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

“I suppose we’re to pass the day in the stables or the cowhouses, ma’am?” said Mrs. Clinch, as with a look of indignation she gazed at the range of seats now being hastily occupied by a miscellaneous company.

“If we could only get into the gardens,” said Mrs. Nelligan, timidly. “I’m sure if I saw Barnes he’d let us in.” And she slipped rapidly from her friend’s arm, and hastily crossing the court, went in search of her only acquaintance in the household. “Did you see Barnes? Where could I find Barnes?” asked she of almost every one she met. And following the complicated directions she received, she wandered onward, through a kitchen-garden, and into a small nursery beyond it. Bewildered as she receded beyond the sounds of the multitude, she turned into a little path which, traversing a shrubbery, opened upon a beautifully cultivated “parterre,” whose close-shaven sward and flowery beds flanked a long range of windows opening to the ground, and which, to her no small horror, she perceived to form one wing of the mansion. While in her distraction to think what course was best to take, she saw a groom standing at the head of a small pony, harnessed to a diminutive carriage, and hastily approached him. Before, however, she had attained within speaking distance, the man motioned to her, by a gesture, to retire. Her embarrassment gave her, if not courage, something of resolution, and she advanced.

“Go back!” cried he, in a smothered voice; “there ‘s no one admitted here.”

“But I ‘ve lost my way. I was looking for Barnes – ”

“He’s not here. Go back, I say,” reiterated the man, in the same stealthy voice.

But poor Mrs. Nelligan, came on, confusion rendering her indifferent to all reproof, and in spite of gestures and admonitions to retire, steadily advanced towards the door. As she passed one of the open windows, her glance caught something within; she stopped suddenly, and, in seeming shame at her intrusion, turned to go back. A muttered malediction from the servant increased her terror, and she uttered a faint cry. In an instant the object at which she had been gazing arose, and Mary Martin, her face traced with recent tears, started up and approached her. Mrs. Nelligan felt a sense of sickly faintness come over her, and had to grasp the window for support.

“Oh, my dear young lady!” she muttered, “I did n’t mean to do this – I strayed here by accident – I didn’t know where I was going – ”

“My dear Mrs. Nelligan, there is no need of these excuses,” said Mary, taking her hand cordially, and leading her to a seat. “It is a great pleasure to me to see a friendly face, and I am grateful for the chance that sent you here.”

Mrs. Nelligan, once relieved of her first embarrassment, poured forth with volubility the explanation of her presence; and Mary heard her to the end with patient politeness.

“And you were going away somewhere,” resumed she, “when I stopped you. I see your pony-chaise there at the door waiting for you, and you’re off to the quarries or Kilkieran, I ‘ll be bound; or maybe it’s only going away you are, to be out of this for a day or two. God knows, I don’t wonder at it! It is a trying scene for you, and a great shock to your feelings, to see the place dismantled, and everything sold off!”

“It is sad enough,” said Mary, smiling through her tears.

“Not to say that you’re left here all alone, just as if you were n’t one of the family at all; that ‘s what I think most of. And where were you going, dear?”

“I was going to pass a few days at the cottage, – the Swiss cottage. Catty Broon, my old nurse, has gone over there to get it in readiness for me, and I shall probably stay there till all this confusion be over.”

“To be sure, dear. What’s more natural than that you’d like to spare your feelings, seeing all carried away just as if it was bankrupts you were. Indeed, Dan said to me the things wouldn’t bring more than at a sheriff’s sale, because of the hurry you were in to sell them off.”

“My uncle’s orders were positive on that subject,” said Mary, calmly.

“Yes, dear, of course he knows best,” said she, with a shake of the head not exactly corroborating her own speech. “And how are you to live here by yourself, dear?” resumed she; “sure you ‘ll die of the loneliness!”

“I don’t think so: I shall have plenty to occupy me, – more, indeed, than I shall be equal to.”

“Ay, in the daytime; but the long evenings – think of the long evenings, dear! God knows, I find them very often dreary enough, even though I have a home and Dan.”

“I ‘m not afraid of the long evenings, my dear Mrs. Nelligan. It is the only time I can spare for reading; they will be my hours of recreation and amusement.”

“Well, well, I hope so, with all my heart,” said she, doubtingly. “You know yourself best, and maybe you’d be happier that way, than if you had somebody to talk to and keep you company.”

“I didn’t say that,” said Mary, smiling. “I never implied that a visit from some kind friend – Mrs. Nelligan, for instance – would not be a very pleasant event in my solitude.”

“To come and see you, – to come to Cro’ Martin!” exclaimed Mrs. Nelligan, as though trying to reconcile her mind to the bare possibility of such a circumstance.

“If you would not think it too far, or too much trouble – ”

“Oh dear, oh dear, but it’s too much honor it would be; and Dan – no matter what he ‘d say to the contrary – would feel it so, in his own heart. Sure I know well how he felt about Joe being asked here to dinner; and he ‘d never have taken a part against your uncle in the election if it was n’t that he thought Joe was slighted some way – ”

“But nothing of the kind ever occurred. Mr..Joseph Nelligan met from us all the respect that his character and his talents entitled him to.”

“Don’t get warm about it, or I ‘ll forget everything that’s in my head!” exclaimed Mrs. Nelligan, in terror at the eagerness of Mary’s manner. “Maybe it was Joe’s fault – maybe it was young Massingbred’s – maybe it was – ”

“But what was it?” cried Mary. “What was alleged? What was laid to our charge?”

“There, now, I don’t remember anything; you frightened me so that it’s gone clean out of my mind.”

“My dear friend,” said Mary, caressingly, “I never meant to alarm you; and let us talk of something else. You say that you ‘ll come to see me sometimes; is it a promise?”

“Indeed it is, my dear, whenever Dan gives me the car and horse – ”

“But I ‘ll drive in for you, and bring you safely back again. You ‘ve only to say when you ‘ll spend the day with me; and there’s so much to show you here that you ‘d like to see. The gardens are really handsome, and the hothouses. And Catty will show us her dairy, and I am very proud of my lambs.”

“It is all like a dream to me, – just like a dream,” said Mrs. Nelligan, closing her eyes, and folding her arms, “to think that I ‘m sitting here, at Cro’ Martin, talking to Miss Mary just as if I were her equal.”

“My dear, dear friend, it shall be a reality whenever you like to make it so; and you’ll tell me all the news of Oughterard, – all about every one there; for I know them, at least by name, and will be charmed to hear about them.”

“Mr. Scanlan wants an answer, miss, immediately,” said a servant, presenting Mary with a few lines written in pencil.

She opened the paper and read the following: “Nelligan offers seventy pounds for the two black horses. Is he to have them? Sir Peter shows an incipient spavin on the off leg, and I think he ‘d be well sold.”

“Tell Mr. Scanlan I ‘ll send him an answer by and by,” said she, dismissing the servant. Then ringing the bell, she whispered a few words to the man who answered it. “I have just sent a message to tell Mr. Nelligan I wish to speak to him,” said she, resuming her place on the sofa. “It is a mere business matter,” added she, seeing that Mrs. Nelligan waited for some explanation. “And now, when have you heard from your son? Is he learning to spare himself anything of those great efforts he imposes upon his faculties?”

This was to touch the most sensitive chord in all her heart; and so she burst forth into a description of Joseph’s daily life of toil and study; his labors, his self-denial, his solitary, joyless existence, all calling up, in turn, her praises and her sympathy.

“And I,” cried she, “am always saying, what is it all for? – what’s the use of it? – who is to be the better of it? Sure there ‘s only himself to get whatever his father leaves behind him; and a pretty penny it is! Not that you would think so; but for the like of us, and in our station, it’s a snug fortune. He ‘ll have upwards of two thousand a year, so that there ‘s no need to be slaving like a Turk.”

“Your son’s ambitions take, very probably, a higher range than mere money-making,” said Mary. “He has a good right to suppose that his abilities may win him the highest of rewards! But here’s Mr. Nelligan.” And she advanced courteously to meet him at the door.

Flushed and heated by the scene he had just quitted, and evidently embarrassed by the situation in which he stood, Nelligan bowed repeatedly in reply to Miss Martin’s greeting, starting with amazement as he perceived Mrs. Nelligan, who maintained an air of unbroken dignity on the sofa.

“Well you may stare, Dan!” said she. “I ‘m sure you never expected to see me here!”

“It was a most agreeable surprise for me, at least,” said Mary, motioning to a seat; then, turning to Nelligan, added, “This little note was the occasion of my asking you to step over here. Will you please to read it?”

“How handsome, how candid, Miss Martin!” said Nelligan, as he restored it, after perusing it. “Ah, my dear young lady, why would n’t your family deal always with us in this fashion and in everything? I beg your forgiveness, but I forgot myself. I ‘ll stick to my offer, miss, – I wouldn’t take fifty pounds for my bargain!”

“This, of course, is in confidence between us, sir,” said Mary, as she tore up the note and threw the fragments on the ground.

“I wish I knew how to acknowledge this, Miss Martin; I wish I could show how sensible one in my station could be of generosity from one in yours.”

“You remind me very opportunely that I have a favor to ask, Mr. Nelligan. It is this: My kind friend here, Mrs. Nelligan, has just promised to take pity on my solitude, and occasionally to come and see me. Will you kindly strengthen her in this benevolent intention, and aid her to turn her steps very often towards Cro’ Martin?”

Nelligan’s face grew deeply red, and an expression of the greatest embarrassment settled down on his features; and it was with much difficulty, and in a voice laboring for utterance, that he said, —

“I don’t see how this can be. Your friends would not approve, – your family, I mean, Miss Martin, – would, very naturally, resent the thought of such an intimacy! They look upon me as an enemy, – an open and declared enemy, – and so I am, where politics is concerned; but – ” He hesitated, and after a struggle went on: “No matter, it is war between us, and must be till one crushes the other. What I mean is this, young lady: that to encourage such acquaintanceship as you speak of would look like an undue condescension on your part, or something even worse on ours.”

“I ‘ll not listen to such subtleties!” cried Mary, hastily. “Neither you nor I, my dear Mrs. Nelligan, care for party triumphs or defeats. There are a thousand themes wherein our hearts can feel alike; and these we ‘ll discuss together. We’re of the same country; have passed our lives amidst the same scenes, the same events, and the same people, and it will be hard if we cannot as easily discover topics for mutual esteem, as subjects of difference and disagreement.”

“But will it not be hinted, Miss Martin, that we took the opportunity of your solitude here to impose an acquaintanceship which had been impossible under other circumstances?”

“If you are too proud, sir, to know me, – lest an ungenerous sneer should damage your self-esteem – ”

“Indeed, indeed we’re not,” broke in Mrs. Nelligan. “You don’t know Dan at all. He would n’t exchange the honor of sitting there, opposite you, to be High Sheriff.”

A servant fortunately presented himself at this awkward moment with a whispered message for Miss Martin; to which she replied aloud, —

“Of course. Tell Mr. Scanlan it is my wish, —my orders,” added she, more firmly. “The house is open to any one who desires to see it. And now, before I go, Mr. Nelligan, tell me that I have convinced you, – tell me that my reasons have prevailed, and that you acknowledge we ought to be friends.” And as she said the last words, she held out her hand to him with a grace so perfect, and an air of such winning fascination, that old Nelligan could only stammer out, —

“It shall be how you please. I never bargained to dispute against such odds as this. We are, indeed, your friends; dispose of us how you like.” And, so saying, he conducted her to the little carriage, and, assisting her to her seat, took his leave with all the respect he could have shown a queen.

“It’s more than a prejudice, after all,” muttered he, as he looked after her as she drove away. “There’s something deeper and stronger in it than that, or else a few words spoken by a young girl could n’t so suddenly rout all the sentiments of a lifetime! Ay, ay,” added he, still to himself, “we may pull them down; we may humble them; but we ‘ll never fill their places!”

“And we ‘re to see the house, it seems!” exclaimed Mrs. Nelligan, gathering her shawl around her.

“I don’t care to look at it till she herself is here!” said old Nelligan, taking his wife’s arm, and leading her away across the lawn, and in the direction of the stables. There was that in his moody preoccupation which did not encourage her to venture on a word, and so she went along at his side in silence.

“You’re to have the black horses, Mr. Nelligan,” said Scanlan, overtaking him. Nelligan nodded. “You ‘ve got a cheap pair of nags, and as good as gold,” continued he. A dry half-smile was all the reply. “Mr. Martin bred them himself,” Scanlan went on, “and no price would have bought them three weeks ago; but everything is going for a song to-day! I don’t know how I ‘ll muster courage to tell them the results of the sale!”

“You ‘ll have courage for more than that,” said Nelligan. And although only a chance shot, it fell into a magazine; for Scanlan grew crimson, and then pale, and seemed ready to faint.

Nelligan stared with amazement at the effect his few words had produced, and then passed on; while the attorney muttered between his teeth, “Can he suspect me? Is it possible that I have betrayed myself?”

No, Maurice Scanlan. Be of good cheer, your secret is safe. No one has as much as the very barest suspicion that the pettifogging practitioner aspires to the hand of Mary Martin; nor even in the darkest dreams of that house’s downfall has such a humiliation obtruded itself anywhere!

CHAPTER XXVI. “REVERSES”

Ours is a very practical age, and no matter how skilfully a man play the game of life, there is but one test of his ability, – did he win? If this condition attend him, his actions meet charitable construction. His doings are all favorably regarded; and while his capacity is extolled, even his shortcomings are extenuated. We dread an unlucky man! There is a kind of contagion in calamity, and we shun him as though he were plague-stricken. But with what flatteries we greet the successful one! That he reached the goal is the sure guarantee of his merits; and woe to him who would canvass the rectitude of his progress! Defeat is such a leveller! Genius and dulness, courage and pusillanimity, high-hearted hope and wasting energy, are all confounded together by failure, and the world would only smile at any effort to discriminate between them. Perhaps in the main the system works well. Perhaps mankind, incapable of judging motives, too impatient to investigate causes, is wise in adopting a short cut for its decisions. Certain it is, the rule is absolute that proclaims Success to be Desert!

Lady Dorothea was now about to experience this severe lesson, and not the less heavily that she never anticipated it. After a wearisome journey the Martins arrived in Dublin. The apartments secured to them, by a previous letter, at Bilton’s, were all in readiness for their reception. The “Saunders” of the day duly chronicled their arrival; but there the great event seemed to terminate. No message from her Ladyship’s noble kinsman greeted their coming; no kind note of welcome, – not even a visit from Mr. Lawrence Belcour, the aide-de-camp in waiting. The greatest of all moralists warns us against putting confidence in princes; and how doubly truthful is the adage when extended to viceroys! Small as was the borough of Oughterard, and insignificant as seemed the fact who should be its representative, the result of the election was made a great matter at the “Castle.” His Excellency was told that the Martins had mismanaged everything. They had gone to work in the old Tory cut-and-thrust fashion of former days – conciliated no interest, won over no antagonism; they had acted “precisely as if there had been no Relief Bill,” – we steal Colonel Massingbred’s words, – and they were beaten – beaten in their own town – in the person of one of their own family, and by a stranger! The Viceroy was vexed. They had misconstrued every word of his letter, – a letter that, as he said, any child might have understood, – and there was a vote lost to his party. It was in vain that the Chief Secretary assured his Excellency “Jack was a clever fellow, who ‘d put all to rights;” that with a little time and a little dexterity he ‘d be able to vote with the Ministry on every important division; the great fact remained unatoned for, – his family, his own connections, “had done nothing for him.”

The first day in town dragged its length slowly over. Martin was fatigued, and did not go abroad, and no one came to visit him. To do him justice, he was patient under the neglect; to say more, he was grateful for it. It was so pleasant “to be let alone;” not even to be obliged to see Henderson, nor to be consulted about “Road Sessions” or “Police Reports,” but to have one’s day in total unbroken listlessness; to have simply to say, “We ‘ll dine at seven,” and “I’m out for every one.” Far otherwise fared it in my “Lady’s chamber.” All her plans had been based upon the attentions she was so certain of receiving, but of which now not a sign gave token. She passed the day in a state of almost feverish excitement, the more painful from her effort to conceal and control it. Repton dined with them. He came that day “because, of course, he could not expect to catch them disengaged on any future occasion.” Her Ladyship was furious at the speech, but smiled concurrence to it; while Martin carelessly remarked, “From all that I see, we may enjoy the same pleasure very often.” Never was the old lawyer so disagreeable when exerting himself to be the opposite. He had come stored with all the doings of the capital, – its dinners and evening parties, its mots and its gossip. From the political rumors and the chit-chat of society, he went on to speak of the viceregal court and its festivities.

“If there be anything I detest,” said her Ladyship, at last, “it is the small circle of a very small metropolis. So long as you look at it carelessly, it is not so offensive; but when you stoop to consider and examine it with attention, it reminds you of the hideous spectacle of a glass of water as seen through a magnifier, – you detect a miniature world of monsters and deformities, all warring and worrying each other.” And with this flattering exposition of her opinion, she arose speedily after dinner, and, followed by Miss Henderson, retired.

“I perceive that we had not the ear of the Court for our argument,” said Repton, as he resumed his place after conducting her to the door. Martin sipped his wine in silence. “I never expected she’d like Dublin; it only suits those who pass their lives in it; but I fancied that what with Castle civilities – ”

“There ‘s the rub,” broke in Martin, but in a voice subdued almost to a whisper. “They ‘ve taken no notice of us. For my own part, I ‘m heartily obliged to them; and if they ‘d condescend to feel offended with us, I ‘d only be more grateful; but my Lady – ”

A long, low whistle from Repton implied that he had fully appreciated the “situation.”

“Ah, I see it,” cried he; “and this explains the meaning of an article I read this morning in the ‘Evening Post,’ – the Government organ, – wherein it is suggested that country gentlemen would be more efficient supporters of the administration if they lent themselves heartily to comprehend the requirements of recent legislation, than by exacting heavy reprisals on their tenants in moments of defeat and disappointment.”

“Well, it is rather hard,” said Martin, with more of energy than he usually spoke in, – “it is hard! They first hounded us on to contest the borough for them, and they now abuse us that we did not make a compromise with the opposite party. And as to measures of severity, you know well I never concurred in them; I never permitted them.”

“But they are mistaken, nevertheless. There are writs in preparation, and executions about to issue over fourteen town-lands. There will be a general clearance of the population at Kyle-a-Noe. You ‘ll not know a face there when you go back, Martin!”

“Who can say that I ‘ll ever go back?” said he, mournfully.

“Come, come, I trust you will. I hope to pass some pleasant days with you there ere I die,” said Repton, cheer-ingly. “Indeed, until you are there again, I ‘ll never go farther west than Athlone on my circuit. I ‘d not like to, look at the old place without you!”

Martin nodded as he raised his glass, as if to thank him, and then dropped his head mournfully, and sat without speaking.

“Poor dear Mary!” said he, at last, with a heavy sigh. “Our desertion of her is too bad. It’s not keeping the pledge I made to Barry!”

“Well, well, there’s nothing easier than the remedy. A week or so will see you settled in some city abroad, – Paris, or Brussels, perhaps. Let her join you; I ‘ll be her escort. Egad! I’d like the excuse for the excursion,” replied Repton, gayly.

“Ay, Repton,” said the other, pursuing his own thoughts and not heeding the interruption, “and you know what a brother he was. By Jove!” cried he, aloud, “were Barry just to see what we ‘ve done, – how we ‘ve treated the place, the people, his daughter! – were he only to know how I ‘ve kept my word with him – Look, Repton,” added he, grasping the other’s arm as he spoke, “there’s not as generous a fellow breathing as Barry; this world has not his equal for an act of noble self-devotion and sacrifice. His life! – he ‘d not think twice of it if I asked him to give it for me; but if he felt – if he could just awaken to the conviction that he was unfairly dealt with, that when believing he was sacrificing to affection and brotherly love he was made a dupe and a fool of – ”

“Be cautious, Martin; speak lower – remember where you are,” said Repton, guardedly.

“I tell you this,” resumed the other, in a tone less loud but not less forcible: “the very warmth of his nature – that same noble, generous source that feeds every impulse of his life – would supply the force of a torrent to his passion; he ‘d be a tiger if you aroused him!”

“Don’t you perceive, my dear friend,” said Repton, calmly, “how you are exaggerating everything, – not alone your own culpability, but his resentment! Grant that you ought not to have left Mary behind you, – I ‘m sure I said everything I could against it, – what more easy than to repair the wrong?”

“No, no, Repton, you ‘re quite mistaken. Take my word for it, you don’t know that girl. She has taught herself to believe that her place is there, – that it is her duty to live amongst the people. She may exaggerate to her own mind the good she does; she may fancy a thousand things as to the benefit she bestows; but she cannot, by any self-deception, over-estimate the results upon her own heart, which she has educated to feel as only they do who live amongst the poor! To take her away from this would be a cruel sacrifice; and for what? – a world she would n’t care for, couldn’t comprehend.”

“Then what was to have been done?”

“I ‘ll tell you, Repton; if it was her duty to stay there, it was doubly ours to have remained also. When she married,” added he, after a pause, – “when she had got a home of her own, – then, of course, it would have been quite different! Heaven knows,” said he, sighing, “we have little left to tie us to anything or anywhere; and as to myself, it is a matter of the most perfect indifference whether I drag out the year or two that may remain to me on the shores of Galway or beside the Adriatic!”