Although Tate Sullivan had arrived in Coleraine and provided himself
with a chaise expressly to bring his mistress and her daughter back
to “The Corvy,”--from which the sheriff's officers had retired in
discomfiture, on discovering the loss of their warrants,--Lady Eleanor,
dreading a renewal of the law proceedings, had determined never to
return thither.
From the postilion they learned that a small but not uncomfortable
lodging could be had near the little village of Port Ballintray, and to
this spot they now directed their course. The transformation of a little
summer watering-place into the dismal village of some poor fishermen in
winter, is a sad spectacle; nor was the picture relieved by the presence
of the fragments of a large vessel, which, lately lost with all its
crew, hung on the rocks, thumping and clattering with every motion of
the waves. By the faint moonlight Lady Eleanor and her daughter could
mark the outlines of figures, as they waded in the tide or clambered
along the rocks, stripping the last remains of the noble craft, and
contending with each other for the spoils of the dead.
If the scene itself was a sorrowful one, it was no less painful to their
eyes from feeling a terrible similitude between their own fortunes and
that of the wrecked vessel; the gallant ship, meant to float in its
pride over the ocean, now a broken and shattered wreck, falling asunder
with each stroke of the sea!
“How like and yet how unlike!” sighed Lady Eleanor; “if these crushed
and shattered timbers have no feeling in the hour of adversity, yet are
they denied the glorious hopefulness that in the saddest moments clings
to humanity. Ours is shipwreck, too, but, taken at its worst, is only
temporary calamity!”
Helen pressed her mother's hands with fervor to her lips; perhaps never
had she loved her with more intensity than at that instant.
The chaise drew up at the door of a little cabin, built at the foot of,
and, as it actually seemed, against a steep rocky cliff of great height.
In summer it was regarded as one of the best among the surrounding
lodgings, but now it looked dreary enough. A fishing-boat, set up on
one end, formed a kind of sheltering porch to the doorway; while spars,
masts, and oars were lashed upon the thatch, to serve as a protection
against the dreadful gales of winter.
A childless widow was the only occupant, whose scanty livelihood was
eked out by letting lodgings to the summer visitors,--a precarious
subsistence, which in bad seasons, and they were not unfrequent,
failed altogether. It was with no small share of wonderment that Mary
Spellan--or “old Molly,” as the village more usually called her--saw a
carriage draw up to the cabin door late of a dark night in winter; nor
was this feeling unalloyed by a very strong tincture of suspicion, for
Molly was an Antrim woman, and had her proportion of the qualities, good
and bad, of the “Black North.”
“They 'll no be makin' a stay on't,” said she to the postboy, who,
in his capacity of interpreter, had got down to explain to Molly
the requirements of the strangers. “They 'll be here to-day and awa
to-morrow, I 'm thenkin',” said she, with habitual and native distrust.
“And what for wull I make a 'hottle'”--no greater indignity could be
offered to the lodging-house keeper than to compare the accommodation
in any respect with that of an hotel--“of my wee bit house, takin' out
linen and a' the rest o' it for maybe a day or twa.”
Lady Eleanor, who watched from the window of the chaise the course of
the negotiations without hearing any part of the colloquy, was impatient
at the slow progress events seemed to take, and supposing that the
postboy's demands were made with more regard to their habits than to old
Molly's means of accommodation, called out,--
“Tell the good woman that we are easily satisfied; and if the cabin be
but clean and quiet--”
“What's the leddie sayin'?” said Molly, who heard only a stray word, and
that not overpleasing to her.
“She 's saying it will do very well,” said the postboy, conciliatingly,
“and 'tis maybe a whole year she 'll stay with you.”
“Ech, dearee me!” sighed Molly, “it's wearisome enough to hae' them a'
the summer, without hae'ing them in the winter too. Tell her to come
ben, and see if she likes the place.” And with this not over-courteous
proposal, Molly turned her back, and rolled, rather thau walked, into
the cabin.
The three little rooms which comprised the whole suite destined for
strangers, were, in all their poverty, scrupulously clean; and Molly,
gradually thawed by the evident pretensions of her guests, volunteered
little additions to the furniture, as she went along, concluding with
the very characteristic remark,--
“But ye maun consider, that it's no my habit, or my likin' either, to
hae lodgers in the winter; and af ye come, ye maun e'en pay for your
whistle, like ither folk.”
This was the arrangement that gave Lady Eleanor the least trouble; and
though the terms demanded were in reality exorbitant, they were acceded
to without hesitation by those who never had had occasion to make
similar compacts, and believed that the sum was a most reasonable one.
As is ever the case, the many wants and inconveniences of a restricted
dwelling were far more placidly endured by those long habituated to
every luxury than by their followers; and so, while Lady Eleanor and
Helen submitted cheerfully to daily privations of one kind or other,
Tate lived a life of everlasting complaint and grumbling over the narrow
accommodation of the cabin, continually irritating old Molly by demands
impossible to comply with, and suggesting the necessity of changes
perfectly out of her power to effect. It is but justice to the faithful
old butler to state, that to this line of conduct he was prompted by
what he deemed due to his mistress and her high station, rather than by
any vain hope of ever succeeding, his complaints being less demands for
improvement than after the fashion of those “protests” which dissentient
members of a legislature think it necessary to make in cases where
opposition is unavailing.
These half-heard mutterings of Tate were the only interruptions to a
life of sad but tranquil monotony. Lady Eleanor and her daughter lived
as though in a long dream; the realities around them so invested with
sameness and uniformity that days, weeks, and months blended into each
other, and became one commingled mass of time, undivided and unmarked.
Of the world without they heard but little; of those dearest to them,
absolutely nothing. The very newspapers maintained a silence on the
subject of the expedition under Abercrombie, so that of the Knight
himself they had no tidings whatever. Of Daly they only heard once, at
the end of one of Bicknell's letters, one of those gloomy records of the
law's delay; that he said, “You will be sorry to learn that Mr. Bagenal
Daly, having omitted to appear personally or by counsel in a cause
lately called on here, has been cast in heavy damages, and pronounced
in contempt, neither of which inflictions will probably give him much
uneasiness, if, as report speaks, he has gone to pass the remainder of
his days in America. Miss Daly speaks of joining him, when she learns
that he has fixed on any spot of future residence.” The only particle of
consolation extractable from the letter was in a paragraph at the end,
which ran thus: “O'Reilly's solicitor has withdrawn all the proceedings
lately commenced, and there is an evident desire to avoid further
litigation. I hear that for the points now in dispute an arbitration
will be proposed. Would you feel disposed or free to accept such
an offer, if made? Let me know this, as I should be prepared at all
events.”
Even this half-confession of a claim gave hope to the drooping spirits
of Lady Eleanor, and she lost no time in acquainting Bicknell with her
opinion that while they neither could nor would compromise the rights
of their son, for any interests actually their own, and terminating
with their lives, they would willingly adopt any arrangement that should
remove the most pressing evils of poverty, and permit them to live
united for the rest of their days.
The severe winter of northern Ireland closed in, with all its darkening
skies and furious storms; scattered fragments of wrecked vessels, spars,
and ship-gear strewed the rocky coast for miles. The few cottages here
and there were closed and barricaded as if against an enemy, the roofs
fastened down by ropes and heavy implements of husbandry, to keep safe
the thatch; the boats of the fishermen drawn up on land, grouped round
the shealings in sad but not unpicturesque confusion. The ever-restless
sea beating like thunder upon that iron shore, the dark impending clouds
lowering over cliff and precipice, were all that the eye could mark.
No cattle were on the hills; the sheep nestling in the little glens and
valleys were almost undistinguishable from the depth of gloom around;
not a man was to be seen.
The little village of Port Ballintray, which a few months before
abounded in all the sights and sounds of human intercourse, was now
perfectly deserted. Most of the cottages were fastened on the inside;
in some the doors, burst open by the storm, showed still more
unquestionably that no dwellers remained; the little gardens, tended
with such care, were now uprooted and devastated; fallen trellises and
ruined porches were seen on every side; and even Mrs. Fumbally's, the
pride and glory of the place, had not escaped the general wreck, and the
flaunting archway, on which, in bright letters, her name was inscribed,
hung pensively by one pillar, and waved like a sad pendulum, “counting
the weary minutes over!”
While nothing could less resemble the signs of habitation than the
aspect of matters without, within a fire burned on more than one hearth,
and a serving-woman was seen moving from place to place occupied in
making those arrangements which bespoke the speedy arrival of visitors.
It was long after nightfall that a travelling carriage and four--a rare
sight in such a place, even in the palmiest days of summer--drew up
at the front of the little garden, and after some delay a very old and
feeble man was lifted out, and carried between two servants into the
house; he was followed by another, whose firm step and erect figure
indicated the prime of life; while after him again came a small man,
most carefully protected by coats and comforters against the severity of
the season. He walked lame, and in the shuddering look he gave around in
the short transit from the carriage to the house-door, showed that such
prospects, however grand and picturesque, had few charms for him.
A short interval elapsed after the luggage was removed from the
carriage, and then one of the servants mounted the box, the horses'
beads were turned, and the conveyance was seen retiring by the road to
Coleraine.
The effective force of Mrs. Fum's furniture was never remarkable, in
days of gala and parade; it was still less imposing now, when nothing
remained save an invalided garrison of deal chairs and tables, a few
curtainless beds, and a stray chest of drawers or two of the rudest
fashion.
The ample turf fire on the hearth of the chief sitting-room, cheering
and bright as was its aspect, after the dark and rainy scene without
doors, could not gladden the air of these few and comfortless movables
into a look of welcome; and so one of the newly arrived party seemed to
feel, as he threw his glance over the meagre-looking chamber, and in a
half-complaining, half-inquiring tone, said,--
“Don't you think, sir, they might have done this a little better? These
windows are no defence against the wind or rain, the walls are actually
soaked with wet; not a bit of carpet, not a chair to sit upon! I 'm
greatly afraid for the old gentleman; if he were to be really ill in
such a place--”
A heavy fit of coughing from the inner room now seemed to corroborate
the suspicion.
“We must make the best of it, Nalty,” said the other. “Remember, the
plan was of your own devising; there was no time for much preparation
here, if even it had been prudent or possible to make it; and as to
my father, I warrant you his constitution is as good as yours or mine;
anxiety about this business has preyed upon him; but let your plan only
succeed, and I warrant him as able to undergo fatigue and privation as
either of us.”
“His cough is very troublesome,” interposed Nalty, timidly.
“About the same I have known it every winter since I was a boy,” said
the other, carelessly. “I say, sir,” added he, louder, while he tapped
the door with his knuckles,--“I say, sir, Nalty is afraid you have
caught fresh cold.”
“Tell him his annuity is worth three years' purchase,” said the old man
from within, with a strange unearthly effort at a laugh. “Tell him,
if he 'll pay five hundred pounds down, I 'll let him run his own life
against mine in the deed.”
“There, you hear that, Nalty! What say you to the proposal?”
“Wonderful old man! astonishing!” muttered Nalty, evidently not
flattered at the doubts thus suggested as to his own longevity.
“He doesn't seem to like that, Bob, eh?” called out the old man, with
another cackle.
“After that age they get a new lease, sir,--actually a new lease of
life,” whispered Nalty.
Mr. O'Reilly--for it was that gentleman, who, accompanied by his father
and confidential lawyer, formed the party--gave a dry assent to the
proposition, and drawing his chair closer to the fire, seemed to occupy
himself with his own thoughts. Meanwhile the old doctor continued to
maintain a low muttering conversation with his servant, until at length
the sounds were exchanged for a deep snoring respiration, and he slept.
The appearance of a supper, which, if not very appetizing, was at least
very welcome, partially restored the drooping spirits of Mr. Nalty, who
now ate and talked with a degree of animation quite different from his
former mood.
“The ham is excellent, sir, and the veal very commendable,” said he,
perceiving that O'Reilly sat with his untouched plate before him, “and a
glass of sherry is very grateful after such a journey.”
“A weary journey, indeed,” said O'Reilly, sighing: “the roads in this
part of the island would seem seldom travelled, and the inns never
visited; however, if we succeed, Nalty--”
“So we shall, sir, I have not the slightest doubt of it; it is perfectly
evident that they have no money to go on. 'The sinews of war' are
expended, all Bicknell's late proceedings indicate a failing exchequer;
that late record, for instance, at Westport, should never have been left
to a common jury.”
“All this may be true, and yet we may find them unwilling to adopt a
compromise: there is a spirit in this class of men very difficult to
deal with.”
“But we have two expedients,” interrupted Nalty.
“Say, rather, a choice between two; you forget that if we try my
father's plan, the other can never be employed.”
“I incline to the other mode of procedure,” said Nalty, thoughtfully;
“it has an appearance of frankness and candor very likely to influence
people of this kind; besides, we have such a strong foundation to go
upon,--the issue of two trials at bar, both adverse to them, O'Grady's
opinion on the ejectment cases equally opposed to their views. The
expense of a suit in equity to determine the validity of the entail, and
show how far young Darcy can be a plaintiff: then the cases for a jury;
all costly matters, sir! Bicknell knows this well; indeed, if the truth
were out, I suspect Sam is getting frightened about his own costs, he
has sold out of the funds twice to pay fees.”
“Yet the plan is a mere compromise, after all,” said O'Reilly; “it is
simply saying, relinquish your right, and accept so much money.”
“Not exactly, sir; we deny the right, we totally reject the claim, we
merely say, forego proceedings that are useless, spare yourselves and us
the cost and publicity of legal measures, whose issue never can benefit
you, and, in return for your compliance, receive an annuity or a sum, as
may be agreed upon.”
“But how is Lady Eleanor to decide upon a course so important, in the
absence of her husband and her son? Is it likely, is it possible, she
would venture on so bold a step?”
“I think so; Bicknell half acknowledged that the funds of the suit were
her jointure, and that Darcy, out of delicacy towards her, had left it
entirely at her option to continue or abandon the proceedings.”
“Still,” said O'Reilly, “a great difficulty remains; for supposing them
to accept our terms, that they give up the claim and accept a sum
in return, what if at some future day evidence should turn up to
substantiate their views,--they may not, it is true, break the
engagement--though I don't see why they should not--but let us imagine
them to be faithful to the contract,-what will the world say? In what
position shall we stand when the matter gains publicity?”
“How can it, sir?” interposed Nalty, quickly; “how is it possible, if
there be no trial? The evidence, as you call it, is no evidence unless
produced in court. You know, sir,” said the little man, with twinkling
eyes and pleased expression, “that a great authority at common law only
declined the testimony of a ghost because the spirit was n't in court
to be cross-examined. Now all they could bring would be rumor, newspaper
allegations and paragraphs, asterisks and blanks.”
“There may come a time when public opinion, thus expounded, will be
as stringent as the judgments of the law courts,” said O'Reilly,
thoughtfully.
“I am not so certain of that, sir; the license of an unfettered press
will always make its decisions inoperative; it is 'the chartered
libertine' the poet speaks of.”
“But what if, yielding to public impression, it begins to feel that its
weight is in exact proportion to its truth, that well-founded opinions,
just judgments, correct anticipations, obtain a higher praise and price
than scandalous anecdotes and furious attacks? What if that day should
arrive, Nalty? I am by no means convinced that such an era is distant.”
“Let it come, sir,” said the little man, rubbing his hands, “and when it
does there will be enough employment on its hand without going back on
our trangressions; the world will always be wicked enough to keep the
moralist at his work of correction. But to return to our immediate
object, I perceive you are inclined to Dr. Hickman's plan.”
“I am so far in its favor,” said O'Reilly, “that it solves the present
difficulty, and prevents all future danger. Should my father succeed
in persuading Lady Eleanor to this marriage, the interest of the
two families is inseparably united. It is very unlikely that any
circumstance, of what nature soever, would induce young Darcy to dispute
his sister's claim, or endanger her position in society. This settlement
of the question is satisfactory in itself, and shows a good face to the
world, and I confess I am curious to know what peculiar objection you
can see against it.”
“It has but one fault, sir.”
“And that?”
“Simply, it is impossible.”
“Is it the presumption of a son of mine seeking an alliance with
the daughter of Maurice Darcy that appears so very impossible?” said
Hickman, with a hissing utterance of each word, that bespoke a fierce
conflict of passion within him.
“Certainly not, sir,” replied Nalty, hastily excusing himself. “I am
well aware which party contributes most to such a compact. Mr. Beecham
O'Reilly might look far higher--”
“Wherein lies the impossibility you speak of, then?” rejoined O'Reilly,
sternly.
“I need scarcely remind _you_, sir,” said Nalty, with an air of deep
humility, “_you_ that have seen so much more of life than I have, of
what inveterate prejudices these old families, as they like to call
themselves, are made up; that, creating a false standard of rank, they
adhere to its distinctions with a tenacity far greater than what they
exhibit towards the real attributes of fortune. They seem to adopt for
their creed the words of the old song,--
“The King may make a Baron bold,
Or an Earl of any fool, sir,
But with all his power, and all his gold
He can never make an O'Toole, sir.”
“These are very allowable feelings when sustained by wealth and
fortune,” said O'Reilly, quietly.
“I verily believe their influence is greater in adversity,” said Nalty;
“they seem to have a force of consolation that no misery can rob them
of. Besides, in this case--for we should not lose sight of the matter
that concerns us most--we must not forget that they regard your family
in the light of oppressors. I am well aware that you have acted legally
and safely throughout; but still--let us concede something to human
prejudices and passions--is it unreasonable to suppose that they charge
you and yours with their own downfall?”
“The more natural our desire to repair the apparent wrong.”
“Very true on _your_ part, but not perhaps the more necessary on theirs
to accept the amende.”
“That will very much depend, I think, on the way of its being proffered.
Lady Eleanor, cold, haughty, and reserved as she is to the world, has
always extended a degree of cordiality and kindness towards my father;
his age, his infirmities, a seeming simplicity in his character, have
had their influence. I trust greatly to this feeling, and to the effect
of a request made by an old man, as if from his death-bed. My father is
not deficient in the tact to make an appeal of this kind very powerful;
at all events, his heart is in the scheme, and nothing short of that
would have induced me to venture on this long and dreary journey at
such a season. Should he only succeed in gaining an influence over Lady
Eleanor, through pity or any other motive, we are certain to succeed.
The Knight, I feel sure, would not oppose; and as for the young lady, a
handsome young fellow with a large fortune can scarcely be deemed very
objectionable.”
“How was the proposition met before?” said Nalty, inquiringly; “was
their refusal conveyed in any expression of delicacy? Was there any
acknowledgment of the compliment intended them?”
“No, not exactly,” said O'Reilly, blushing; for, while he hesitated
about the danger of misleading his adviser, he could not bear to repeat
the insolent rejection of the offer. “The false position in which the
families stood towards each other made a great difficulty; but, more
than all, the influence of Bagenal Daly increased the complexity; now
he, fortunately for us, is not forthcoming, his debts have driven him
abroad, they say.”
“So, then, they merely declined the honor in cold and customary phrase?”
said Nalty, carelessly.
“Something in that way,” replied O'Reilly, affecting an equal unconcern;
“but we need not discuss the point, it affords no light to guide us
regarding the future.”
If Nalty saw plainly that some concealment was practised towards him, he
knew his client too well to venture on pushing his inquiries further;
so he contented himself with asking when and in what manner O'Reilly
proposed to open the siege.
“To-morrow morning,” replied the other; “there's no time to be lost.
A few lines from my father to Lady Eleanor will acquaint her with his
arrival in the neighborhood, after a long and fatiguing search for her
residence. We may rely upon him performing his part well; he will allude
to his own breaking health in terms that will not fail to touch her,
and ask permission to wait upon her. As for us, Nalty, we must not be
foreground figures in the picture. You, if known to be here at all, must
be supposed to be my father's medical friend. I must be strictly in the
shade.”
Nalty gave a grim smile at the notion of his new professional character,
and begged O'Reilly to proceed.
“Our strategy goes no further; such will be the order of battle. We must
trust to my father for the mode he will engage the enemy afterwards, for
the reasons which have led him to take this step,--the approaching close
of a long life, unburdened with any weighty retrospect, save that which
concerns the Darcy family; for, while affecting to sorrow over their
changed fortunes, he can attribute their worst evils to bad counsels
and rash advice, and insinuate how different had been their lot had they
only consented to regard us--as they might and ought to have done--in
the light of friends. Hush! who is speaking there?”
They listened for a second or two, and then came the sound of the old
man's voice, as he talked to himself in his sleep; his accents were
low and complaining, as if he were suffering deeply from some mental
affliction, and at intervals a heavy sob would break from him.
“He is ill, sir; the old gentleman is very ill!” said Nalty, in real
alarm.
“Hush!” said O'Reilly, as, with one hand on the door, he motioned
silence with the other.
“Yes, my Lady,” muttered the sleeper, but in a voice every syllable of
which was audible, “eighty-six years have crept to your feet, to utter
this last wish and die. It is the last request of one that has already
left the things of this world, and would carry from it nothing but the
thought that will track him to the grave!” A burst of grief, too sudden
and too natural to admit of a doubt of its sincerity, followed the
words; and O'Reilly was about to enter the room, when a low dry laugh
arrested his steps, and the old man said,--
“Ay! Bob Hickman, did n't I tell you that would do? I knew she 'd cry,
and I told you, if she cried one tear, the day was ours!”
There was something so horrible in the baseness of a mind thus revelling
in its own duplicity, that even Nalty seemed struck with dread. O'Reilly
saw what was passing in the other's mind, and, affecting to laugh at
these “effects of fatigue and exhaustion,” half led, half pushed him
from the room, and said “Good-night.”