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

“I can’t bear this,” cried Repton, angrily. “If ever there was a man well treated by fortune, you are he.”

“I ‘m not complaining.”

“Not complaining! but, hang it, sir, that is not enough! You should be overflowing with gratitude; your life ought to be active with benevolence; you should be up and doing, wherever ample means and handsome encouragement could assist merit or cheer despondency. I like your notion that you don’t complain! Why, if you did, what should be done by those who really do travel the shady side of existence, – who are weighted with debt, bowed down with daily difficulties, crippled with that penury that eats into a man’s nature till his very affections grow sordid, and his very dreams are tormented with his duns! Think of the poor fellows with ailing wives and sickly children, toiling daily, not to give them luxuries, – not to supply them with what may alleviate weariness or distract suffering, but bare sustenance, – coarse diet and coarser dress! Ah, my dear Martin, that Romanist plan of fasting one day in the week would n’t be a bad institution were we to introduce it into our social code. If you and I could have, every now and then, our feelings of privation, just to teach us what others experience all the week through, we ‘d have, if not more sympathy with narrow fortune, at least more thankfulness for its opposite.”

“Her Ladyship begs you will read this note, sir,” said a servant, presenting an open letter to Martin. He took it, and having perused it, handed it to Repton, who slowly read the following lines: —

“‘The Lodge, Tuesday.

“‘Madam, – I have his Excellency’s commands to inquire on what day it will suit Mr. Martin and your Ladyship to favor him with your company at dinner? His Excellency would himself say Saturday, but any intermediate day more convenient to yourself will be equally agreeable to him.

“‘I have the honor to remain, madam,

“‘With every consideration, yours,

“‘Lawrence Belcour, A.D.C.’”

“‘With every consideration’!” repeated Repton. “Confound the puppy, and his Frenchified phraseology! Why is he not, as he ought to be, your obedient servant?”

“It is a somewhat cold and formal invitation,” said Martin, slowly. “I ‘ll just see what she thinks of it;” and he arose and left the room. His absence was fully of twenty minutes’ duration, and when he did return his face betokened agitation.

“Here’s more of it, Repton,” said he, filling and drinking off his glass. “It ‘s all my fault, it seems. I ought to have gone out to the ‘Lodge’ this morning, or called on somebody, or done something; in fact, I have been remiss, neglectful, deficient in proper respect – ”

“So that you decline the invitation?” broke in Repton.

“Not a bit of it; we ‘re to accept it, man. That’s what I cannot comprehend. We are offended, almost outraged, but still we’re to submit. Ah, Repton, I’ll be really rejoiced when we leave this, – get away from all these petty annoyances and small intriguings, and live amongst strangers!”

“Most patriotically spoken; but I’m not surprised at what you say. Have you made any resolve as to whither you mean to go?”

“No; we have so many plans, that the chances are we take none of them. I ‘m told – I know nothing of it myself – but I ‘m told that we shall easily find – and in any part of the Continent – the few requirements we want; which are, an admirable climate, great cheapness, and excellent society.”

There was a slight twinkle in Martin’s eye as he spoke, as if he were in reality relishing the absurdity of these expectations.

“Was it Kate Henderson who encouraged you to credit this flattering picture?”

“No; these are my Lady’s own experiences, derived from a residence there ‘when George the Third was King.’ As to Kate, the girl is by no means deficient in common sense; she has the frivolity of a Frenchwoman, and that light, superficial tone foreign education imparts; but take my word for it, Repton, she has very fine faculties!”

“I will take your word for it, Martin. I think you do her no more than justice,” said the old lawyer, sententiously.

“And I ‘ll tell you another quality she possesses,” said Martin, in a lower and more cautious tone, as though dreading to be overheard, – “she understands my Lady to perfection, – when to yield and when to oppose her. The girl has an instinct about it, and does it admirably; and there was poor dear Mary, with all her abilities, and she never could succeed in this! How strange, for nobody would think of comparing the two girls!”

“Nobody!” dryly re-echoed Repton.

“I mean, of course, that nobody who knew the world could; for in all the glitter and show-off of fashionable acquirement, poor Molly is the inferior.”

Repton looked steadfastly at him for several seconds; he seemed as if deliberating within himself whether or not he’d undeceive him at once, or suffer him to dwell on an illusion so pleasant to believe. The latter feeling prevailed, and he merely nodded slowly, and passed the decanter across the table.

“Molly,” continued Martin, with all the fluency of a weak man when he fancies he has got the better of an argument, – “Molly is her father all over. The same resolution, the same warmth of heart, and that readiness at an expedient which never failed poor Barry! What a clever fellow he was! If he had a fault, it was just being too clever.”

“Too speculative, too sanguine,” interposed Repton.

“That, if you like to call it so, – the weakness of genius.”

Repton gave a long sigh, and crossing his arms, fell into a fit of musing, and so they both sat for a considerable time.

“Harry is coming home, you said?” broke in Repton at last.

“Yes; he is tired of India, – tired of soldiering, I believe. If he can’t manage an exchange into some regiment at home, I think he ‘ll sell out.”

“By Jove!” said the old lawyer, speaking to himself, but still aloud, “the world has taken a strange turn of late. The men that used to have dash and energy have become loungers and idlers, and the energy – the real energy of the nation – has centred in the women, – the women and the priests! If I’m not much mistaken, we shall see some rare specimens of enthusiasm erelong. Such elements as these will not slumber nor sleep!”

While Martin was pondering over this speech, a servant entered to say that Mr. Crow was without, and begged to know if he might pay his respects. “Ay, by all means. Tell him to come in,” said Martin. And the words were scarcely uttered when the artist made his appearance, in full dinner costume, and with a certain unsteadiness in his gait, and a restless look in his eyes, that indicated his having indulged freely, without, however, having passed the barrier of sobriety.

“You heard of our arrival, then?” said Martin, after the other had paid his respects, and assumed a seat.

“Yes, sir. It was mentioned to-day at dinner, and so I resolved that, when I could manage to step away, I’d just drop in and ask how her Ladyship and yourself were.”

“Where did you dine, Crow?”

“At the Chief Secretary’s, sir, in the Park,” replied Crow, with a mixture of pride and bash fulness.

“Ah, indeed. Was your party a large one?”

“There were fourteen of us, sir, but I only knew three or four of the number.”

“And who were they, Crow?” said Repton, whose curiosity on all such topics was extreme.

“Young Nelligan was one. Indeed, it was through him I was asked myself. Colonel Massingbred was good enough to come over and have a look at my Moses, – a favor I humbly hope you ‘ll do me, gentlemen, any spare morning; for it’s a new conception altogether, and I make the light come out of the bulrushes, just as Caravaggio did with his Lazarus.”

“Never mind Lazarus, Crow, but tell us of this dinner. Who were the others?”

“Well, sir, there was Nelligan and me, – that’s one; and Tom Magennis, – two – ”

“Our neighbor of Barnagheela?” exclaimed Martin, in amazement.

“The same, sir. I left him there at the port wine, and my word for it, but they ‘ll not get him away easily, though Father Rafferty will do his best – ”

“And was the priest also of the party?”

“He was, sir; and sat at the Colonel’s left, and was treated with every honor and distinction.”

“Eh, Martin, am I a true prophet? – answer me that. Has Val Repton foretold the course of events we are entering upon, or has he not?”

“But this is a regular outrage, – an open insult to us!” cried Martin. “Here is a leading member of the Government entertaining the very men who opposed and defeated us, – actually caressing the very party which they enlisted us to crush?”

“This game is within every child’s comprehension!” said Repton. “If you, and men of your stamp and fortune, could have secured them a parliamentary majority, they ‘d have preferred you. You ‘d be pleasanter to deal with, less exacting, more gentlemanly in fact; but as you failed to do this, – as it was plain and clear you had not the people with you, – why, they ‘ve thrown you over without a scruple, and taken into their favor the men who can and will serve them. I don’t mean to say that the bargain is a good one, – nay, I believe the price of such aid will be very costly; but what do they care? It is one of the blessings of a representative government that Tories have to pay Whig debts, and Whigs are heirs to Tory defalcations.”

“Were politics discussed at table?” asked Martin, half impatiently.

“All manner of subjects. We had law, and the assizes, and the grand-jury lists, and who ought to be high sheriffs, and who not. And young Massingbred made a kind of a speech – ”

“Was he there also?”

“That he was; and did the honors of the foot of the table, and made it the pleasantest place too! The way he introduced a toast to the independent and enlightened electors of Oughterard was as neat a thing as ever I heard.”

“The devil take the whole batch of them!” cried Martin. “To think that I ‘ve spent nearly three thousand pounds for such a set of scoundrels is past endurance. I ‘ll never set foot amongst them again; as long as I live I ‘ll never enter that town.”

“Father Neal’s own words,” cried Crow. “‘We done with Martin forever,’ said he. ‘This election was his Waterloo. He may abdicate now!’”

“And that sentiment was listened to by the Chief Secretary?” exclaimed Martin.

“If he wasn’t deaf he couldn’t help hearing it, for we all did; and when I ventured to observe that a country was never the better for losing the patrons of art, and the great families that could encourage a genius, young Massingbred, said, ‘Give up Moses, Mr. Crow, – give up Moses, and paint Daniel O’Connell, and you ‘ll never want admirers and supporters!’ And they drowned me in a roar of laughter.”

“I wish my Lady could only hear all this,” said Rep ton, in a whisper to Martin.

“Always provided that I were somewhere else!” answered Martin. “But to be serious, Repton, I ‘ll hold no intercourse with men who treat us in this fashion. It is absurd to suppose that the Secretary could receive at his table this rabble, – this herd of low, vulgar – ”

“Eh – what!” broke in Crow, with an expression of such truly comic misery as made Repton shake with laughter.

“I didn’t mean you, Crow – I never thought of including you in such company, – but if these be Colonel Massingbred’s guests, I ‘ll swear that Godfrey Martin shall not be my Lord Reckington’s!” And with this bold resolve, uttered in a voice and manner of very unusual firmness, Martin arose and left the room.

“On the whole, then, your party was a pleasant one?” said Repton, anxious to lead Crow into some further details of the late dinner.

“Well, indeed it was, and it was not,” said the artist, hesitatingly. “It was like a picture with some fine bits in it, – a dash of rich color here and there, – but no keeping! no general effect! You understand? I myself took no share in the talk. I never understood it; but I could see that they who did were somehow at cross-purposes, – all standing in adverse lights, – if I may use the expression. Whenever the Colonel himself, or one of the ‘swells’ of the company, came out with a fine sentiment about regenerated Ireland, happy and prosperous, and so forth, Magennis was sure to break in with some violent denunciation of the infernal miscreants, as he called the landlords, or the greatest curse of the land, – the Law Church!”

“And how did Father Neal behave?”

“With great decorum, – the very greatest. He moderated all Tom’s violence, and repeatedly said that he accepted no participation in such illiberal opinions. ‘We have grievances, it is true,’ said he, ‘but we live under a Government able and willing to redress them. It shall never be said of us that we were either impatient or intolerant.’ ‘With such support, no Government was ever weak!’ said the Colonel, and they took wine together.”

“That was very pleasant to see!” said Repton.

“So it was, sir,” rejoined Crow, innocently; “and I thought to myself, if there was only an end of all their squabbling and fighting, they ‘d have time to cultivate the arts and cherish men of genius, – if they had them!” added he, after a pause.

“Father Neal, then, made a favorable impression, you ‘d say?” asked Repton, half carelessly.

“I’d say, very favorable, – very favorable, indeed. I remarked that he always spoke so freely, so liberally. Twice or thrice, too, he said, ‘If the Papists do this, that, or t’ other;’ and when the Colonel asked whether the Catholics of Ireland submitted implicitly to Rome in all things, he laughed heartily, and said, ‘About as much as we do to the Cham of Tartary!’

“‘I ‘d like to examine our friend there before the Committee,’ whispered an old gentleman at the Colonel’s right hand.

“‘It was the very thing was passing through my own mind at the minute,’ said the Colonel.

“‘That’s exactly the kind of thing we want,’ said the old gentleman again, – ‘a bold, straightforward denial; something that would tell admirably with the House! Present me to your friend, Massingbred!’ And then the Chief Secretary said, ‘The Member for Strudeham – Mr. Crutch-ley – is very desirous of being known to you, Mr. Rafferty.’ And there was great smiling, and bowing, and drinking wine together after that.”

Martin now re-entered the room, and taking his place at the table, sat for some minutes in moody silence.

“Well,” said Repton, “what does my Lady think of your tidings?”

“She says she does n’t believe it!”

“Does n’t believe that these people dined with Massingbred; that Crow saw them, heard them, dined with them?”

“No, no, – not that,” said Martin, gently, and laying his hand familiarly on Crow’s arm. “Don’t mistake me; nor don’t let Repton play the lawyer with us, and pervert the evidence. Lady Dorothea can’t believe that her distinguished relative, the Viceroy, would ever countenance this game; that – that – in fact, we’re to dine there, Repton, and see for ourselves! Though,” added he, after a brief pause, “what we are to see, or what we are to do when we ‘ve seen it, I wish anybody would tell me!”

“Then I ‘ll be that man!” said Repton, with a mock solemnity, and imitating the tone and manner of a judge delivering sentence. “You ‘ll go from this place to the Lodge, where you ‘ll be fed ‘to the neck,’ feasted and flattered, and all your good resolves and high purposes will be cut down, and your noble indignation buried within the precincts of your own hearts!”

And, so saying, he arose from the table and extended his hand to take leave, with all the gravity of a solemn farewell.

“If you could say a word to his Excellency about Moses,” muttered Crow, as he was leaving the room, “it would be the making of me!” But Martin never heeded the appeal; perhaps he never heard it.

CHAPTER XXVII. DARKENING FORTUNES

The Martins had always lived a life of haughty estrangement from their neighbors; there were none of exactly their own rank and pretensions within miles of them, and they were too proud to acknowledge the acquaintance of a small squirearchy, which was all that the country around could boast. Notwithstanding all the isolation of their existence, their departure created a great void in the county, and their absence was sensibly felt by every class around. The very requirements of a large fortune suggest a species of life and vitality. The movement of servants, the passing and repassing of carriages, the necessary intercourse with market and post, – all impart a degree of bustle and movement, terribly contrasted by the unbroken stillness of a deserted mansion.

Lady Dorothea had determined that there should be no ambiguity as to the cause of their departure; she had given the most positive orders on this head to every department of the household. To teach an ungrateful people the sore consequences of their own ingratitude, the lesson should be read in everything: in the little villages thrown out of work, in the silent quarries, the closed schoolhouses, the model farm converted into grass-land, even to the grand entrance, now built up by a wall of coarse masonry, the haughty displeasure of the proud mistress revealed itself, all proclaiming the sentiment of a deep, unforgiving vengeance. She had tortured her ingenuity for details which should indicate her anger; nor was she satisfied if her displeasure should not find its way into every cabin and at every hearth. The small hamlet of Cro’ Martin had possessed a dispensary. A hard-working, patient, and skilful man had passed many years of life there as the doctor, eking out the poor subsistence of that unfavored lot, and supporting a family by a life of dreary toil. From this her Ladyship’s subscription – the half of all his salary – was now to be withdrawn. She thought “Cloves was grown negligent; it might be age, – if so, a younger man would be better; besides, if he could afford to dress his three daughters in the manner he did, he surely could not require her thirty pounds per annum.” The servants, too, complained that he constantly mistook their complaints. In fact, judgment was recorded against Cloves, and there was none to recommend him to mercy!

We have said that there was a little chapel within the bounds of the demesne; it occupied a corner of a ruin which once had formed Cro’ Martin Abbey, and now served for the village church. It was very small, but still large enough for its little congregation. The vicar of this humble benefice was a very old man, a widower, and childless, though once the father of a numerous family. Dr. Leslie had, some eighteen years back, been unfortunate enough to incur her Ladyship’s displeasure, and was consequently never invited to the castle, nor recognized in any way, save by the haughty salute that met him as he left the church. To save him, however, a long and tedious walk on Sundays, he was permitted to make use of a little private path to the church, which led through one of the shrubberies adjoining his own house, – a concession of the more consequence as he was too poor to keep a carriage of the humblest kind. This was now ordered to be closed up, the gate removed, and a wall to replace it. “The poor had got the habit of coming that way; it was never intended for their use, but they had usurped it. To-morrow or next day we should hear of its being claimed at law as a public right of passage. It was better to do the thing in time. In short, it must be ‘closed.’” By some such reasoning as this Lady Dorothea persuaded herself to this course; and who should gainsay her? Oh, if men would employ but one tenth of all that casuistry by which they minister to their selfishness, in acts of benevolence and good feeling, – if they would only use a little sophistry, to induce them to do right, – what a world this might be!

Mary Martin knew nothing of these decisions; overwhelmed by the vast changes on every side, almost crushed beneath the difficulties that surrounded her, her first few weeks passed over like a disturbed dream. Groups of idle, unemployed people saluted her in mournful silence as she passed the roads. Interrupted works, half-executed plans met her eye at every turn, and at every moment the same words rang in her ears – “Her Ladyship’s orders” – as the explanation of all.

Hitherto her life had been one of unceasing exertion and toil; from early dawn to late night she had been employed; her fatigues, however, great as they were, had been always allied with power. What she willed she could execute. Means never failed her, no matter how costly the experiment, to carry out her plans, and difficulty gave only zest to every undertaking. There is nothing more captivating than this sense of uncontrolled ability for action, especially when exercised by one of a warm and enthusiastic nature. To feel herself the life and spring of every enterprise, to know that she suggested and carried out each plan, that her ingenuity devised, and her energy accomplished all the changes around her, was in itself a great fascination; and now suddenly she was to awake from all this, and find herself unoccupied and powerless. Willingly, without a regret, could she abdicate from all the pomp and splendor of a great household; she saw troops of servants depart, equipage sold, great apartments closed up without a pang! To come down to the small conditions of narrow fortune in her daily life cost her nothing, beyond a smile. It was odd, it was strange; but it was no more! Far otherwise, however, did she feel the circumstances of her impaired power. That hundreds of workmen were no longer at her bidding, that whole families no longer looked up to her for aid and comfort, – these were astounding facts, and came upon her with an actual shock.

“For what am I left here?” cried she, passionately, to Henderson, as he met each suggestion she made by the one cold word, “Impossible.” “Is it to see destitution that I cannot relieve, – witness want that I am powerless to alleviate? To what end or with what object do I remain?”

“I canna say, miss,” was the dry response.

“If it be to humiliate me by the spectacle of my own inefficiency, a day or a week will suffice for that; years could not teach me more.”

Henderson bowed what possibly might mean an acquiescence.

“I don’t speak of the estate,” cried she, earnestly; “but what ‘s to become of the people?”

“Many o’ them will emigrate, miss, I’ve no doubt,” said he, “when they see there ‘s nothing to bide for.”

“You take it easily, sir. You see little hardships in men having to leave home and country; but I tell you that home may be poor and country cruel, and yet both very hard to part with.”

“That ‘s vara true, miss,” was the dry response.

“For anything there is now to be done here, you, sir, are to the full as competent as I am. I ask again, To what end am I here?”

Giving to her question a very different significance from what she intended, Henderson calmly said, “I thought, miss, it was just yer ain wish, and for no other reason.”

Mary’s cheek became crimson, and her eyes flashed with angry indignation; but repressing the passion that was bursting within her, she walked hastily up and down the room in silence. At length, opening a large colored map of the estate which lay on the table, she stood attentively considering it for some time. “The works at Carrigulone are stopped?” said she, hastily.

“Yes, miss.”

“And the planting at Kyle’s Wood?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And even the thinning there, – is that stopped?”

“Yes, miss; the bark is to be sold, and a’ the produce of the wood for ten years, to a contractor, a certain Mister – ”

“I don’t want his name, sir. What of the marble quarries?”

“My Lady thinks they’re nae worth a’ they cost, and won’t hear o’ their being worked again.”

“And is the harbor at Kilkieran to be given up?”

“Yes, miss, and the Osprey’s Nest will be let. I think they ‘ll mak’ an inn or a public o’ it.”

“And if the harbor is abandoned, what is to become of the fishermen? The old quay is useless.”

“Vara true, miss; but there’s a company goin’ to take the royalties o’ the coast the whole way to Belmullet.”

“A Scotch company, Mr. Henderson?” said Mary, with a sly malice in her look.

“Yes, miss,” said he, coloring slightly. “The house of M’Grotty and Co. is at the head o’ it.”

“And are they the same enterprising people who have proposed to take the demesne on lease, provided the gardens be measured in as arable land?”

“They are, miss; they’ve signed the rough draught o’ the lease this morning.”