The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)

“It would be unjust, sir, were I to arrogate any credit to my own perspicuity in this case,” said she, hastily; “for I was aided in my judgment by what, very probably, never came under the Minister’s eyes.”

“And what was that?”

“A little volume which I discovered one day in the library, entitled ‘Days of the Historical Society of Trinity College,’ wherein I found Mr. Repton’s name not only one of the first in debate, but the very first in enunciating the great truths of political liberty. In fact, I might go further, and say, the only one who had the courage to proclaim the great principles of the French Revolution.”

“Ah, – yes. I was a boy, – a mere boy, – very rash, – full of hope, – full of enthusiasm,” said Repton, with an embarrassment that increased at every word. “We all took fire from the great blaze beside us just then; but, my dear young lady, the flame has died out, – very fortunately, too; for if it had n’t, it would have burned us up with it. We were wrong, – wrong with Burke, to be sure, —Errare Platone, as one may say, – but still wrong.”

“You were wrong, sir, in confounding casualties with true consequences; wrong as a physician would be who abandoned his treatment from mistaking the symptoms of disease for the effects of medicine. You set out by declaring there was a terrible malady to be treated, and you shrink back affrighted at the first results of your remedies; you did worse; you accommodated your change of principles to party, and from the great champions of liberty you descended to be – modern Whigs!”

“Why, what have we here? A Girondist, I verily believe!” said Repton, looking in her face with a smile of mingled surprise and amazement.

“I don’t much care for the name you may give me; but I am one who thinks that the work of the French Revolution is sure of its accomplishment. We shall very probably not do the thing in the same way, but it will be done, nevertheless; for an Act of Parliament, though not so speedy, will be as effectual as a ‘Noyade,’ and a Reforming Administration will work as cleanly as a Constituent!”

“But see; look at France at this moment. Is not society reconstituted pretty near to the old models? What evidence is there that the prestige of rank has suffered from the shock of revolution?”

“The best evidence. Nobody believes in it, – not one. Society is reconstituted just as a child constructs a card-house to see how high he can carry the frail edifice before it tumbles. The people – the true people of the Continent – look at the pageantry of a court and a nobility just as they do on a stage procession, and criticise it in the same spirit. They endure it so long as their indolence or their caprice permit, and then, some fine morning, they ‘ll dash down the whole edifice; and be assured that the fragments of the broken toy will never suggest the sentiment to repair it.”

“You are a Democrat of the first water!” exclaimed Repton, in half amazement.

“I am simply for the assertion of the truth everywhere and in everything, – in religion and in politics, as in art and literature. If the people be the source of power, don’t divert the stream into another channel; and, above all, don’t insist that it should run up-hill! Come abroad, Mr. Repton, – just come over with us to Paris, – and see if what I am telling you be so far from the fact. You ‘ll find, too, that it is not merely the low-born, the ignoble, and the poor who profess these opinions, but the great, the titled, and the wealthy men of fourteen quarterings and ancient lineage; and who, sick to death of a contest with a rich bourgeoisie, would rather start fair in the race again, and win whatever place their prowess or their capacity might giye them. You ‘ll hear very good socialism from the lips of dukes and princesses who swear by Fourier.”

Repton stared at her in silence, not more amazed at the words he heard than at the manner and air of her who spoke them; for she had gradually assumed a degree of earnestness and energy which imparted to her features a character of boldness and determination such as he had not seen in them before..

“Yes,” resumed she, as though following out her own thoughts, “it is your new creations, your ennobled banker, your starred and cordoned agitator of the Bourse, who now defends his order, and stands up for the divine right of misrule! The truly noble have other sentiments!”

“There ‘s nothing surprises me so much,” said Repton, at last, “as to hear these sentiments from one who has lived surrounded by all the blandishments of a condition that owes its existence to an aristocracy, and never could have arisen without one, – who has lived that delightful life of refined leisure and elevating enjoyment, such as forms the atmosphere of only one class throughout the whole world. How would you bear to exchange this for the chaotic struggle that you point at?”

“As for me, sir, I only saw the procession from the window. I may, perhaps, walk in it when I descend to the street; but really,” added she, laughing, “this is wandering very far out of the record. I had promised myself to captivate Mr. Repton, and here I am, striving to array every feeling of his heart and every prejudice of his mind against me.”

“It is something like five-and-fifty years since I last heard such sentiments as you have just uttered,” said Repton, gravely. “I was young and ardent, – full of that hopefulness in mankind which is, after all, the life-blood of Republicanism; and here I am now, an old, time-hardened lawyer, with very little faith in any one. How do you suppose that such opinions can chime in with all I have witnessed in the interval?”

“Come over to Paris, sir,” was her reply.

“And I would ask nothing better,” rejoined he. “Did I ever tell you of what Harry Parsons said to Macnatty when he purposed visiting France, after the peace of ‘15? ‘Now is the time to see the French capital,’ said Mac. ‘I ‘ll put a guinea in one pocket and a shirt in the other, and start to-morrow.’ ‘Ay, sir,’ said Parsons, ‘and never change either till you come back again!’”

Once back in his accustomed field, the old lawyer went along recounting story after story, every name seeming to suggest its own anecdote. Nor was Kate, now, an ungenerous listener; on the contrary, she relished his stores of wit and repartee. Thus they, too, went on their journey!

The third carriage contained Madame Hortense, Lady Dorothea’s French maid; Mrs. Runt, an inferior dignitary of the toilet; and Mark Peddar, Mr. Martin’s “gentleman,” – a party which, we are forced to own, seemed to combine more elements of sociality than were gathered together in the vehicles that preceded them. To their share there were no regrets for leaving home, – no sorrow at quitting a spot endeared to them by long association. The sentiment was one of unalloyed satisfaction. They were escaping from the gloom of a long exile, and about to issue forth into that world which they longed for as eagerly as their betters. And why should they not? Are not all its pleasures, all its associations more essentially adapted to such natures; and has solitude one single compensation for all its depression to such as these?

“Our noble selves,” said Mr. Peddar, filling the ladies’ glasses, and then his own; for a very appetizing luncheon was there spread out before them, and four bottles of long-necked gracefulness rose from amidst the crystal ruins of a well-filled ice-pail. “Mam’selle, it is your favorite tipple, and deliciously cool.”

“Perfection,” replied mademoiselle, with a foreign accent, for she had been long in England; “and I never enjoyed it more. Au revoir,” added she, waving her hand towards the tall towers of Cro’ Martin, just visible above the trees, – “Au revoir!”

“Just so, – till I see you again,” said Mrs. Runt; “and I ‘m sure I ‘ll take good care that day won’t come soon. It seems like a terrible nightmare when I think of the eight long years I passed there.”

“Et moi, twelve! Miladi engage me, so to say, provisoirement, to come to Ireland, but with a promise of travel abroad; that we live in Paris, Rome, Naples, —que sais-je? I accept, – I arrive, —et me voici!” And mademoiselle threw back her veil, the better to direct attention to the ravages time and exile had made upon her charms.

“Hard lines, ma’am,” said Peddar, whose sympathy must not be accused of an equivoque; “and here am I, that left the best single-handed situation in all England, – Sir Augustus Hawleigh’s, – a young fellow just of age, and that never knew what money was, to come down here at a salary positively little better than a country curate’s, and live the life of – of – what shall I say? – ”

“No, the leg, if you please, Mr. Peddar; no more wine. Well, just one glass, to drink a hearty farewell to the old house.”

“I ‘m sure I wish Mary joy of her residence there,” said Peddar, adjusting his cravat; “she is a devilish fine girl, and might do better, though.”

“She has no ambitions, – no what you call them? – no aspirations for le grand monde; so perhaps she has reason to stay where she is.”

“But with a young fellow of ton and fashion, mam’selle, – a fellow who has seen life, – to guide and bring her out, trust me, there are excellent capabilities in that girl.” And as Mr. Peddar enunciated the sentiment, his hands ran carelessly through his hair, and performed a kind of impromptu toilet.

“She do dress herself bien mal.”

“Disgracefully so,” chimed in Mrs. Runt “I believe, whenever she bought a gown, her first thought was what it should turn into when she ‘d done with it.”

“I thought that la Henderson might have taught her something,” said Peddar, affectedly.

“Au contraire, – she like to make the contrast more strong; she always seek to make say, ‘Regardez, mademoiselle, see what a tournure is there!’”

“Do you think her handsome, Mr. Peddar?” asked Mrs. Runt.

“Handsome, yes; but not my style, – not one of what I call my women; too much of this kind of thing, eh?” And he drew his head back, and threw into his features an expression of exaggerated scorn.

“Just so. Downright impudent, I’d call it.”

“Not even that,” said Mr. Peddar, pondering; “haughty, rather, – a kind of don’t-think-to-come-it-on-me style of look, eh?”

“Not at all amiable, —point de cela,” exclaimed mam’selle; “but still, I will say, très bon genre. You see at a glance that she has seen la bonne société.”

“Which, after all, is the same all the world over,” said Peddar, dogmatically. “At Vienna we just saw the same people we used to have with us in London; at Rome, the same; so, too, at Naples. I assure you that the last time I dined at Dolgorouki’s, I proposed going in the evening to the Haymarket. I quite forgot we were on the Neva. And when Prince Gladuatoffski’s gentleman said, ‘Where shall I set you down?’ I answered carelessly, ‘At my chambers in the Albany, or anywhere your Highness likes near that.’ Such is life!” exclaimed he, draining the last of the champagne into his glass.

“The place will be pretty dull without us, I fancy,” said Mrs. Runt, looking out at the distant landscape.

“That horrid old Mother Broon won’t say so,” said Peddar, laughing. “By Jove! if it was only to escape that detestable hag, it ‘s worth while getting away.”

“I offer her my hand when I descend the steps, but she refuse froidement, and say, ‘I wish you as much pleasure as you leave behind you.’ Pas mal for such a creature.”

“I did n’t even notice her,” said Mrs. Runt.

“Ma foi! I was good with all the world; I was in such Joy – such spirits – that I forgave all and everything. I felt nous sommes en route, and Paris – dear Paris – before us.”

“My own sentiments to, a T,” said Mr. Peddar. “Let me live on the Boulevards, have my cab, my stall at the Opera, two Naps, per diem for my dinner, and I’d not accept Mary Martin’s hand if she owned Cro’ Martin, and obliged me to live in it.”

The speech was fully and warmly acknowledged, other subjects were started, and so they travelled the same road as their betters, and perhaps with lighter hearts.

CHAPTER XXV. COUNTRY AUCTION

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.