With feelings akin to those with which the populace of a revolted city
invade the once sacred edifice of the deposed Prince, the whole town and
neighborhood of Oughterard now poured into the demesne of Cro' Martin,
wandered through the grounds, explored the gardens, and filled the
house. An immense advertisement in the local papers had announced a
general sale of horses and carriages, farming stock, and agricultural
implements; cattle of choice breeding, sheep of fabulous facilities
for fat, and cows of every imaginable productiveness, were there, with
draft-horses like dwarf elephants, and bulls that would have puzzled a
matador.
The haughty state in which the Martins habitually lived, the wide
distance by which they separated themselves from the neighborhood
around, had imparted to Cro' Martin a kind of dreamy splendor in the
country, exalting even its well-merited claims to admiration. Some had
seen the grounds, a few had by rare accident visited the gardens, but
the house and the stables were still unexplored territories, of whose
magnificence each spoke without a fear of contradiction.
Country neighborhoods are rarely rich in events, and of these, few can
rival a great auction. It is not alone in the interests of barter and
gain thus suggested, but in the thousand new channels for thought thus
suddenly opened,--the altered fortunes of him whose effects have come
to the hammer; his death, or his banishment,--both so much alike.
The visitor wanders amidst objects which have occupied years in
collection,--some the results of considerable research and difficulty,
some the long-coveted acquisitions of half a lifetime, and some--we have
known such--the fond gifts of friendship. There they are now side by
side in the catalogue, their private histories no more suspected than
those of them who lie grass-covered in the churchyard. You admire that
highly bred hunter in all the beauty of his symmetry and his strength,
but you never think of the “little Shelty” in the next stable with
shaggy mane and flowing tail; and yet it was on _him_ the young heir
used to ride; _he_ was the cherished animal of all the stud, led in
beside the breakfast-table to be caressed and petted, fed with sugar
from fair fingers, and patted by hands a Prince might have knelt to
kiss! His rider now sleeps beneath the marble slab in the old aisle, and
they who once brightened in smiles at the sound of his tiny trot would
burst into tears did they behold that pony!
So, amidst the triumphs of color and design that grace the walls, you
have no eyes for a little sketch in water-color,--a mill, a shealing
beside a glassy brook, a few trees, and a moss-clad rock; and yet that
little drawing reveals a sad story. It is all that remains of her who
went abroad to die. You throw yourself in listless lassitude upon a
couch; it was the work of one who beguiled over it the last hours of a
broken heart! You turn your steps to the conservatory, but never notice
the little flower-garden, whose narrow walks, designed for tiny feet,
need not the little spade to tell of the child-gardener who tilled it.
Ay, this selling-off is a sad process! It bespeaks the disruption of a
home; the scattering of those who once sat around the same hearth, with
all the dear familiar things about them!
It was a bright spring morning--one of those breezy, cloud-flitting
days, with flashes of gay sunlight alternating with broad shadows, and
giving in the tamest landscape every effect the painter's art could
summon--that a long procession, consisting of all imaginable vehicles,
with many on horseback intermixed, wound their way beneath the grand
entrance and through the park of Cro' Martin. Such an opportunity of
gratifying long pent-up curiosity had never before offered; since, even
when death itself visited the mansion, the habits of exclusion were not
relaxed, but the Martins went to their graves in the solemn state of
their households alone, and were buried in a little chapel within the
grounds, the faint tolling of the bell alone announcing to the world
without that one of a proud house had departed.
The pace of the carriages was slow as they moved along, their occupants
preferring to linger in a scene from which they had been hitherto
excluded, struck by the unexpected beauty of the spot, and wondering at
all the devices by which it was adorned. A few--a very few--had seen the
place in boyhood, and were puzzling themselves to recall this and that
memory; but all agreed in pronouncing that the demesne was far finer,
the timber better grown, and the fields more highly cultivated than
anything they had ever before seen.
“I call this the finest place in Ireland, Dan!” said Captain Bodkin, as
he rode beside Nelligan's car, halting every now and then to look around
him. “There's everything can make a demesne beautiful,--wood, water, and
mountain!”
“And, better than all, a fine system of farming,” broke in Nelligan.
“That's the best field of 'swedes' I ever beheld!”
“And to think that a man would leave this to go live abroad in a dirty
town in France!” exclaimed Mrs. Clinch, from the opposite side of the
car. “That's perverseness indeed!”
“Them there is all Swiss cows!” said Mr. Clinch, in an humble tone.
“Not one of them, Clinch! they're Alderneys. The Swiss farm, as they
call it, is all on the other side, with the ornamented cottage.”
“Dear! dear! there was no end to their waste and extravagance!” muttered
Mrs. Nelligan.
“Wait till you see the house, ma'am, and you 'll say so, indeed,” said
the Captain.
“I don't think we 're likely!” observed Nelligan, dryly.
“Why so?”
“Just that Scanlan told Father Mather the auction would be held in the
stables; for as there was none of the furniture to be sold, the house
would n't be opened.”
“That's a great disappointment!” exclaimed Bodkin. A sentiment fully
concurred in by the ladies, who both declared that they'd never have,
come so far only to look at pigs and “shorthorns.”
“Maybe we 'll get a peep at the gardens,” said Bodkin, endeavoring to
console them.
“And the sow!” broke in Peter Hayes, who had joined the party some time
before. “They tell me she's a beauty. She's Lord Somebody's breed, and
beats the world for fat!”
“Here's Scanlan now, and he 'll tell us everything,” said Bodkin.
But the sporting attorney, mounted on a splendid little horse, in top
condition, passed them at speed, the few words he uttered being lost as
he dashed by.
“What was it he said?” cried Bodkin.
“I didn't catch the words,” replied Nelligan; “and I suppose it was no
great loss.”
“He's an impudent upstart!” exclaimed Mrs. Clinch.
“I think he said something about a breakfast,” meekly interposed Mr.
Clinch.
“And of course he said nothing of the kind,” retorted his spouse. “You
never happened to be right in your life!”
“Faix! I made sure of mine before I started,” said old Hayes, “I ate a
cowld goose!”
“Well, to be sure, they could n't be expected to entertain all that's
coming!” said Mrs. Nelligan, who now began a mental calculation of the
numbers on the road.
“There will be a thousand people here to-day,” said Bodkin.
“Five times that,” said Nelligan. “I know it by the number of small
bills that I gave cash for the last week. There's not a farmer in the
county does n't expect to bring back with him a prize beast of one kind
or other.”
“I'll buy that sow if she goes 'reasonable,'” said Peter Hayes, whose
whole thoughts seemed centred on the animal in question.
“What do they mean to do when they sell off the stock?” asked the
Captain.
“I hear that the place will be let,” said Nelligan, in a half whisper,
“if they can find a tenant for it. Henderson told Father Mather that,
come what might, her Ladyship would never come back here.”
“Faix! the only one of them worth a groat was Miss Mary, and I suppose
they did n't leave her the means to do much now.”
“'Tis she must have the heavy heart to-day,” sighed Mrs. Nelligan.
“And it is only fair and reasonable she should have her share of
troubles, like the rest of us,” replied Mrs. Clinch. “When Clinch was
removed from Macroon, we had to sell off every stick and stone we had;
and as the neighbors knew we must go, we didn't get five shillings in
the pound by the sale.”
“That's mighty grand,--that is really a fine place!” exclaimed Bodkin,
as by a sudden turn of the road they came directly in front of the
house; and the whole party sat in silent admiration of the magnificent
edifice before them.
“It is a royal palace,--no less,” said Nelligan, at last; “and that's
exactly what no country gentleman wants. Sure we know well there's no
fortune equal to such a residence. To keep up that house, as it ought to
be, a man should have thirty thousand a year.”
“Give me fifteen, Dan, and you'll see if I don't make it comfortable,”,
said Bodkin.
“What's this barrier here,--can't we go any further?” exclaimed
Nelligan, as he perceived a strong paling across the avenue.
“We 're to go round by the stables, it seems,” said Bodkin; “the hall
entrance is not to be invaded by such vulgar visitors. This is our road,
here.”
“Well, if I ever!” exclaimed Mrs. Clinch, whose feelings really
overpowered utterance.
“I don't see any great hardship in this after all, ma'am,” said
Nelligan; “for we know if the family were at home we couldn't even be
here. Drive on, Tim.”
A short circuit through a very thickly wooded tract brought them at
length to a large and massive gateway, over which the Martins' arms
were sculptured in stone; passing through which they entered a great
courtyard, three sides of which were occupied by stables, the fourth
presenting a range of coach-houses filled with carriages of every
description.
A large tent was erected in the midst of the court for the convenience
of the sale, in front of which were pens for the cattle, and a space
railed off, wherein the horses were to be viewed and examined.
“This is all mighty well arranged,” said Bodkin, as he gave his horse to
a groom, who, in the undress livery of Cro' Martin, came respectfully to
his aid as he got down.
“The sale will begin in about an hour, sir,” said the man, in answer
to a question. “Mr. Scanlan is now in the house with Mr. Gibbs, the
auctioneer.”
Vast crowds of people of every class, from the small squire to the
Oughterard shopkeeper and country farmer, now came pouring in, all eager
in their curiosity, but somehow all subdued into a kind of reverence for
a spot from which they had been so rigidly excluded, and the very aspect
of which so far transcended expectations. Everything, indeed, was an
object of wonderment. The ornamental tanks for watering the horses,
supplied by beautifully designed fountains; the sculptured medallions
along the walls, emblematizing the chase or the road; the bright
mahogany partitions of the stalls, even to the little channels lined
with shining copper, all demanded notice and comment; and many were the
wise reflections uttered with regard to those who thus squandered away
their wealth. The sight of the cattle, however, which occupied this
luxurious abode, went far to disarm this criticism, since certainly none
ever seemed more worthy of the state and splendor that surrounded them.
For these the admiration was hearty and sincere, and the farmers went
along the stalls amazed and wonderstruck at the size and symmetry of the
noble animals that filled them.
“To be sold at Tattersall's, sir, on the 4th of next month,” said a
groom, whose English accent imparted an almost sneer to the supposition
that such a stud should meet purchasers in Ireland. “They 're all
advertised in 'Bell's Life.'”
“What becomes of the hounds?” asked Bodkin.
“Lord Cromore takes them, sir; they're to hunt in Dorsetshire.”
“And the sow?” asked old Hayes, with eagerness; “she isn't to go to
England, is she?”
“Can't say, sir. We don't look arter no sows here,” replied the fellow,
as he turned away in evident disgust at his questioner.
A certain stir and bustle in the court without gave token that the sale
was about to begin; and Scanlan's voice, in its most authoritative tone,
was heard issuing orders and directions on all sides, while servants
went hither and thither distributing catalogues, and securing
accommodation for the visitors with a degree of deference and attention
most remarkable.
“I suppose we're to pass the day in the stables or the cowhouses,
ma'am?” said Mrs. Clinch, as with a look of indignation she gazed at the
range of seats now being hastily occupied by a miscellaneous company.
“If we could only get into the gardens,” said Mrs. Nelligan, timidly.
“I'm sure if I saw Barnes he'd let us in.” And she slipped rapidly from
her friend's arm, and hastily crossing the court, went in search of her
only acquaintance in the household. “Did you see Barnes? Where could I
find Barnes?” asked she of almost every one she met. And following the
complicated directions she received, she wandered onward, through a
kitchen-garden, and into a small nursery beyond it. Bewildered as she
receded beyond the sounds of the multitude, she turned into a little
path which, traversing a shrubbery, opened upon a beautifully cultivated
“parterre,” whose close-shaven sward and flowery beds flanked a long
range of windows opening to the ground, and which, to her no small
horror, she perceived to form one wing of the mansion. While in her
distraction to think what course was best to take, she saw a groom
standing at the head of a small pony, harnessed to a diminutive
carriage, and hastily approached him. Before, however, she had attained
within speaking distance, the man motioned to her, by a gesture, to
retire. Her embarrassment gave her, if not courage, something of
resolution, and she advanced.
“Go back!” cried he, in a smothered voice; “there 's no one admitted
here.”
“But I 've lost my way. I was looking for Barnes--”
“He's not here. Go back, I say,” reiterated the man, in the same
stealthy voice.
But poor Mrs. Nelligan, came on, confusion rendering her indifferent
to all reproof, and in spite of gestures and admonitions to retire,
steadily advanced towards the door. As she passed one of the open
windows, her glance caught something within; she stopped suddenly,
and, in seeming shame at her intrusion, turned to go back. A muttered
malediction from the servant increased her terror, and she uttered a
faint cry. In an instant the object at which she had been gazing arose,
and Mary Martin, her face traced with recent tears, started up and
approached her. Mrs. Nelligan felt a sense of sickly faintness come over
her, and had to grasp the window for support.
“Oh, my dear young lady!” she muttered, “I did n't mean to do this--I
strayed here by accident--I didn't know where I was going--”
“My dear Mrs. Nelligan, there is no need of these excuses,” said Mary,
taking her hand cordially, and leading her to a seat. “It is a great
pleasure to me to see a friendly face, and I am grateful for the chance
that sent you here.”
Mrs. Nelligan, once relieved of her first embarrassment, poured forth
with volubility the explanation of her presence; and Mary heard her to
the end with patient politeness.
“And you were going away somewhere,” resumed she, “when I stopped you.
I see your pony-chaise there at the door waiting for you, and you're off
to the quarries or Kilkieran, I 'll be bound; or maybe it's only going
away you are, to be out of this for a day or two. God knows, I don't
wonder at it! It is a trying scene for you, and a great shock to your
feelings, to see the place dismantled, and everything sold off!”
“It is sad enough,” said Mary, smiling through her tears.
“Not to say that you're left here all alone, just as if you were n't one
of the family at all; that 's what I think most of. And where were you
going, dear?”
“I was going to pass a few days at the cottage,--the Swiss cottage.
Catty Broon, my old nurse, has gone over there to get it in readiness
for me, and I shall probably stay there till all this confusion be
over.”
“To be sure, dear. What's more natural than that you'd like to spare
your feelings, seeing all carried away just as if it was bankrupts you
were. Indeed, Dan said to me the things wouldn't bring more than at a
sheriff's sale, because of the hurry you were in to sell them off.”
“My uncle's orders were positive on that subject,” said Mary, calmly.
“Yes, dear, of course he knows best,” said she, with a shake of the head
not exactly corroborating her own speech. “And how are you to live here
by yourself, dear?” resumed she; “sure you 'll die of the loneliness!”
“I don't think so: I shall have plenty to occupy me,--more, indeed, than
I shall be equal to.”
“Ay, in the daytime; but the long evenings--think of the long evenings,
dear! God knows, I find them very often dreary enough, even though I
have a home and Dan.”
“I 'm not afraid of the long evenings, my dear Mrs. Nelligan. It is the
only time I can spare for reading; they will be my hours of recreation
and amusement.”
“Well, well, I hope so, with all my heart,” said she, doubtingly. “You
know yourself best, and maybe you'd be happier that way, than if you had
somebody to talk to and keep you company.”
“I didn't say that,” said Mary, smiling. “I never implied that a visit
from some kind friend--Mrs. Nelligan, for instance--would not be a very
pleasant event in my solitude.”
“To come and see you,--to come to Cro' Martin!” exclaimed Mrs. Nelligan,
as though trying to reconcile her mind to the bare possibility of such a
circumstance.
“If you would not think it too far, or too much trouble--”
“Oh dear, oh dear, but it's too much honor it would be; and Dan--no
matter what he 'd say to the contrary--would feel it so, in his own
heart. Sure I know well how he felt about Joe being asked here to
dinner; and he 'd never have taken a part against your uncle in the
election if it was n't that he thought Joe was slighted some way--”
“But nothing of the kind ever occurred. Mr..Joseph Nelligan met from us
all the respect that his character and his talents entitled him to.”
“Don't get warm about it, or I 'll forget everything that's in my head!”
exclaimed Mrs. Nelligan, in terror at the eagerness of Mary's manner.
“Maybe it was Joe's fault--maybe it was young Massingbred's--maybe it
was--”
“But what was it?” cried Mary. “What was alleged? What was laid to our
charge?”
“There, now, I don't remember anything; you frightened me so that it's
gone clean out of my mind.”
“My dear friend,” said Mary, caressingly, “I never meant to alarm you;
and let us talk of something else. You say that you 'll come to see me
sometimes; is it a promise?”
“Indeed it is, my dear, whenever Dan gives me the car and horse--”
“But I 'll drive in for you, and bring you safely back again. You 've
only to say when you 'll spend the day with me; and there's so much to
show you here that you 'd like to see. The gardens are really handsome,
and the hothouses. And Catty will show us her dairy, and I am very proud
of my lambs.”
“It is all like a dream to me,--just like a dream,” said Mrs. Nelligan,
closing her eyes, and folding her arms, “to think that I 'm sitting
here, at Cro' Martin, talking to Miss Mary just as if I were her equal.”
“My dear, dear friend, it shall be a reality whenever you like to make
it so; and you'll tell me all the news of Oughterard,--all about every
one there; for I know them, at least by name, and will be charmed to
hear about them.”
“Mr. Scanlan wants an answer, miss, immediately,” said a servant,
presenting Mary with a few lines written in pencil.
She opened the paper and read the following: “Nelligan offers seventy
pounds for the two black horses. Is he to have them? Sir Peter shows an
incipient spavin on the off leg, and I think he 'd be well sold.”
“Tell Mr. Scanlan I 'll send him an answer by and by,” said she,
dismissing the servant. Then ringing the bell, she whispered a few words
to the man who answered it. “I have just sent a message to tell Mr.
Nelligan I wish to speak to him,” said she, resuming her place on
the sofa. “It is a mere business matter,” added she, seeing that Mrs.
Nelligan waited for some explanation. “And now, when have you heard
from your son? Is he learning to spare himself anything of those great
efforts he imposes upon his faculties?”
This was to touch the most sensitive chord in all her heart; and so she
burst forth into a description of Joseph's daily life of toil and
study; his labors, his self-denial, his solitary, joyless existence, all
calling up, in turn, her praises and her sympathy.
“And I,” cried she, “am always saying, what is it all for?--what's the
use of it?--who is to be the better of it? Sure there 's only himself to
get whatever his father leaves behind him; and a pretty penny it is!
Not that _you_ would think so; but for the like of _us_, and in _our_
station, it's a snug fortune. He 'll have upwards of two thousand a
year, so that there 's no need to be slaving like a Turk.”
“Your son's ambitions take, very probably, a higher range than mere
money-making,” said Mary. “He has a good right to suppose that his
abilities may win him the highest of rewards! But here's Mr. Nelligan.”
And she advanced courteously to meet him at the door.
Flushed and heated by the scene he had just quitted, and evidently
embarrassed by the situation in which he stood, Nelligan bowed
repeatedly in reply to Miss Martin's greeting, starting with amazement
as he perceived Mrs. Nelligan, who maintained an air of unbroken dignity
on the sofa.
“Well you may stare, Dan!” said she. “I 'm sure you never expected to
see me here!”
“It was a most agreeable surprise for _me_, at least,” said Mary,
motioning to a seat; then, turning to Nelligan, added, “This little note
was the occasion of my asking you to step over here. Will you please to
read it?”
“How handsome, how candid, Miss Martin!” said Nelligan, as he restored
it, after perusing it. “Ah, my dear young lady, why would n't your
family deal always with us in this fashion and in everything? I beg
your forgiveness, but I forgot myself. I 'll stick to my offer, miss,--I
wouldn't take fifty pounds for my bargain!”
“This, of course, is in confidence between us, sir,” said Mary, as she
tore up the note and threw the fragments on the ground.
[Illustration: 368]
“I wish I knew how to acknowledge this, Miss Martin; I wish I could
show how sensible one in _my_ station could be of generosity from one in
_yours_.”
“You remind me very opportunely that I have a favor to ask, Mr.
Nelligan. It is this: My kind friend here, Mrs. Nelligan, has just
promised to take pity on my solitude, and occasionally to come and see
me. Will you kindly strengthen her in this benevolent intention, and aid
her to turn her steps very often towards Cro' Martin?”
Nelligan's face grew deeply red, and an expression of the greatest
embarrassment settled down on his features; and it was with much
difficulty, and in a voice laboring for utterance, that he said,--
“I don't see how this can be. Your friends would not approve,--your
family, I mean, Miss Martin,--would, very naturally, resent the thought
of such an intimacy! They look upon _me_ as an enemy,--an open and
declared enemy,--and so I am, where politics is concerned; but--” He
hesitated, and after a struggle went on: “No matter, it _is_ war between
us, and must be till one crushes the other. What I mean is this, young
lady: that to encourage such acquaintanceship as you speak of would look
like an undue condescension on _your_ part, or something even worse on
_ours_.”
“I 'll not listen to such subtleties!” cried Mary, hastily. “Neither you
nor I, my dear Mrs. Nelligan, care for party triumphs or defeats. There
are a thousand themes wherein our hearts can feel alike; and these we
'll discuss together. We're of the same country; have passed our lives
amidst the same scenes, the same events, and the same people, and it
will be hard if we cannot as easily discover topics for mutual esteem,
as subjects of difference and disagreement.”
“But will it not be hinted, Miss Martin, that we took the opportunity
of your solitude here to impose an acquaintanceship which had been
impossible under other circumstances?”
“If you are too proud, sir, to know me,--lest an ungenerous sneer should
damage your self-esteem--”
“Indeed, indeed we're not,” broke in Mrs. Nelligan. “You don't know Dan
at all. He would n't exchange the honor of sitting there, opposite you,
to be High Sheriff.”
A servant fortunately presented himself at this awkward moment with a
whispered message for Miss Martin; to which she replied aloud,--
“Of course. Tell Mr. Scanlan it is my wish,--_my_ orders,” added she,
more firmly. “The house is open to any one who desires to see it. And
now, before I go, Mr. Nelligan, tell me that I have convinced you,--tell
me that my reasons have prevailed, and that you acknowledge we ought to
be friends.” And as she said the last words, she held out her hand to
him with a grace so perfect, and an air of such winning fascination,
that old Nelligan could only stammer out,--
“It shall be how you please. I never bargained to dispute against such
odds as this. We are, indeed, your friends; dispose of us how you like.”
And, so saying, he conducted her to the little carriage, and, assisting
her to her seat, took his leave with all the respect he could have shown
a queen.
“It's more than a prejudice, after all,” muttered he, as he looked after
her as she drove away. “There's something deeper and stronger in it than
that, or else a few words spoken by a young girl could n't so suddenly
rout all the sentiments of a lifetime! Ay, ay,” added he, still to
himself, “we may pull them down; we may humble them; but we 'll never
fill their places!”
“And we 're to see the house, it seems!” exclaimed Mrs. Nelligan,
gathering her shawl around her.
“I don't care to look at it till she herself is here!” said old
Nelligan, taking his wife's arm, and leading her away across the
lawn, and in the direction of the stables. There was that in his moody
preoccupation which did not encourage her to venture on a word, and so
she went along at his side in silence.
“You're to have the black horses, Mr. Nelligan,” said Scanlan,
overtaking him. Nelligan nodded. “You 've got a cheap pair of nags, and
as good as gold,” continued he. A dry half-smile was all the reply. “Mr.
Martin bred them himself,” Scanlan went on, “and no price would have
bought them three weeks ago; but everything is going for a song to-day!
I don't know how I 'll muster courage to tell them the results of the
sale!”
“You 'll have courage for more than that,” said Nelligan. And although
only a chance shot, it fell into a magazine; for Scanlan grew crimson,
and then pale, and seemed ready to faint.
Nelligan stared with amazement at the effect his few words had produced,
and then passed on; while the attorney muttered between his teeth, “Can
he suspect me? Is it possible that I have betrayed myself?”
No, Maurice Scanlan. Be of good cheer, your secret is safe. No one has
as much as the very barest suspicion that the pettifogging practitioner
aspires to the hand of Mary Martin; nor even in the darkest dreams of
that house's downfall has such a humiliation obtruded itself anywhere!