least he need not calumniate
its people. Come, sir, who are these you speak of?”
Kate Henderson, who sat with bent-down head during this speech,
contrived to steal a glance at the speaker so meaningful and so
supplicating that Mary faltered, and as a deep blush covered her cheek,
she hastily added: “But this is really not the question. This miserable
contest has done us all harm; but let us not perpetuate its bitterness!
We have been beaten in an election, but I don't think we ought to be
worsted in a struggle of generosity and good feeling. Come over, dear
aunt, and see these poor creatures.”
“I shall certainly do no such thing, Miss Martin. In the first place,
the fever never leaves that village.”
“Very true, aunt; and it will be worse company if our kindness should
desert them. But if you will not come, take _my_ word for the state of
their destitution. We have nothing so poor on the whole estate.”
[Illustration: 330]
“It is but a moment back I was told that the spirit of resistance to our
influence here arose from the wealthy independence of the people; now,
I am informed it is their want and destitution suggest the opposition. I
wish I could ascertain which of you is right.”
“It's little matter if our theory does not lead us to injustice,” said
Mary, boldly. “Let me only ride back to the quarries, aunt, and tell
these poor people that they 've nothing to fear,--that there is no
thought of withdrawing from them their labor nor its hire. Their lives
are, God knows, not overlaid with worldly blessings; let us not add one
drop that we can spare to their cup of sorrow.”
“The young leddy says na mair than the fact; they're vara poor, and they
're vara dangerous!”
“How do you mean dangerous, sir?” asked Lady Dorothea, hastily.
“There's more out o' that barony at the assizes, my Leddy, than from any
other on the property.”
“Starvation and crime are near relatives all the world over,” said Mary;
“nor do I see that the way to cure the one is to increase the other.”
“Then let us get rid of both,” said Lady Dorothea. “I don't see why we
are to nurse pauperism either into fever or rebellion. To feed people
that they may live to infect you, or, perhaps, shoot you, is
sorry policy. You showed me a plan for getting rid of them,
Henderson,--something about throwing down their filthy hovels, or
unroofing them, or something of that kind, and then they were to
emigrate--I forget where--to America, I believe--and become excellent
people, hard-working and quiet. I know it all sounded plausible and
nice; tell Miss Martin your scheme, and if it does not fulfil all you
calculated, it will at least serve for an example on the estate.”
“An example!” cried Mary. “Take care, my Lady. It's a dangerous precept
you are about to inculcate, and admits of a terrible imitation!”
“Now you have decided me, Miss Martin,” said Lady Dorothea, haughtily.
“And, good Heavens! is it for a rash word of mine--for a burst of temper
that I could not control--you will turn out upon the wide world a whole
village,--the old that have grown gray there,--the infant that clings to
its mother in her misery, and makes a home for her by its very
dependence--”
“Every one of them, sir,” said Lady Dorothea, addressing herself to
Henderson, who had asked some question in a low whisper. “They 're
cottiers all; they require no delays of law, and I insist upon it
peremptorily.”
“Not till my uncle hears of it!” exclaimed Mary, passionately. “A cruel
wrong like this shall not be done in mad haste.” And with these words,
uttered in all the vehemence of great excitement, she rushed from the
room in search of Martin.