It is a remark of Wieland's, that although the life of man is measured
by the term of fourscore years and ten, yet that his ideal existence
or, as he calls it, his “unacted life,” meaning thereby his period of
dreamy, projective, and forecasting existence, would occupy a far
wider space. And he goes on to say that it is in this same imaginative
longevity men differ the most from each other, the poet standing to the
ungifted peasant in the ratio of centuries to years.
Mr. Maurice Scanlan would not appear a favorable subject by which to
test this theory. If not endowed with any of the higher and greater
qualities of intellect, he was equally removed from any deficiency on
that score. The world called him “a clever fellow,” and the world is
rarely in fault in such judgments. Where there is a question of the
creative faculties, where it is the divine essence itself is the matter
of decision, the world will occasionally be betrayed into mistakes, as
fashion and a passing enthusiasm may mislead it; but where it is
the practical and the real, the exercise of gifts by which men make
themselves rich and powerful, then the world makes no blunders. She
knows them as a mother knows her children. They are indeed the “World's
own.”
We have come to these speculations by contemplating Mr. Scanlan as he
sat with Mary Martin's open letter before him. The note was couched in
polite terms, requesting Mr. Scanlan to favor the writer with a visit
at his earliest convenience, if possible early on the following morning.
Had it been a document of suspected authenticity, a forged acceptance,
an interpolated article in a deed, a newly discovered codicil to a will,
he could not have canvassed every syllable, scrutinized every letter,
with more searching zeal. It was hurriedly written; there was,
therefore, some emergency. It began, “Dear sir,” a style she had never
employed before; the letter “D” was blotted, and seemed to have been
originally destined for an “M,” as though she had commenced “Miss Martin
requests,” etc., and then suddenly adopted the more familiar address.
The tone of command by which he was habitually summoned to Cro' Martin
was assuredly not there, and Maurice was not the man to undervalue the
smallest particle of evidence.
“She has need of me,” cried he to himself; “she sees everything in a
state of subversion and chaos around her, and looks to me as the man to
restore order. The people are entreating her to stay law proceedings, to
give them time, to employ them; the poorest are all importuning her with
stories of their sufferings. She is powerless, and, what's worse, she
does not know what it is to be powerless to help them. She'll struggle
and fret and scheme, and plan fifty things, and when she has failed in
them all, fall back upon Maurice Scanlan for advice and counsel.”
It was a grave question with Scanlan how far he would suffer her
persecutions to proceed before he would come to her aid. “If I bring my
succor too early, she may never believe the emergency was critical; if I
delay it too long, she may abandon the field in despair, and set off to
join her uncle.” These were the two propositions which he placed before
himself for consideration. It was a case for very delicate management,
great skill, and great patience, but it was well worth all the cost.
“If I succeed,” said he to himself, “I'm a made man. Mary Martin Mrs.
Scanlan, I 'm the agent for the whole estate, with Cro' Martin to live
in, and all the property at my discretion. If I fail,--that is, if I
fail without blundering,--I 'm just where I was. Well,” thought he, as
he drove into the demesne, “I never thought I'd have such a chance as
this. All gone, and she alone here by herself: none to advise, not one
even to keep her company! I'd have given a thousand pounds down just for
this opportunity, without counting all the advantages I have in my
power from my present position, for I can do what I like with the
estate,--give leases or break them. It will be four months at least
before old Repton comes down here, and in that time I'll have finished
whatever I want to do. And now to begin the game.” And with this he
turned into the stable-yard, and descended from his gig. Many men
would have been struck by the changed aspect of the place,--silence and
desolation where before there were movement and bustle; but Scanlan
only read in the altered appearances around the encouragement of his own
ambitious hopes. The easy swagger in which the attorney indulged while
moving about the stable-yard declined into a more becoming gait as he
traversed the long corridors, and finally became actually respectful as
he drew nigh the library, where he was informed Miss Martin awaited
him, so powerful was the influence of old habit over the more vulgar
instincts of his nature. He had intended to be very familiar and at his
ease, and ere he turned the handle of the door his courage failed him.
“This is very kind of you, Mr. Scanlan,” said she, advancing a few steps
towards him as he entered. “You must have started early from home.”
“At five, miss,” said he, bowing deferentially.
“And of course you have not breakfasted?”
“Indeed, then, I only took a cup of coffee. I was anxious to be early. I
thought from your note that there might be something urgent.”
Mary half smiled at the mingled air of bashfulness and gallantry in
which he uttered these broken sentences; for without knowing it himself,
while he began in some confusion, he attained a kind of confidence as he
went on.
“Nor have I breakfasted, either,” said she; “and I beg, therefore, you
will join me.”
Scanlan's face actually glowed with pleasure.
“I have many things to consult you upon with regard to the estate, and I
am fully aware that there is nobody more competent to advise me.”
“Nor more ready and willing, miss,” said Maurice, bowing.
“I 'm perfectly certain of that, Mr. Scanlan. The confidence my uncle
has always reposed in you assures me on that head.”
“Was n't I right about the borough, Miss Mary?” broke he in. “I told you
how it would be, and that if you did n't make some sort of a compromise
with the Liberal party--”
“Let me interrupt you, Mr. Scanlan, and once for all assure you that
there is not one subject of all those which pertain to this county and
its people which has so little interest for me as the local squabbles
of party; and I 'm sure no success on either side is worth the broken
friendships and estranged affections it leaves behind it.”
“A beautiful sentiment, to which I respond with all my heart,” rejoined
Scanlan, with an energy that made her blush deeply.
“I only meant to say, sir,” added she, hastily, “that the borough and
its politics need never be discussed between us.”
“Just so, miss. We'll call on the next case,” said Scanlan.
“My uncle's sudden departure, and a slight indisposition under which I
have labored for a week or so, have thrown me so far in arrear of all
knowledge of what has been done here, that I must first of all ask you,
not how the estate is to be managed in future, but does it any longer
belong to us?”
“What, miss?” cried Scanlan, in amazement.
“I mean, sir, is it my uncle's determination to lease out
everything,--even to the demesne around the Castle; to sell the timber
and dispose of the royalties? If so, a mere residence here could have
no object for _me_. It seems strange, Mr. Scanlan, that I should have
to ask such a question. I own to you,--it is not without some sense of
humiliation that I do so,--I believed, I fancied I had understood my
uncle's intentions. Some of them he had even committed to writing, at
my request; you shall see them yourself. The excitement and confusion of
his departure,--the anxieties of leave-taking,--one thing or another,
in short, gave me little time to seek his counsel as to many points I
wished to know; and, in fact, I found myself suddenly alone before I was
quite prepared for it, and then I fell ill,--a mere passing attack, but
enough to unfit me for occupation.”
“Breakfast is served, miss,” said a maid-servant, at this conjuncture,
opening a door into a small room, where the table was spread.
“I'm quite ready, and so I hope is Mr. Scanlan,” said Mary, leading the
way.
No sooner seated at table than she proceeded to do the honors with an
ease that plainly told that all the subject of her late discourse was to
be left for the present in abeyance. In fact, the very tone of her voice
was changed, as she chatted away carelessly about the borough people and
their doings, what strangers had lately passed through the town, and the
prospects of the coming season at Kilkieran.
No theme could more readily have put Mr. Scanlan at his ease. He felt,
or fancied he felt, himself at that degree of social elevation above
the Oughterard people, which enabled him to talk with a species of
compassionate jocularity of their little dinners and evening parties.
He criticised toilet and manners and cookery, therefore, with much
self-complacency,--far more than had he suspected that Mary Martin's
amusement was more derived from the pretension of the speaker than the
matter which he discussed.
“That's what I think you'll find hardest of all, Miss Martin,” said he,
at the close of a florid description of the borough customs. “You can
have no society here.”
“And yet I mean to try,” said she, smiling; “at least, I have gone
so far as to ask Mrs. Nelligan to come and dine with me on Monday or
Tuesday next.”
“Mrs. Nelligan dine at Cro' Martin!” exclaimed he.
“If she will be good enough to come so far for so little!”
“She 'd go fifty miles on the same errand; and if I know old Dan
himself, he 'll be a prouder man that day than when his son gained the
gold medal.”
“Then I'm sure _I_, at least, am perfectly requited,” said Mary.
“But are you certain, Miss, that such people will suit you?” said
Scanlan, half timidly. “They live in a very different style, and have
other ways than yours. I say nothing against Mrs. Nelligan; indeed, she
comes of a very respectable family; but sure she hasn't a thought nor an
idea in common with Miss Martin.”
“I suspect you are wrong there, Mr. Scanlan. My impression is, that Mrs.
Nelligan and I will find many topics to agree upon, and that we shall
understand each other perfectly; and if, as you suppose, there may be
certain things new and strange to me in _her_ modes of thinking, I 'm
equally sure she 'll have to conquer many prejudices with regard to
_me_.
“I'm afraid you'll be disappointed, miss!” was the sententious reply of
Scanlan.
“Then there's our vicar!” broke in Mary. “Mr. Leslie will, I hope, take
pity on my solitude.”
“Indeed, I forgot him entirely. I don't think I ever saw him at Cro'
Martin.”
“Nor I, either,” said Mary; “but he may concede from a sense of kindness
what he would decline to a mere point of etiquette. In a word, Mr.
Scanlan,” said she, after a pause, “all the troubles and misfortunes
which we have lately gone through--even to the destitution of the old
house here--have in a great measure had their origin in the studious
ignorance in which we have lived of our neighbors. I don't wish to
enter upon political topics, but I am sure that had we known the
borough people, and they us,--had we been in the habit of mingling and
associating together, however little,--had we interchanged the little
civilities that are the charities of social life,--we 'd have paused,
either of us, ere we gave pain to the other; we'd at least have made
concessions on each side, and so softened down the asperities of party.
More than half the enmities of the world are mere misconceptions.”
“That's true!” said Scanlan, gravely. But his thoughts had gone on
a very different errand from the theme in question, and were busily
inquiring what effect all these changes might have upon his own
prospects.
“And now for a matter of business,” said Mary, rising and taking her
place at another table. “I shall want your assistance, Mr. Scanlan.
There is a small sum settled upon me, but not payable during my uncle's
life. I wish to raise a certain amount of this, by way of loan,--say a
thousand pounds. Will this be easily accomplished?”
“What's the amount of the settlement, miss?” said Scanlan, with more
eagerness than was quite disinterested.
“Five thousand pounds. There is the deed.” And she pushed a parchment
towards him.
Scanlan ran his practised eye rapidly over the document, and with the
quick craft of his calling saw it was all correct. “One or even two
thousand can be had upon this at once, miss. It 's charged upon Kelly's
farm and the mills--”
“All I want to know is, that I can have this sum at my disposal, and
very soon; at once, indeed.”
“Will next week suit you?”
“Perfectly. And now to another point. These are the few memoranda my
uncle left with me as to his wishes respecting the management of the
estate. You will see that, although he desires a considerable diminution
of the sum to be spent in wages, and a strict economy in all outlay,
that he still never contemplated throwing the people out of employment.
The quarries were to be worked as before,--the planting was to be
continued,--the gardens and ornamental grounds, indeed, were to be
conducted with less expense; but the harbor at Kilkieran and the new
school-house at Ternagh were to be completed; and if money could be
spared for it, he gave me leave to build a little hospital at the
cross-roads, allowing forty pounds additional salary to Dr. Cloves
for his attendance. These are the chief points; but you shall have the
papers to read over at your leisure. We talked over many other matters;
indeed, we chatted away till long after two o'clock the last night he
was here, and I thought I understood perfectly all he wished. Almost his
last words to me at parting were, 'As little change as possible, Molly.
Let the poor people believe that I am still, where my heart is, under
the roof of Cro' Martin!'”
The recollection of the moment brought the tears to her eyes, and she
turned her head away in silence.
“Now,” said she, rallying, and speaking with renewed energy, “if what
Henderson says be correct, something later must have been issued than
all this; some directions which I have never seen,--not so much as heard
of. He tells me of works to be stopped, people discharged, schoolhouses
closed, tenants ejected; in fact, a whole catalogue of such changes as I
never could have courage to see, much less carry through. I know my dear
uncle well; he never would have imposed such a task upon me, nor have I
the resources within me for such an undertaking.”
“And have you received no letter from Mr. Martin, from Dublin?” asked
Scanlan.
“None,--not a line; a note from my aunt--indeed, not from my aunt, but
by her orders, written by Kate Henderson--has reached me, in which,
however, there is no allusion to the property or the place.”
“And yet her Ladyship said that Mr. Martin would write to you himself,
in the course of the week, fully and explicitly.”
“To whom was this said, sir?”
“To myself, miss; there is the letter.” And Scanlan drew from his
pocket-book a very voluminous epistle, in Kate Henderson's hand. “This
contains the whole of her Ladyship's instructions. How all the works are
to be stopped,--roads, woods, and quarries; the townlands of Carrigalone
and Killybogue to be distrained; Kyle-a-Noe the same. If a tenant can be
got for the demesne, it is to be let, with the shooting over the seven
mountains, and the coast-fishing too. There's to be no more charges for
schools, hospital, or dispensary after next November; everything is to
be on the new plan, what they call 'Self-supporting.' I 'd like to know
what that means. In fact, miss, by the time one half the orders given
in that same letter is carried out, there won't be such another scene of
misery and confusion in all Ireland as the estate of Cro' Martin.”
“And this is sanctioned by my uncle?”
“I suppose we must conclude it is, for he says nothing to the contrary;
and Mr. Repton writes me what he calls 'my instructions,' in a way that
shows his own feeling of indignation about the whole business.”
Mary was silent; there was not a sentiment which could give pain that
had not then its place in her heart. Commiseration, deep pity for
the sorrows she was to witness unavailingly, wounded pride, insulted
self-esteem,--all were there! And she turned away to hide the emotions
which overcame her. For a moment the sense of self had the mastery, and
she thought but of how she was to endure all this humiliation. “Am
I,” said she to her own heart,--“am I to be insulted by the rivalry of
Scotch stewards and gardeners, to be thrust from my place of power by
some low-born creature, not even of the soil, but an alien?--to live
here bereft of influence, representing nothing save the decay of our
fortunes?” The torrent of her passion ran full and deep, and her
bosom heaved in the agony of the moment. And then as suddenly came the
reaction. “How small a share is mine in all this suffering, and
how miserably selfish are even my sorrows! It is of others I should
think!--of those who must leave hearth and home to seek out a new
resting-place,--of the poor, who are to be friendless,--of the
suffering, to whom no comfort is to come,--of the old, who are to die
in distant lands,--and the young, whose hearts are never to warm to the
affections of a native country!”
While affecting to arrange the papers in his pocket-book, Scanlan
watched every passing shade of emotion in her face. Nor was it a study
in which he was ignorant; the habits of his calling had made him a very
subtle observer. Many a time had he framed his question to a witness
by some passing expression of the features. More than once had he
penetrated the heart through the eye! The elevation of sentiment had
given its own character to her handsome face; and as she stood proudly
erect, with arms folded on her breast, there was in her look and
attitude all the calm dignity of an antique statue.
Scanlan interpreted truthfully what passed within her, and rightly
judged that no small sentiment of condolence or sympathy would be
appropriate to the occasion. Nor was he altogether unprovided for
the emergency. He had seen a king's counsel warm up a jury to the
boiling-point, and heard him pour forth, with all the seeming vehemence
of an honest conviction, the wildest rhapsodies about desecrated hearths
and blackened roof-trees,--talk of the spoiler and the seducer,--and
even shed a tear “over the widow and the orphan!”
“What say you to all this, sir?” cried she. “Have you any counsel to
give me,--any advice?”
“It is just what I have not, miss,” said he, despondingly; “and, indeed,
it was uppermost in my heart this morning when I was writing my letter.
What 's all I 'm suffering compared to what Miss Martin must feel?”
“What letter do you allude to?” asked she, suddenly.
“A letter I wrote to Mr. Repton, miss,” said he, with a deep sigh. “I
told him plainly my mind about everything; and I said, 'If it 's for
exterminating you are,--if you 're going to turn out families that
were on the land for centuries, and drive away over the seas, God knows
where, the poor people that thought the name of Martin a shield against
all the hardships of life, all I have to say is, you must look elsewhere
for help, since it is not Maurice Scanlan will aid you.'”
“You said all this, sir?” broke she in, eagerly.
“I did, miss. I told him I 'd hold the under-agency till he named some
one to succeed me; but that I 'd not put my hand to one act or deed to
distress the tenants. It 's giving up,” said I, “the best part of
my means of support; it's surrendering what I reckoned on to make me
independent. But a good conscience is better than money, miss; and if I
must seek out a new country, I 'll go at least without the weight of a
cruel wrong over me; and if I see one of our poor Western people beyond
seas, I 'll not be ashamed to meet him!”
“Oh, that was noble,--that was truly noble conduct!” cried she, grasping
his hand in both her own. “How I thank you from my very heart for this
magnanimity!”
“If I ever suspected you 'd have said the half of this, Miss Mary, the
sacrifice would have been a cheap one, indeed. But, in truth, I never
meant to tell it. I intended to have kept my own secret; for I knew if
any one only imagined why it was I threw up the agency, matters would
only be worse on the estate.”
“Yes, you are right,” said she, thoughtfully. “This was most
considerate. Such a censure would augment every difficulty.”
“I felt that, miss. What I said to myself was, 'My successor will
neither know the place nor the people; he 'll be cruel where he ought
to have mercy, and spare those that he ought to keep to their duty.'
It isn't in a day nor a week that a man learns the habits of a large
tenantry, nor was it without labor and pains that I acquired my present
influence amongst them.”
“Quite true,” said she; but more as though following out her own
reflections than hearing his.
“They 'll have _you_, however,” said Scanlan,--“you, that are better to
them than all the agents that ever breathed; and the very sight of you
riding down amongst them will cheer their hearts in the darkest moments
of life. I turned back the whole townland of Terry Valley. They
were packing up to be off to America; but I told them, 'she 's not
going,--she 'll stay here, and never desert you.'”
“Nor will _you_ either, sir,” cried Mary. “You will not desert them, nor
desert _me_. Recall your letter!”
“It's not gone off to the post yet. I was waiting to see you--”
“Better still. Oh, Mr. Scanlan, bethink you how much yet may be done for
these poor people, if we will but forget ourselves and what we think we
owe to self-esteem. If _you_ will have sacrifices to make, believe me,
_I_ shall not escape them also. It is nobler, too, and finer to
remain here bereft of influence, stripped of all power, to share their
sufferings and take part in their afflictions. Neither you nor I shall
be to them what we have been; but still, let us not abandon them. Tell
me this,--say that you will stay to counsel and advise me, to guide me
where I need guidance, and give me all the benefit of your experience
and your knowledge. Let it be a compact between us then; neither shall
go while the other remains!”
It was with difficulty Scanlan could restrain his delight at these
words. How flattering to his present vanity,--how suggestive were they
of the future! With all the solemnity of a vow he bound himself to stay;
and Mary thanked him with the fervor of true gratitude.
If there be few emotions so pleasurable as to be the object of
acknowledged gratitude for real services, it may well be doubted whether
the consciousness of not having merited this reward does not seriously
detract from this enjoyment. There are men, however, so constituted that
a successful scheme--no matter how unscrupulously achieved--is always
a triumph, and who cherish their self-love even in degradation! Maurice
Scanlan is before our reader, and whether he was one of this number it
is not for us to say; enough if we record that when he cantered homeward
on that day he sang many a snatch of a stray ballad, and none of them
were sad ones.