The Martins had always lived a life of haughty estrangement from their
neighbors; there were none of exactly their own rank and pretensions
within miles of them, and they were too proud to acknowledge the
acquaintance of a small squirearchy, which was all that the country
around could boast. Notwithstanding all the isolation of their
existence, their departure created a great void in the county, and their
absence was sensibly felt by every class around. The very requirements
of a large fortune suggest a species of life and vitality. The movement
of servants, the passing and repassing of carriages, the necessary
intercourse with market and post,--all impart a degree of bustle and
movement, terribly contrasted by the unbroken stillness of a deserted
mansion.
Lady Dorothea had determined that there should be no ambiguity as to the
cause of their departure; she had given the most positive orders on this
head to every department of the household. To teach an ungrateful people
the sore consequences of their own ingratitude, the lesson should be
read in everything: in the little villages thrown out of work, in the
silent quarries, the closed schoolhouses, the model farm converted into
grass-land, even to the grand entrance, now built up by a wall of coarse
masonry, the haughty displeasure of the proud mistress revealed itself,
all proclaiming the sentiment of a deep, unforgiving vengeance. She had
tortured her ingenuity for details which should indicate her anger; nor
was she satisfied if her displeasure should not find its way into every
cabin and at every hearth. The small hamlet of Cro' Martin had possessed
a dispensary. A hard-working, patient, and skilful man had passed many
years of life there as the doctor, eking out the poor subsistence of
that unfavored lot, and supporting a family by a life of dreary toil.
From this her Ladyship's subscription--the half of all his salary--was
now to be withdrawn. She thought “Cloves was grown negligent; it might
be age,--if so, a younger man would be better; besides, if he could
afford to dress his three daughters in the manner he did, he surely
could not require her thirty pounds per annum.” The servants, too,
complained that he constantly mistook their complaints. In fact,
judgment was recorded against Cloves, and there was none to recommend
him to mercy!
We have said that there was a little chapel within the bounds of the
demesne; it occupied a corner of a ruin which once had formed Cro'
Martin Abbey, and now served for the village church. It was very small,
but still large enough for its little congregation. The vicar of this
humble benefice was a very old man, a widower, and childless, though
once the father of a numerous family. Dr. Leslie had, some eighteen
years back, been unfortunate enough to incur her Ladyship's displeasure,
and was consequently never invited to the castle, nor recognized in any
way, save by the haughty salute that met him as he left the church. To
save him, however, a long and tedious walk on Sundays, he was permitted
to make use of a little private path to the church, which led through
one of the shrubberies adjoining his own house,--a concession of the
more consequence as he was too poor to keep a carriage of the humblest
kind. This was now ordered to be closed up, the gate removed, and a wall
to replace it. “The poor had got the habit of coming that way; it was
never intended for their use, but they had usurped it. To-morrow or
next day we should hear of its being claimed at law as a public right
of passage. It was better to do the thing in time. In short, it must
be 'closed.'” By some such reasoning as this Lady Dorothea persuaded
herself to this course; and who should gainsay her? Oh, if men would
employ but one tenth of all that casuistry by which they minister to
their selfishness, in acts of benevolence and good feeling,--if they
would only use a little sophistry, to induce them to do right,--what a
world this might be!
Mary Martin knew nothing of these decisions; overwhelmed by the vast
changes on every side, almost crushed beneath the difficulties that
surrounded her, her first few weeks passed over like a disturbed dream.
Groups of idle, unemployed people saluted her in mournful silence as she
passed the roads. Interrupted works, half-executed plans met her eye at
every turn, and at every moment the same words rang in her ears--“Her
Ladyship's orders”--as the explanation of all.
Hitherto her life had been one of unceasing exertion and toil; from
early dawn to late night she had been employed; her fatigues, however,
great as they were, had been always allied with power. What she willed
she could execute. Means never failed her, no matter how costly the
experiment, to carry out her plans, and difficulty gave only zest to
every undertaking. There is nothing more captivating than this sense of
uncontrolled ability for action, especially when exercised by one of
a warm and enthusiastic nature. To feel herself the life and spring of
every enterprise, to know that she suggested and carried out each plan,
that her ingenuity devised, and her energy accomplished all the changes
around her, was in itself a great fascination; and now suddenly she
was to awake from all this, and find herself unoccupied and powerless.
Willingly, without a regret, could she abdicate from all the pomp
and splendor of a great household; she saw troops of servants depart,
equipage sold, great apartments closed up without a pang! To come down
to the small conditions of narrow fortune in her daily life cost her
nothing, beyond a smile. It was odd, it was strange; but it was no more!
Far otherwise, however, did she feel the circumstances of her impaired
power. That hundreds of workmen were no longer at her bidding, that
whole families no longer looked up to her for aid and comfort,--these
were astounding facts, and came upon her with an actual shock.
“For what am I left here?” cried she, passionately, to Henderson, as he
met each suggestion she made by the one cold word, “Impossible.” “Is
it to see destitution that I cannot relieve,--witness want that I am
powerless to alleviate? To what end or with what object do I remain?”
“I canna say, miss,” was the dry response.
“If it be to humiliate me by the spectacle of my own inefficiency, a day
or a week will suffice for that; years could not teach me more.”
Henderson bowed what possibly might mean an acquiescence.
“I don't speak of the estate,” cried she, earnestly; “but what 's to
become of the people?”
“Many o' them will emigrate, miss, I've no doubt,” said he, “when they
see there 's nothing to bide for.”
“You take it easily, sir. You see little hardships in men having to
leave home and country; but I tell you that home may be poor and country
cruel, and yet both very hard to part with.”
“That 's vara true, miss,” was the dry response.
“For anything there is now to be done here, you, sir, are to the full as
competent as I am. I ask again, To what end am I here?”
Giving to her question a very different significance from what she
intended, Henderson calmly said, “I thought, miss, it was just yer ain
wish, and for no other reason.”
Mary's cheek became crimson, and her eyes flashed with angry
indignation; but repressing the passion that was bursting within her,
she walked hastily up and down the room in silence. At length, opening
a large colored map of the estate which lay on the table, she stood
attentively considering it for some time. “The works at Carrigulone are
stopped?” said she, hastily.
“Yes, miss.”
“And the planting at Kyle's Wood?”
“Yes, miss.”
“And even the thinning there,--is that stopped?”
“Yes, miss; the bark is to be sold, and a' the produce of the wood for
ten years, to a contractor, a certain Mister--”
“I don't want his name, sir. What of the marble quarries?”
“My Lady thinks they're nae worth a' they cost, and won't hear o' their
being worked again.”
“And is the harbor at Kilkieran to be given up?”
“Yes, miss, and the Osprey's Nest will be let. I think they 'll mak' an
inn or a public o' it.”
“And if the harbor is abandoned, what is to become of the fishermen? The
old quay is useless.”
“Vara true, miss; but there's a company goin' to take the royalties o'
the coast the whole way to Belmullet.”
“A Scotch company, Mr. Henderson?” said Mary, with a sly malice in her
look.
“Yes, miss,” said he, coloring slightly. “The house of M'Grotty and Co.
is at the head o' it.”
“And are they the same enterprising people who have proposed to take the
demesne on lease, provided the gardens be measured in as arable land?”
“They are, miss; they've signed the rough draught o' the lease this
morning.”
“Indeed!” cried she, growing suddenly pale as death. “Are there any
other changes you can mention to me, since in the few days I have been
ill so much has occurred?”
“There 's nae muckle more to speak o', miss. James M'Grotty--he's the
younger brother--was here yesterday to try and see you about the school.
He wants the house for his steward; but if you object, he 'll just take
the doctor's.”
“Why--where is Dr. Cloves to go?”
“He does na ken exactly, miss. He thinks he 'll try Auckland, or some of
these new places in New Zealand.”
“But the dispensary must be continued; the people cannot be left without
medical advice.”
“Mr. James says he 'll think aboot it when he comes over in summer. He's
a vara spirited young man, and when there's a meetin'-house built in the
village--”
“Enough of this, Henderson. Come over here tomorrow, for I 'm not strong
enough to hear more to-day, and let Mr. Scanlan know that I wish to see
him this evening.”
And Mary motioned with her hand that he should withdraw. Scarcely was
the door closed behind him than she burst into a torrent of tears; her
long pent-up agony utterly overpowered her, and she cried with all the
vehemence of a child's grief. Her heart once opened to sorrow, by a
hundred channels came tributaries to her affliction. Up to that moment
her uncle's departure had never seemed a cruelty; now it took all the
form of desertion. The bitterness of her forlorn condition had never
struck her till it came associated with all the sorrows of others. It is
not impossible that wounded self-love entered into her feelings. It is
by no means unlikely that the sense of her own impaired importance added
poignancy to her misery. Who shall anatomize motives, or who shall be
skilful enough to trace the springs of one human emotion? There was
assuredly enough outside of and above all personal consideration to
ennoble her grief and dignify her affliction.
Her first impulses led her to regard herself as utterly useless; her
occupation gone, and her whole career of duty annihilated. A second and
a better resolve whispered to her that she was more than ever needful to
those who without her would be left without a friend. “If I desert them,
who is to remain?” asked she. “It is true I am no more able to set
in motion the schemes by which their indigence was alleviated. I am
powerless, but not all worthless. I can still be their nurse, their
comforter, their schoolmistress. My very example may teach them how
altered fortune can be borne with fortitude and patience. They shall see
me reduced to a thousand privations, and perhaps even this may bear
its lesson.” Drying her tears, she began to feel within her some of the
courage she hoped to inspire in others; and anxious not to let old Catty
detect the trace of sorrow in her features, issued forth into the wood
for a walk.
As the deep shadows thickened around her, she grew calmer and more
meditative. The solemn stillness of the place, the deep, unbroken
quietude, imparted its own soothing influence to her thoughts; and as
she went, her heart beat freer, and her elastic temperament again arose
to cheer and sustain her. To confront the future boldly and well, it was
necessary that she should utterly forget the past. She could no longer
play the great part to which wealth and high station had raised her;
she must now descend to that humbler one,--all whose influence should
be derived from acts of kindness and words of comfort, unaided by the
greater benefits she had once dispensed.
The means placed at her disposal for her own expenditure had been
exceedingly limited. It was her own desire they should be so, and Lady
Dorothea had made no opposition to her wishes. Beyond this she had
nothing, save a sum of five thousand pounds payable at her uncle's
death. By strictest economy--privation, indeed--she thought that she
could save about a hundred pounds a year of this small income; but to
do so would require the sale of both her horses, retaining only the pony
and the little carriage, while her dress should be of the very simplest
and plainest. In what way she should best employ this sum was to be
for after consideration. The first thought was how to effect the saving
without giving to the act any unnecessary notoriety. She felt that her
greatest difficulty would be old Catty Broon. The venerable housekeeper
had all her life regarded her with an affection that was little short of
worship. It was not alone the winning graces of Mary's manner, nor the
attractive charms of her appearance that had so captivated old Catty;
but that the young girl, to her eyes, represented the great family
whose name she bore, and represented them so worthily. The title of
the Princess, by which the Country people knew her, seemed her just and
rightful designation. Mary realized to her the proud scion of a proud
stock, who had ruled over a territory rather than a mere estate; how,
then, could she bear to behold her in all the straits and difficulties
of a reduced condition? There seemed but one way to effect this, which
was to give her new mode of life the character of a caprice. “I must
make old Catty believe it is one of my wild and wilful fancies,--a
sudden whim,--out of which a little time will doubtless rally me. She
is the last in the world to limit me in the indulgence of a momentary
notion; she will, therefore, concede everything to my humor, patiently
awaiting the time when it shall assume a course the very opposite.”
Some one should, however, be intrusted with her secret,--without some
assistance it could not be carried into execution; and who should that
be? Alas, her choice was a very narrow one. It lay between Scanlan and
Henderson. The crafty attorney was not, indeed, much to Mary's liking.
His flippant vulgarity and pretension were qualities she could ill
brook; but she had known him do kind things. She had seen him on more
than one occasion temper the sharpness of some of her Ladyship's ukases,
little suspecting, indeed, how far the possible impression upon herself
was the motive that so guided him; she had, therefore, no difficulty in
preferring him to the steward, whose very accent and manner were enough
to render him hateful to her. Scanlan, besides, would necessarily have
a great deal in his power; he would be able to make many a concession to
the poor people on the estate, retard the cruel progress of the law, or
give them time to provide against its demands. Mary felt that she was in
a position to exercise a certain influence over him; and, conscious of
the goodness of the cause she would promote, never hesitated as to the
means of employing it.
Who shall say, too, that she had not noticed the deferential admiration
by which he always distinguished her? for there is a species of coquetry
that takes pleasure in a conquest where the profits of victory would be
thoroughly despised. We are not bold enough to say that such feelings
found their place in Mary's heart. We must leave its analysis to wiser
and more cunning anatomists.
Straying onwards ever in deep thought, and not remarking whither, she
was suddenly struck by the noise of masonry,--strange sounds in a
spot thus lonely and remote; and now walking quickly onward, she found
herself on the path by which the vicar on Sundays approached the church;
and here, at a little distance, descried workmen employed in walling up
the little gateway of the passage.
“By whose orders is this done?” cried Mary, to whose quick intelligence
the act revealed its whole meaning and motive.
“Mr. Henderson, miss,” replied one of the men. “He said we were to
work all night at it, if we could n't be sure of getting it done before
Sunday.”
A burst of passionate indignation rose to her lips, but she turned away
without a word, and re-entered the wood in silence.
“Yes,” cried she, to herself, “it is, indeed, a new existence is opening
before me; let me strive so to control my temper, that I may view it
calmly and dispassionately, so that others may not suffer from the
changes in my fortune.”
She no sooner reached the house than she despatched a note to Mr.
Scanlan, requesting to see him as early as possible on the following
morning. This done, she set herself to devise her plans for the
future,--speculations, it must be owned, to which her own hopeful
temperament gave a coloring that a colder spirit and more calculating
mind had never bestowed on them.