Nothing is further from our intention than to enter upon the long-vexed
question as to the benefits of an Established Church for Ireland. Wiser
heads than ours have discussed it polemically, politically, socially,
and arithmetically; and there it is still, left to the judgment of each,
as his religion, his party, or his prejudices sway him. There is one
view of the subject, however, which no traveller in the country has
ever failed to be struck by; which is, that these settlements of
Protestantism, dotted through the land, are so many types of an advanced
civilization, suggesting, even to those of a different faith, respect
and veneration for the decorous observance of this Church, and the calm
peace-fulness with which they keep the Sabbath.
Priests may denounce and politicians declaim, but the Irish peasant,
nurtured with all the prejudices of race and religion, never throws off
his veneration for the little flock, who, like a brave garrison in a
besieged land, hold manfully together round the banner of their Faith!
How striking is this in remote parts of the country, where the reformed
religion has made little progress, and its followers are few in number!
It was Sunday; the gates of Cro' Martin Park were open to admit all who
might repair to the church. When the Martins were at home, Lady Dorothea
used to give to these occasions somewhat of the state of a procession.
The servants wore their dress liveries; two carriages were in waiting.
She herself appeared in a toilet that might have graced a court chapel;
and a formal ceremoniousness of speech and demeanor were ordained as the
becoming recognition of the holy day. Trained to these observances by
many a year, Mary could scarcely comprehend the strange sensation she
felt as she walked along to church, unattended and alone. It was a
bright day of early summer, with a soft wind stirring the leaves above,
and rippling pleasantly the waters of the lake. The perfume of the new
hay floated through the thin air, with the odor of the whitethorn and
the meadow-sweet; the birds were singing merrily; and through this gay
carol came the mellow sound of the little bell that summoned to prayer.
There was a delicious sense of repose in the stillness around, telling
how, amid the cares and contentions of life, its wealth seekings, and
its petty schemes there came moments when the better instincts were
the victors, and men, in all the diversities of their rank and
station, could meet together to kneel at one altar, and unite in one
supplication. As she went, little glimpses were caught by her of the
distant country beyond the demesne; and over all there reigned the same
tranquillity; the sound of voices, far away, adding to the effect, and
making the silence more palpable. “How peaceful it is,” thought she,
“and how happy it might be! Could we but bridle our own passions,
restrain our mean jealousies, and curb the evil promptings of our own
hearts, what blessings might grow up amongst them! But for objects not
worth the attaining,--ambitions of no value when won,--and my uncle
might still be here, strolling along, perhaps, with me at this
very moment, and with me drinking in this calm repose and soothing
quietness.”
Before her, at some little distance on the path, went the three
daughters of the village doctor; and, though well and becomingly
attired, there was nothing in their appearance to warrant the reproach
Lady Dorothea had cast upon their style of dress. It was, indeed,
scrupulously neat, but simple. The eldest was a girl of about sixteen,
with all the gravity of manner and staid expression that belongs
to those who stand in the light of mothers to younger sisters. The
housekeeper of her father's little home, the manager of all within
its humble household, his secretary, his companion, Ellen Cloves had
acquired, while little more than a child, the patient and submissive
temper that long worldly trial confers. They lived perfectly to
themselves; between the society of the castle and that of the farmers
around there was no intermediate territory, and thus they passed their
lives in a little circle of home duties and affections, which made up
all their world.
Mary Martin had often wished it in her power to show them some
attentions; she was attracted by their gentle faces and their calm
and happy demeanor. Had her aunt permitted, she would have frequently
invited them to the castle, lent them books and music, and sought
companionship in their intercourse. But Lady Dorothea would not have
heard of such a project; her theory was that familiarity with the
peasant was so far safe that his station was a safeguard against any
undue intimacy; while your half-gentry were truly perilous, for if you
condescended to civility with them, they invariably mistook it for a
friendship. Dr. Cloves dined every Christmas-day at the great house; but
so did Mr. Scanlan and all the other heads of departments. It was a very
grand and solemn festival, where neither host nor guest was happy; each
felt that it was but the acquaintance of an hour, and that with the
moment of leave-taking came back all the cold reserve of the day before.
“Good-morning, Miss Cloves; good-day, Jane, and little Bessy,” said
Mary, as she overtook them.
“Good-morning to you, Miss Martin,” said Ellen, blushing with surprise
at seeing her alone and on foot.
“I trust the doctor is not ill? I don't see him with you,” said Mary,
anxious to relieve her momentary embarrassment.
“Papa has been sent for to Knocktiernan, Miss Martin. They 're afraid
that a case of cholera has occurred there.”
“May God forbid!” ejaculated Mary, with deep emotion; “we have great
distress and poverty around us. I hope we may be spared this scourge.”
“It is what papa feared always,” rejoined Ellen, gravely; “that want and
destitution would bring on the malady.”
“Have you heard who it is is ill?”
“Simon Hanley, the carpenter, Miss Martin; he worked at the castle
once--”
“Yes, yes I remember him; he made me my first little garden-rake. Poor
fellow! And he has a large family. Your father will, I trust, have seen
him in time. Knocktiernan is but four miles of a good road.”
“Papa went by the Mills, Miss Martin, for shortness, for he was on
foot.”
“Why did he not ride?”
“He has sold Bluebell,--the pony, I mean, Miss Martin.”
Mary's face became crimson with a blush that seemed to burn through the
forehead into her very brain, and she could only mutter,--
“I 'm sorry I did n't know; my carriage and pony were in the stable. If
I had but heard of this--” and was silent.
They had now reached the entrance to the little churchyard, where the
few members of the small flock lingered, awaiting the arrival of the
clergyman. Amidst many a respectful salutation and gaze of affectionate
interest, Mary walked to the end of the aisle, where, shrouded in heavy
curtains, soft-cushioned and high-panelled, stood the castle pew.
It must be, indeed, hard for the rich man to enter the kingdom of
heaven. The very appliances of his piety are the offshoots of his
voluptuous habits; and that his heart should feel humble, his hassock
must be of down! It was not often that the words of the pastor were
heard within that solemn, small enclosure with the same reverent
devotion. Mary was now alone there; her mind no longer distracted by
the petty incidents of their coming, her proud station seemed to
have vanished, and she felt herself but as one of an humble flock,
supplicating and in sorrow!
Dr. Leslie had heard of the terrible visitation which menaced them, and
made it the subject of his sermon. The fact of his own great age and
fast declining strength gave a deeper meaning to all he said, and
imparted to the faltering words of his benediction the solemnity of a
farewell.
“You are a little fatigued to-day, doctor,” said Mary, as he came out of
church. “Will you allow me to offer you my arm?”
“Willingly, my dear Miss Mary. But this is not our road.”
“Why so?--this is the path to the vicarage.”
“They 've made some change, my dear; they 've altered the approach.”
“And you came round by the avenue,--a distance of two miles?” cried she,
deep crimson with shame.
“And kept you all waiting; but not very long, I trust,” said he, smiling
benevolently. “But come, talk to me of yourself, and when I am to come
and see you.”
“Oh, my dear Dr. Leslie, you must not think that I--that my uncle--” She
stopped, and he pressed her hand gently, and said,--
“Do not speak of it; do not give importance to things which are trifles,
if we have but good temper to leave them so. Is to-morrow a free day
with you; or when shall I hope to find you at leisure?”
“My dear doctor, every day will be so in future; all my functions have
ceased here. I am to be nothing in future.”
“I had heard something of that, and I said to myself, 'Now will Mary
Martin display her real character. No longer carried away by the mere
enthusiasm of her great power and her high station, not exalted to
herself by the flatteries around her, we shall see whether the sterling
qualities of her nature will not supply higher and greater resources
than all the credit at a banker's!' I never undervalued all you did
here, Mary Martin; I saw your noble purpose, even in failures; but I
always felt that to make these efforts react favorably on yourself,
there should be something of sacrifice. To do good was a luxury to
you; and it was a luxury very easy to purchase. You were rich, you were
powerful; none controlled you. Your benefits were acknowledged with all
the enthusiasm of peasant gratitude. Why should you not be beneficent?
what other course of conduct could bring you one half the pleasure?
For the future, it is from another source you must dispense wealth; but
happily it is one which there is no exhausting, for the heart exercised
to charity has boundless stores. Let these be your riches now. Go
amongst the people; learn to know them,--rather their friend than their
benefactor,--and believe me that all the gold you have scattered so
generously will not have sown such seeds of goodness as the meek example
of your own noble submission to altered fortune. There, my dear,” said
he, smiling, “I 'll say no more, lest you should tell me that I have
preached half an hour already. And I may come to-morrow, you say?”
“What a happiness it will be for me to speak to you!” said Mary,
ardently. “There are so many things I want to say,--so much on which I
need advice.”
“I 'm but little practised in the ways of the world,” said he, with a
gentle sigh, “but I have ever found great wisdom in an honest purpose;
and then,” added he, more warmly, “it is a fine philosophy that secures
us against humiliation, even in defeat!”
They now walked along for some time without speaking, when a sudden
angle of the path brought them directly in front of the castle. They
both halted suddenly, struck, as it were, by the aspect of the spacious
and splendid structure, all silent and deserted. The doors were
closed, the windows shuttered,--not a living creature moved about the
precincts,--and the lone flagstaff on the tower unfurled no “banner to
the breeze.” Even the trimly kept parterres were beginning to show signs
of neglect, and tangled flowers fell across the gravel.
“What a lonely home for _her!_” muttered the old doctor to himself; then
suddenly exclaimed, “Here comes some one in search of you, Miss Martin.”
And a servant approached and whispered a few words in her ear.
“Yes, immediately,” said she, in reply.
She entreated the old man to rest himself for a while ere he continued
his walk homeward; but he declined, and with an affectionate farewell
they parted,--he towards the vicarage, and she to re-enter the castle.
There is no need to practise mystery with our reader; and he who
had just arrived, and was eager to see Miss Martin, was only Maurice
Scanlan! As little use is there also in denying the fact that Mary was
much annoyed at his inopportune coming. She was in no mood of mind to
meet either him or such topics as he would certainly discuss.
However, she had, so to say, given him a permission to be admitted at
all times, and there was no help for it!
These same people that one “must see,” are very terrible inflictions
sometimes. They are ever present at the wrong time and the wrong
place. They come in moments when their presence is a discord to all our
thoughts; and what is to the full as bad, they don't know it,--or they
will not know it. They have an awful amount of self-esteem, and fancy
that they never can be but welcome. A type of this class was Maurice
Scanlan. Thrust forward by the accidents of life into situations for
which nothing in his own humble beginnings seemed to adapt him, he had,
like all the other Maurice Scanlans of the world, taken to suppose that
he was really a very necessary and important ingredient in all affairs.
He found, too, that his small cunning served to guide him, where really
able men's wisdom failed them,--for so it is, people won't take
soundings when they think they can see the bottom; and, finally, he
conceived a very high opinion of his faculties, and thought them equal
to much higher purposes than they had ever been engaged in.
Since his last interview with Mary Martin, he had never ceased to
congratulate himself on the glorious turn of his affairs. Though not
over-sanguine about others, Maurice was always hopeful of himself. It is
one of the characteristics of such men, and one of the greatest aids to
their activity, this ever-present belief in themselves. To secure the
good opinion he had already excited in his favor was now his great
endeavor; and nothing could so effectually contribute to this, as to
show an ardent zeal and devotion to her wishes. He had read somewhere of
a certain envoy who had accomplished his mission ere it was believed he
had set out; and he resolved to profit by the example. It was, then,
in the full confidence of success, that he presented himself on this
occasion.
Mary received him calmly, almost coldly. His presence was not in harmony
with any thought that occupied her, and she deemed the task of admitting
him something like an infliction.
“I drove over, Miss Mary,” said he, rather disconcerted by her
reserve,--“I drove over to-day, though I know you don't like business on
a Sunday, just to say that I had completed that little matter you spoke
of,--the money affair. I did n't sleep on it, but went to work at once;
and though the papers won't be ready for some days, the cash is ready
for you whenever you like to draw it.”
“You have been very kind and very prompt, sir,” said she, thankfully,
but with a languor that showed she was not thinking of the subject.
“He said five per cent,” continued Scanlan, “and I made no objection;
for, to tell you the truth, I expected he'd have asked us six,--he's
generally a hard hand to deal with.”
It was evident that he hoped her curiosity might have inquired the name
of him thus alluded to; but she never did so, but heard the fact with a
calm indifference.
Scanlan was uneasy; his heaviest artillery had opened no breach. What
should be his next manouvre?
“The money-market is tight just now,” said he, speaking only to gain
time for further observation; “and there's worse times even before us.”
If Mary heard, she did not notice this gloomy speculation.
“I 'm sure it will be no easy job to get the last November rent paid up.
It was a bad crop; and now there 's sickness coming amongst them,” said
he, half as though to himself. “You'll have to excuse me to-day, Mr.
Scanlan,” said she, at last. “I find I can think of nothing; I am in one
of my idle moods.”
“To be sure, why not, Miss Mary?” said he, evidently piqued at the
ill-success of all his zeal. “It was _I_ made a mistake. I fancied,
somehow, you were anxious about this little matter; but another day will
do as well,--whenever it's your own convenience.”
“You are always considerate, always good-natured, Mr. Scanlan,” said
she, with a vagueness that showed she was scarcely conscious of what she
uttered.
“If _you_ think so, Miss Mary, I 'm well repaid,” said he, with a dash
of gallantry in the tone; “nor is it by a trifle like this I'd like to
show my--my--my--devotion.” And the last word came out with an effort
that made his face crimson.
“Yes,” muttered she, not hearing one word of his speech.
“So that I'll come over to-morrow, Miss Mary,” broke he in.
“Very well, to-morrow!” replied she, as still musing she turned to the
window, no more thinking of the luckless attorney than if he had been
miles away; and when at length she did look round, he was gone! It was
some minutes ere Mary could perfectly reconcile herself to the fact that
he had been there at all; but as to how and when and why he took his
leave, were mysteries of which she could make nothing. And yet Mr.
Scanlan had gone through a very ceremonious farewell. He had bowed, and
sidled, and simpered, and smirked, and sighed; had thrown himself into
attitudes pictorially devoted and despairing, looked unutterable things
in various styles, and finally made an exit, covered with as much
shame and discomfiture as so confident a spirit could well experience,
muttering, as he paced the corridor, certain prospective reprisals for
this haughty indifference, when a certain time should arrive, and a
certain fair lady--But we have no right to push his speculations further
than he himself indulged them; and on the present occasion Maurice was
less sanguine than his wont.
“I fed the mare, sir,” said Barnes, as he held the stirrup for Scanlan
to mount.
“And gave her water, too,” said the attorney, doggedly.
“Devil a drop, then,” resumed the other. “I just sprinkled the oats, no
more; that's Miss Mary's orders always.”
“She understands a stable well,” said Scanlan, half questioning.
“Does n't she?” said the other, with a sententious smack of the lip. “To
bit a horse or to back him, to tache him his paces and cure him of bad
tricks, to train him for harness, double and single, to show him the way
over a wall or a wide ditch, to make him rise light and come down easy,
she has n't a match on this island; and as for training,” added he, with
fresh breath, “did you see Sir Lucius?”
“No,” said Scanlan, with awakened interest.
“Wait till I bring him out, then. I'll show you a picture!” And Barnes
disappeared into the stable. In five minutes after, he returned, leading
a dark brown horse, who, even shrouded in all the covering of hood
and body-clothes, displayed in his long step and lounging gait the
attributes of a racer.
In a few minutes Barnes had unbuckled strap and surcingle, and sweeping
back the blankets dexterously over the croup, so as not to ruffle a hair
of the glossy coat, exhibited an animal of surpassing symmetry, in all
the pride of high condition.
“There's a beast,” said he, proudly, “without speck or spot, brand or
blemish about him! You 're a good judge of a horse, Mr. Scanlan; and
tell me when did you see his equal?”
“He's a nice horse!” said Scanlan, slowly, giving to each word a slow
and solemn significance; then, casting a keen glance all around and over
him, added, “There 's a splint on the off leg!”
“So there is, the least taste in life,” said Barnes, passing his hand
lightly over it; “and was there ever a horse--worth the name of a
horse--that hadn't a splint? Sure, they 're foaled with them! I wanted
Miss Mary to let me take that off with an ointment I have, but she would
n't. 'It's not in the way of the tendon,' says she. 'It will never spoil
his action, and we 'll not blemish him with a mark.' Them's her very
words.”
“He's a nice horse,” said Scanlan, once more, as if the very parsimony
of the praise was the highest testimony of the utterer; “and in rare
condition, too,” added he.
“In the very highest,” said Barnes. “He was as sure of that cup as I am
that my name 's Tim.”
“What cup?” asked Scanlan.
“Kiltimmon,--the June race; he's entered and all; and now he's to
be sold,--them 's the orders I got yesterday; he's to be auctioned at
Dycer's on Saturday for whatever he'll bring!”
“And now, what do you expect for him, Barnes?” said Maurice,
confidentially.
“Sorrow one o' me knows. He might go for fifty,--he might go for two
hundred and fifty! and cheap he'd be of it. He has racing speed over a
flat course, and steeplechase action for his fences. With eleven stone
on his back--one that can ride, I mean, of course--he 'd challenge all
Ireland.”
[Illustration: 418]
“I would n't mind making a bid for him myself,” said Scanlan, hesitating
between his jockeyism and the far deeper game which he was playing.
“Do then, sir, and don't draw him for the race, for he 'll win it as
sure as I 'm here. 'T is Jemmy was to ride him; and Miss Mary would n't
object to give you the boy, jacket and all, her own colors,--blue, with
white sleeves.”
“Do you think so, Barnes? Do you think she'd let me run him in the
Martin colors?” cried Scanlan, to whom the project now had suddenly
assumed a most fascinating aspect.
“What would you give for him?” asked Barnes, in a business-like voice.
“A hundred,--a hundred and fifty,--two hundred, if I was sure of what
you say.”
“Leave it to me, sir,--leave it all to _me_,” said Barnes, with the
gravity of a diplomatist who understood his mission. “Where can I see
you to-morrow?”
“I 'll be here about ten o'clock!”
“That will do,--enough said!” And Barnes, replacing the horse-sheet,
slowly re-entered the stable; while Scanlan, putting spurs to his nag,
dashed hurriedly away, his thoughts outstripping in their speed the pace
he went, and traversing space with a rapidity that neither “blood” nor
training ever vied with.
END OF VOL. I.