CHAPTER XXXIII. TATE SULLIVAN'S FAREWELL
The sorrows and sufferings of noble minds are melancholy themes to dwellupon; they may "point a moral," but they scarcely "adorn a tale," leastof all such a tale as ours is intended to be. While, therefore, we wouldspare our readers and ourselves the pain of this narration, we cannotleave that old abbey, which we remember so full of happiness, withoutone parting look at it, in company with those about to quit it forever.
From the time of Mr. O'Reilly's leave-taking, the day, notwithstandingits gloomy presage, went over rapidly. The Knight busied himselfwith internal arrangements, while Lionel took into his charge all thepreparations for their departure on the morrow, Bagenal Dalyassisting each in turn, and displaying an amount of calm foresight andcircumspection in details which few would have given him credit for.Meanwhile, Lady Eleanor slept long and heavily, and awoke, notonly refreshed in body, but with an appearance of quiet energy anddetermination she had not shown for years past. Great indeed was theKnight's astonishment on hearing that she intended joining them atdinner; in her usual habit she dined early, and with Helen alone for hercompanion, so that her present resolve created the more surprise.
Dinner was ordered in the library, and poor old Tate, by some strangemotive of sympathy, took a more than common pains in all the decorationsof the table. The flowers which Lady Eleanor was fondest of decked thecentre--alas, there was no need to husband them now! on the morrow whowas to care for them?--a little bouquet of fresh violets marked herplace at the table, and more than a dozen times did the old man hesitatehow the light should fall through the large window, and whether itwould be more soothing to his mistress to look abroad upon that fairand swelling landscape so dear to her, or more painful to gaze upon thescenes she should never see more.
"If it was myself," muttered old Tate, "I'd like to be looking at itas long as I could, and make it follow me in my dhrames after; but surethere 's no knowing how great people feels! they say they never has thesame kind of thought as us!"
Poor fellow, he little knew how levelling is misfortune, and that thecalamities of life evoke the same sufferings in the breast of the kingand the peasant. With a delicacy one more highly born might have beenproud of, the old butler alone waited at dinner, well judging that hisfamiliar face would be less irksome to them than the prying looks of theother servants.
If there are people who can expend much eloquent indignation on thosesocial usages which exact a certain amount of decorous observance inall the trials and crosses of life, there is a great deal to be saidin favor of that system of conventional good-breeding whose aim is torepress selfish indulgence, and make the individual feel that, whateverhis own griefs, the claims of the world demand a fortitude and a bearingthat shall not obtrude his sorrows on his neighbors. That the codemay be abused, and become occasionally hypocritical in practice, is noargument against it; we would merely speak in praise of that well-bredforbearance which always merges private afflictions in the desire tomake others happy. To instance our meaning, we would speak of those whonow met at dinner in the old library of Gwynne Abbey.
It would be greatly to mistake us to suppose that we uphold any showor counterfeit of kindliness where there is no substance of the feelingbehind it; we merely maintain that the very highest and most acutesympathy is not inconsistent with a bearing of easy, nay, almostcheerful character. So truly was it the case here that old Tate Sullivanmore than once stood still in amazement at the tranquil faces andfamiliar quietude of those who, in his own condition of life, could havefound no accents loud or piercing enough to bewail their sorrow, andwhom, even with his long knowledge of them, he could scarcely acquit ofinsensibility.
There is a contagion in an effort of this kind most remarkable. Thelight and gentle attempts made by Lady Eleanor to sustain the spirits ofthe party were met by sallies of manly good-humor by the Knight himself,in which Lionel and Helen were not slow to join, while Bagenal Dalycould scarcely repress his enthusiastic delight at the noble andhigh-souled courage that sustained them one and all.
While by a tacit understanding they avoided any allusion to the painfulcircumstances of their late misfortune, the Knight adroitly turned theconversation to their approaching journey northwards, and drew from Dalya description of "the Corvy" that actually evoked a burst of downrightlaughter. From this he passed on to speak of the peasantry, so unlike inevery trait those of the South and West; the calm, reflective characterof their minds, uninfluenced by passion and unmarked by enthusiasm, werea strong contrast to the headlong impulse and ardent temperament of the"real Irish."
"You 'll scarcely like them at first, my dear Helen--"
"Still less on a longer acquaintance," broke in Helen. "I 'll notquarrel with the caution and reserve of the Scotchman,--the very mistsof his native mountains may teach him doubt and uncertainty of purpose;but here at home, what have such frames of mind and thought in commonwith our less calculating natures?"
"It were far better had they met oftener," said the Knight,thoughtfully; "impulse is only noble when well directed; the passionatepilots are more frequently the cause of shipwreck than of safety."
"Nothing so wearisome as the trade-winds," said Helen, with a saucy tossof the head; "eh, Lionel, you are of my mind?"
"They do push one's temper very hard now and then," said Daly, with astern frown; "that impassive habit they have of taking everything as inthe common order of events is, I own, somewhat difficult to bear with.I remember being run away with on a blood mare from a little villagecalled Ballintray. The beast was in high condition, and I turned her,without knowing the country, at the first hill I could see; she breastedit boldly, and, though full a quarter of a mile in length, nevershortened stride to the very summit. What was my surprise, when I gainedthe top, to see that we were exactly over the sea. It was a cliff which,projecting for some distance out, was fissured by an immense chasm,through which the waves passed; not very wide, but deep enough to makeit a very awful leap. Over it she went, and then, when I expected her todash onwards, and was already preparing to fling myself from the saddle,she stood stock still, trembling all over, and snorting with fear atthe danger around her. At the same instant, a hard-featured old fellowpopped his head up from amid the tall fern which he had been cuttingfor thatch for his cabin, and looked at me, not the slightest sign ofastonishment in his cold, rigid countenance.
"'Ye 'll no get back so easy, my bonnie mon,' said he, with theslightest possible approach to a smile.
"'Get back! no, faith, I 'll not try it,' said I, looking at the yawninggulf, through which the wild waves boiled, and the opposite bank severalfeet higher than the ground I stood upon.
"'I thought sae,' was the rejoinder; when, rising slowly, he leisurelywalked round the mare, as she stood riveted by fear to the one spot.'I 'll gie ye sax shilling for the hide o' her forbye the shoes,' addedhe, with a voice as imperturbable as though he were pricing thecommonest commodity of a market.
"I confess it was fortunate that the ludicrous was stronger in me at themoment than indignation, for if I had not laughed at him I might havedone worse."
"I could not endure such a peasantry," said Helen, as soon as the mirththe anecdote called forth had subsided.
"It's quite true," said Daly, "they have burlesqued Scotch prudencein the same way that the Anglo-Hibernian has travestied the Irishtemperament. It is the danger of all imitators, they always transgressthe limits of their model."
"It is fortunate," broke in the Knight, "that traits which conciliate solittle the stranger should win their way on nearer intimacy; and such Ibelieve to be the case with the Ulster peasant."
"You are right," said Daly; "no man can detest more cordially than Ido the rudeness that is assumed to heighten a contrast with any goodquality behind it. In most instances the kernel is not worth the troubleof breaking off the husk; but with the Northerner this is not the case:in his independence he neither apes the equality of the Frenchman northe license of the Yankee. That he suffices for himself, and seeks
neither patron nor protector, is the source of honest pride, and ifthis sometimes takes the guise of stubbornness, let us remember that thevirtue was reared in poverty, without encouragement or example."
"And the gentry," said Lady Eleanor, "have they any trace of thesepeculiarities observable among the people?"
"Gentry!" said Daly, impetuously, "I know of none. There are somethrifty families, who, by some generations of hard saving, have risento affluence and wealth. They are keen fellows, given tomoney-getting,--millers some of them, bleachers most, with a tenantryof weavers, and estates like the grass-plot of a laundry. They are ascrafty and as calculating as the peasant, shrewd as stockbrokers at abargain, and as pretentious as a Prince Palatine with a territorythe size of Merrion Square. Gentry! they have neither ancestry nortradition; they hold their estates from certain Guilds, whosevery titles are a parody upon gentle breeding,--fishmongers andclothworkers!"
"I will not be their champion against you, Bagenal, but I cannot helpfeeling how heavily they might retort upon us. These same prudent andprosaic landlords have not spent their fortunes in wasteful extravaganceand absurd display; they have not rackrented their tenantry that theymight rival a neighbor."
"I am sincerely rejoiced," interposed Lady Eleanor, smiling, "that myEnglish relative, Lord Netherby, was not a witness to this discussion,lest he should fancy that, between the wastefulness of the South andthe thrift of the North, this poor island was but ill provided with agentry. Pray, Mr. Daly, how does your sister like the North? She is ourneighbor, is she not?"
"Yes,--that is to say, a few miles distant," said Daly, confusedly;for he had never acknowledged that "the Corvy" had been Miss Daly'sresidence. "Of the neighborhood she knows nothing; she is not free frommy own prejudices, and lives a very secluded life."
The conversation now became broken and unconnected, and the party soonafter retired to the drawing-room, where, while Lady Eleanor and Helensat together, the Knight, Daly, and Lionel gathered in a little knot,and discussed, in a low tone, the various steps for the coming journey,and the probable events of the morrow.
It was agreed upon that Daly should accompany the Darcys to the North,whither Sandy was already despatched, but that Lionel should remain atthe abbey for some days longer, to complete the arrangements necessaryfor the removal of certain family papers and the due surrender of theproperty to its new owner; after which he should repair to London, andprocure his exchange into some regiment of the line, and, ifpossible, one on some foreign station,--the meeting with friends andacquaintances, under his now altered fortunes, being judged as a trialtoo painful and too difficult to undergo.
Again they all met around the tea-table, and once more they talked inthe same vein of mutual confidence; each conscious of the effort bywhich he sustained his part, and wondering how the others summonedcourage to do what cost himself so much. They chatted away till nearmidnight, and when they shook hands at separating, it was with feelingsof affection to which sorrow had only added fresh and stronger ties.
Daly stood for some time alone in the library, wondering within himselfat the noble fortitude with which they severally sustained theirdreadful reverse. It is only the man of stout heart can truly estimatethe higher attributes of courage; but even to him these efforts seemedsurprising. "Ay," muttered he, "each nobly upholds the other; it isopposing a hollow square to fortune: so long as they stand firm andtogether, well! let but one quail and falter, let the line be broken,and they would be swept away at once and forever." Taking a caudle fromthe table, he left the room, and ascended the wide staircase towards hischamber. All was still and noiseless, and to prevent his footsteps beingheard, he entered the little corridor which opened on the gallery of therefectory, the same from which Forester first caught sight of the partyat the dinner-table.
He had scarcely, with careful hand, closed the door behind him, when,looking over the balustrades of the gallery, he beheld a figure movingslowly along in the great apartment beneath, guided by a small lamp,which threw its uncertain light rather on the wall than on the form ofhim who carried it. Suddenly stopping before one of the large portraitswhich in a long succession graced the chamber, the light was turnedfully round, so as to display the broad and massive features of old TateSullivan. Curious to ascertain what the old man might be about in sucha place at such an hour, Daly extinguished the candle to watch himunobserved. Tate was dressed in his most accurate costume: his longcravat, edged with deep lace, descended in front of his capacious whitewaistcoat; silver buckles, of a size that showed there was no parsimonyof the precious metal, shone in his shoes; and his newly powdered wigdisplayed an almost snowy lustre. His gestures were in accordance withthe careful observances of his toilet; he moved along the floor with aslow, sliding step, bowing deeply and reverentially as he went, and withall the courtesy he would have displayed if ushering a goodly companyinto the state drawing-room.
Bagenal Daly was not left long to speculate on honest Tate's intentions;and although to a stranger's eyes the motives might have seemed strangeand dubious, the mystery was easily solved to him, who knew the old manwell and thoroughly. He was there to take a last look, and bid farewellto those venerable portraits, who for more than half a century wereenshrined in his memory like saints. Around them were associated all thelittle incidents of his peaceful life; they were the chroniclers of hisimpressions in boyhood, in manhood, and in age; he could call to mindthe first moments he gazed on them in awe-struck veneration; he couldremember the proud period when the duty first devolved upon him ofdescribing them to the strangers who came to see the abbey; in thehistory of all and each of them he was well read, versed in their nobleachievements, their triumphs in camp or cabinet. To his eyes they formeda long line of heroic characters, of which the world had produced noequal; they realized in his conception the proud eulogy of the Bayards,"where all the men were brave, and all the women virtuous;" and it isnot improbable that his devotion to his master was in a great measureascribable to that awe-struck admiration with which he regarded hisglorious ancestors.
The old man stood, and, holding the lamp above his head, gazed inrespectful admiration at the grim figure of a Knight in armor. Theremight have been little to charm the lover of painting in the executionof the picture, and the mere castle-builder could scarcely have indulgedhis fancy in weaving a story from the countenance of the portrait, forthe vizor was down, and he stood in all the unmoved sternness of hisiron prison, with his glaived hands elapsed upon the cross of a longstraight sword. Tate gazed on him for some moments. Heaven knows withwhat qualities of mind or person the old man had endowed him, for whileto others he was only Sir Gavin Darcy, first Knight of Gwynne, Tate inall likelihood had invested him with traits of character and appearance,of which that external shell was the mere envelope.
"We're going, Sir Gavin," muttered the old man, as if addressing theportrait; "'tis the ould stock is laving the place, never to see itmore; 't is your own proud heart will be sorry to-day to look down uponus. Ah, ah!" muttered he, "the world is changed; there was times when aDarcy would n't quit the house of his fathers without a blow for it--audthey say we are better now!" With a heavy sigh he passed on, and stoodbefore the next picture. "Yes, my Lady," said he, "ye may well cry thatlost the two beautiful boys the same morning, fighting side by side; butthere's heavier grief here now: the brave youths sleep in peace and inhonor; but we have no home to shelter us!"
With a slow step and bent-down head, he tottered on, and, placing thelamp upon the floor, crossed his arms upon his breast. "'Tis you thatcan help us now," said he as he cast a timid and imploring glance at thegoodly countenance and rotund figure of Bernhard Emmeric, fourth Abbotof Gwynne; "'tis your reverence can offer a prayer for your own bloodthat's in sore trouble and distress. Do it, my Lord; do it in the nameof the Vargin. Smiling and happy you look, but it 's sorrowful yourheart is in you to see what's going on here. Them, them was the happydays, when it was n't the cry of grief was heard beneath this roof, butthe heavenly chants of holy men, and the prayers
of the blessed mass."He knelt down as he said this, and with trembling lips and tearful eyesrecited some verses from his breviary.
This done, he arose, and, as if with renovated courage, proceeded on hisway.
"Reginald Herbert de Guyon! ah! second Baron of Gwynne, Lord Protectorof Munster, Knight of Malta, Chevalier of St. John of Jerusalem,Standard-Bearer to the Queen! and well you desarve it all! 'T isyourself sits your horse like a proud nobleman!" He stood with eyesriveted upon the picture, while his face glowed with intense enthusiasm,and at last, as a bitter sneer passed across his lips, he added, "Ay,faith! and them that comes after us won't like the look of you. 'T isyou that 'll never disguise from them your real mind, and every day they'll dine in the hall, that same frown will darken, and that same handwill threaten them."
He moved on now, and passed several portraits without stopping,muttering as he went, "'T is more English than Irish blood is in yourveins, and you won't feel as much for us as the rest;" then, haltingsuddenly, he stood before a tall figure, dressed in black velvet, with adeep collar of point lace. A connoisseur of higher pretensions than poorTate might have gazed with even greater rapture at that splendid canvas,for it was from the hand of Vandyke, and in his very best manner. Thepicture represented the person of Sir Everard Darcy, Lord Privy Seal toCharles I. It was a specimen of manly beauty and high blood such as thegreat Fleming loved to paint; and even yet the proud and lofty forehead,the deep-set brown eyes, the thin compressed lip, the long and somewhatprojecting chin, seemed to address themselves to the beholder withtraits of character more than mere painting is able to convey. Tateapproached the spot with an almost trembling veneration, and boweddeeply before the haughty figure. "There was a time, Sir Everard, whenyour word could make a duke or a marquis,--when your whisper in theking's ear could bring grief or joy to any heart in the empire. Couldyou do nothing for us now? They say you never were at a loss, no matterwhat came to pass--that you were always ready-witted to save your masterfrom trouble--and oh! if the power hasn't left you, stand by us now. Itis not because your eyes are so bright, and that quiet smile is on yourlips, that your heart does not feel, for I know well that the day youwere beheaded you had the same look on you as you have now. I think Isee you this minute, as you lifted your head off the block to settle thelace collar that the villain, the executioner, rumpled with his bloodyfingers,--I think I hear the words you spoke: 'Honest Martin, for allyour practice, you are but a clumsy valet.' Weil, well! 't is ahappier and a prouder day that same than to-morrow's dawn will bring toourselves. Yes, yes, my darlings," said Tate, with a benevolent smile,as he waved his hand towards a picture where two beautiful children wererepresented, sitting on the grass, and playing with flowers, "be happyand amuse yourselves, in God's name; 'tis the only time for happinessyour lives ever gave you. Ah! and here 's your father, with a smile onhis face and a cheerful brow, for he had both till the day misfortunerobbed him of his children;" and he stood in front of a portrait of anofficer in an admiral's uniform. He was a distinguished member ofthe Darcy family; but from the nature of his services, which were allmaritime, and the great number of years he had spent away from Ireland,possessed less of Tate's sympathy than most of the others.
"They say you didn't like Ireland; but I don't believe them. There neverwas a Darcy did n't love the ould island; but I know well whose faultit was if you did n't,--it was that dark villain that's standing at yourside, ould Harry Inchiquin, the renegade, that turned many a man againsthis country. Ye may frown and scowl at me; but if you were alive thisminute, I 'd say it to your face. It was you that first brought gamblingand dicing under this blessed roof; it was you that sent the ould acresto the hammer; 'twas you that loved rioting, and duelling, and everywickedness, just like old Bagenal Daly himself, that never could sleepin his bed if he had n't a fight on hand."
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"What ho! you old reprobate!" called out Daly, in a voice which, echoingunder the arched roof, seemed rather to float through the atmospherethan issue from any particular quarter.
"Oh! marciful Father!" cried Tate, as, falling on his knees, the lampdropped from his fingers, and became extinguished,--"oh! marcifulFather! sure I did n't mane it; 't is what the lying books said ofyou,--bad luck to the villains that wrote them! O God! pardon me; Inever thought you 'd hear me; and if it 's in trouble you are, I 'll saya mass for you every day till Aaster, and one every Friday as long as Ilive."
A hoarse burst of laughter broke from Daly, while, pacing the gallerywith heavy tread, he went forth, banging the door behind him. The terrorwas too great for poor Tate's endurance, and, with a faint cry formercy, he rolled down upon the floor almost insensible.
When morning broke, he was found seated in the refectory, pale andcareworn; but no entreaty, nor no pressing, could elicit from him oneword of a secret in which he believed were equally involved the honor ofthe dead and the safety of himself.
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