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

by Charles James Lever

  CHAPTER XVI. MR. REPTON LOOKS IN

  On the day after that some of whose events we have just recorded, andtowards nightfall, Mary Martin slowly drove along the darkly woodedavenue of Cro' Martin. An unusual sadness overweighed her. She was justreturning from the funeral of poor old Mat Landy, one of her oldestfavorites as a child. He it was who first taught her to hold an oar;and, seated beside him, she first learned to steer a "corragh" throughthe wild waves of the Atlantic. His honest, simple nature, his finemanly contentedness with a very humble lot, and a cheerful gayety ofheart that seemed never to desert him, were all traits likely to impresssuch a child as she had been and make his companionship a pleasure. Witha heavy heart was it, therefore, now that she thought over these things,muttering to herself as she went along snatches of the old songs he usedto sing, and repeating mournfully the little simple proverbs he wouldutter about the weather.

  The last scene itself had been singularly mournful. Two fishermen of thecoast alone accompanied the car which bore the coffin; death or sicknesswas in every house; few could be spared to minister to the dead, andeven of those, the pale shrunk features and tottering limbs bespoke howdearly the duty cost them. Old Mat had chosen for his last resting-placea little churchyard that crowned a cliff over the sea,--a wild, solitaryspot,--an old gable, a ruined wall, a few low gravestones, and no more.The cliff itself, rising abruptly from the sea to some four hundredfeet, was perforated with the nests of sea-fowl, whose melancholy cries,as they circled overhead, seemed to ring out a last requiem. There itwas they now laid him. Many a time from that bleak summit had he lighteda beacon fire to ships in distress.

  Often and often, from that same spot, had he gazed out over the sea,to catch signs of those who needed succor, and now that bold heart wasstill and that strong arm stiffened, and the rough, deep voice that usedto sound above the tempest, silent forever.

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  "Never mind, Patsey," said Mary, to one of the fishermen, who wasendeavoring with some stray fragments of a wreck to raise a littlemonument over the spot, "I'll look to that hereafter." And so saying,she turned mournfully away to descend the cliff. A stranger, wrapped ina large boat-cloak, had been standing for some time near the place; andas Mary left it, he drew nigh and asked who she was.

  "Who would she be?" said the fisherman, gruffly, and evidently in nohumor to converse.

  "A wife, or a daughter, perhaps?" asked the other again.

  "Neither one nor the other," replied the fisherman.

  "It is Miss Mary, sir,--Miss Martin,--God bless her!" broke in theother; "one that never deserts the poor, living or dead. Musha! butshe's what keeps despair out of many a heart!"

  "And has she come all this way alone?" asked he.

  "What other way could she come, I wonder?" said the man he had firstaddressed. "Did n't they leave her there by herself, just as if she wasn't belonging to them? They were kinder to old Henderson's daughter thanto their own flesh and blood."

  "Hush, Jerry, hush!--she 'll hear you," cried the other. And salutingthe stranger respectfully, he began to follow down the cliff.

  "Are there strangers stopping at the inn?" asked Mary, as she saw lightsgleaming from some of the windows as she passed.

  "Yes, miss, there's him that was up there at the churchyard--ye didn'tremark him, maybe--and one or two more."

  "I did not notice him," said Mary; and, wishing the men good-night, setout homeward. So frequent were the halts she made at different cabins asshe drove along, so many times was she stopped to give a word of adviceor counsel, that it was already duskish as she reached Cro' Martin,and found herself once more near home. "You're late with the post thisevening, Billy," said she, overtaking the little fellow who carried themail from Oughterard.

  "Yes, miss, there was great work sortin' the letters that came in thismorning, for I believe there's going to be another election; at least Iheard Hosey Lynch say it was all about that made the bag so full."

  "I 'm sorry for it, Billy," said she. "We have enough to think of,ay, and troubles enough, too, not to need the strife and bitterness ofanother contest amongst us."

  "Thrue for ye, miss, indeed," rejoined Billy. '"Tis wishing them farenough I am, them same elections; the bag does be a stone heavier everyday till it's over."

  "Indeed!" said Mary, half smiling at the remark.

  "Thrue as I 'm here, miss. I would n't wonder if it was the goold forbribin' the chaps makes it weigh so much."

  "And is there any other news stirring in the town, Billy?"

  "Next to none, miss. They were talkin' of putting up ould Nelligan's sonfor the mimber; and more says the Magennis of Barnagheela will stand."

  "A most excellent choice that would be, certainly," said Mary, laughing.

  "Faix! I heerd of another that wasn't much better, miss."

  "And who could that be?" asked Mary, in astonishment.

  "But sure you'd know better than me, if it was thrue, more by token itwould be the master's own orders."

  "I don't understand you, Billy."

  "I mean, miss, that it's only his Honer, Mr. Martin, could have thepower to make Maurice Scanlan a Parlimint man."

  "And has any one hinted at such a possibility?" said she, inastonishment.

  "Indeed, then, it was the talk of the market this mornin', and many aone said he's the very fellow would get in."

  "Is he such a general favorite in Oughterard?"

  "I'm not sure it's that, miss," said Billy, thoughtfully.

  "Maybe some likes him, and more is afraid of him; but he himself knowseverybody and everybody's business. He can raise the rent upon this man,take it off that; 'tis his word can make a barony-constable or one ofthe watch. They say he has the taxes, too, in his power, and can cessyou just as he likes. Be my conscience, he 's all as one as the PrimeMinister."

  Just as Billy had delivered this sage reflection they had reached thehall door, where, having consigned the letter-bag to the hands of aservant, he turned his steps to the kitchen, to take an "air of thefire" before he set out homeward. Mary Martin had not advanced manysteps within the hall when both her hands were cordially grasped, and akind voice, which she at once recognized as Mr. Repton's, said, "HereI am, my dear Miss Martin; arrived in time, too, to welcome you homeagain. You paid me a visit yesterday--"

  "Yes," broke she in; "but you were shaking your ambrosial curls at thetime, browbeating the bench, or cajoling the jury, or something of thatsort."

  "That I was; but I must own with scant success. You 've heard how thatyoung David of Oughterard slew the old Goliath of Dublin? Well, shallI confess it? I'm glad of it. I feel proud to think that the crop ofclever fellows in Ireland is flourishing, and that when I, and a dozenlike me, pass away, our places will be filled by others that will keepthe repute of our great profession high in the public estimation."

  "This is worthy of you, sir," cried Mary, pressing the arm ahe leaned onmore closely.

  "And now, my dear Miss Mary," said he, as they entered thedrawing-room,--"now that I have light to look at you, let me makemy compliments on your appearance. Handsomer than ever, I positivelydeclare. They told me in the town that you half killed yourself withfatigue; that you frequently were days long on horseback, and nightswatching by sick-beds; but if this be the result, benevolence is indeedits own reward."

  "Ah, my dear Mr. Repton, I see you do not keep all your flatteries forthe jury-box."

  "My moments are too limited here to allow me time for an untruth. Imust be off; to-night I have a special retainer for a great record atRoscommon, and at this very instant I should be poring over deedsand parchments, instead of gazing at 'orbs divinely blue;' not but, Ibelieve, now that I look closer, yours are hazel."

  "Let me order dinner, then, at once," said she, approaching the bell.

  "I have done that already, my dear," said he, gayly; "and what is more,I have dictated the bill of fare. I guessed what a young lady's simplemeal might be, and I have been down to the cook, and you shall see theresult."

&
nbsp; "Then it only remains for me to think of the cellar. What shall it be,sir? The Burgundy that you praised so highly last winter, or the Portthat my uncle preferred to it?"

  "I declare that I half suspect your uncle was right. Let us move for anew trial, and try both over again," said he, laughing, as she left theroom.

  "Just to think of such a girl in such a spot," cried he to himself, ashe walked alone, up and down the room; "beauty, grace, fascination,--allthat can charm and attract; and then, such a nature, childlike ingayety, and chivalrous,--ay, chivalrous as a chevalier!"

  "I see, sir, you are rehearsing for Roscommon," said Mary, who enteredthe room while he was yet declaiming alone; "but I must interrupt you,for the soup is waiting."

  "I obey the summons," said he tendering his arm. And they both enteredthe dinner-room.

  So long as the meal lasted, Repton's conversation was entirely devotedto such topics as he might have discussed at a formal dinner-party. Hetalked of the world of society, its deaths, births, and marriages; itschanges of place and amusement. He narrated the latest smart things thatwere going the round of the clubs, and hinted at the political eventsthat were passing. But the servants gone, and the chairs drawn closerto the blazing hearth, his tone changed at once, and in a voice oftremulous kindness he said,--"I can't bear to think of the solitude ofthis life of yours!--nay, hear me out. I say this, not for _you_, sincein the high devotion of a noble purpose you are above all its penalties;but I cannot endure to think that _we_ should permit it."

  "First of all," said Mary, rapidly, "what you deem solitude is scarcelysuch; each day is so filled with its duties, that when I come back hereof an evening, it often happens that my greatest enjoyment is the verysense of isolation that awaits me. Do you know," added she, "thatvery often the letter-bag lies unopened by me till morning? And as tonewspapers, there they lie in heaps, their covers unbroken to this hour.Such is actually the case to-day. I haven't read my letters yet."

  "I read mine in my bed," cried Repton. "I have them brought to me bycandlelight in winter, and I reflect over all the answers while I amdressing. Some of the sharpest things I have ever said have occurred tome while I was shaving; not," added he, hastily, "but one's reallybest things are always impromptu. Just as I said t' other day to theViceroy,--a somewhat felicitous one. He was wishing that some historianwould choose for his subject the lives of Irish Lord-Lieutenants;not, he remarked, in a mere spirit of party, or with the levity ofpartisanship, but in a spirit becoming the dignity of history,--suchas Hume himself might have done. 'Yes, my Lord,' I replied, 'yourobservation is most just; it should be a continuation of Rapine.' Eh! itwas a home-thrust, wasn't it?--'a continuation of Rapine.'" And the oldman laughed till his eyes ran over.

  "Do these great folk ever thoroughly forgive such things?" asked Mary.

  "My dear child, their self-esteem is so powerful they never feel them;and even when they do, the chances are that they store them up in theirmemories, to retail afterwards as their own. I have detected my ownstolen property more than once; but always so damaged by wear, anddisfigured by ill-usage, that I never thought of reclaiming it."

  "The affluent need never fret for a little robbery," said Mary, smiling.

  "Ay, but they may like to be the dispensers of their own riches,"rejoined Repton, who never was happier than when able to carry outanother's illustration.

  "Is Lord Reckington agreeable?" asked Mary, trying to lead him on to anyother theme than that of herself.

  "He is eminently so. Like all men of his class, he makes more of a smallstock in trade than we with our heads full can ever pretend to. Such mentalk well, for they think fluently. Their tact teaches them the populartone on every subject, and they have the good sense never to rise aboveit."

  "And Massingbred, the secretary, what of him?"

  "A very well-bred gentleman, strongly cased in the triple armor ofofficial dulness. Such men converse as stupid whist-players playcards; they are always asking to 'let them see the last trick;' and theconsequence is they are ever half an hour behind the rest of the world.Ay, Miss Mary, and this is an age where one must never be half a secondin arrear. This is really delicious Port; and now that the Burgundy isfinished, I think I prefer it. Tell Martin I said so when you write tohim. I hope the cellar is well stocked with it."

  "It was so when my uncle went away, but I fear I have made great inroadsupon it. It was my chief remedy with the poor."

  "With the poor! such wine as this,--the richest grape that ever purpledover the Douro! Do you tell me that you gave this to these--Heavenforgive me, what am I saying? Of course you gave it; you gave themwhat was fifty times more precious,--the kind ministerings of your ownangelic nature, the soft words and soft looks and smiles that a princemight have knelt for. I 'm not worthy to drink another glass of it,"added he, as he pushed the decanter from him towards the centre of thetable.

  "But you shall, though," said Mary, filling his glass, "and it shall bea bumper to my health."

  "A toast I'd stake my life for," said he, reverently, as he lifted herhand to his lips and kissed it with all the deference of a courtier."And now," added he, refilling his glass, "I drink this to the worthyfellow whose portrait is before me; and may he soon come back again."He arose as he spoke, and giving his hand to Mary, led her into thedrawing-room. "Ay, my dear Miss Mary," said he, following up the themein his own thoughts, "it is here your uncle ought to be. When the armyis in rout and dismay, the general's presence is the talisman thatrestores discipline. Everything around us at this moment is full ofthreatening danger. The catalogue of the assizes is a dark record; Inever saw its equal, no more have I ever witnessed anything to comparewith the dogged indifference of the men arraigned. The Irishman is halfa fatalist by nature; it will be an evil hour that makes him whollyone!"

  "But still," said Mary, "you 'd scarcely counsel his return here at thistime. The changes that have taken place would fret him deeply, not tospeak of even worse!"

  She delivered the last few words in a voice broken and trembling; andRepton, turning quickly towards her, said,--"I know what you point at:the irritated feeling of the people, and that insolent menace they daredto affix to his own door."

  "You heard of that, then?" cried she, eagerly.

  "To be sure, I heard of it; and I heard how your own hands tore it down,and riding with it into the midst of them at Kiltimmon market, you said,'I 'll give five hundred pounds to him who shows me who did this, and I'll forfeit five hundred more if I do not horsewhip the coward from thecounty.'"

  Mary hid her face within her hands; but closely as she pressed themthere, the warm tears would force their way through, and fall, droppingon her bosom.

  "You are a noble girl," cried he, in ecstasy; "and in all yourgreat trials there is nothing finer than this, that the work of yourbenevolence has never been stayed by the sense of ill-requital, and youhave never involved the character of a people in the foul crime of amiscreant."

  "How could I so wrong them, sir?" broke she out. "Who better than myselfcan speak of their glorious courage, their patient resignation, theirnoble self-devotion? Has not the man, sinking under fever, crawledfrom his bed to lead me to the house of another deeper in misery thanhimself? Have I not seen the very poorest sharing the little almsbestowed upon their wretchedness? Have I not heard the most touchingwords of gratitude from lips growing cold in death? You may easilyshow me lands of greater comfort, where the blessings of wealth andcivilization are more widely spread; but I defy you to point to anywhere the trials of a whole people have been so great and so splendidlysustained."

  "I'll not ask the privilege of reply," said Repton; "perhaps I 'd ratherbe convinced by you than attempt to gainsay one word of your argument."

  "At your peril, sir," said she, menacing him with her finger, while abright smile lit up her features.

  "The chaise is at the door, sir," said a servant, entering andaddressing Repton.

  "Already!" exclaimed he. "Why, my dear Miss Mary, it can't surely beeight o'clock
. No; but," added he, looking at his watch, "it only wantsa quarter of ten, and I have not said one half of what I had to say, norheard a fourth of what you had to tell me."

  "Let the postboy put up his horses, William," said Miss Martin, "andbring tea."

  "A most excellent suggestion," chimed in Repton. "Do you know, my dear,that we old bachelors never thoroughly appreciate all that we havemissed in domesticity till we approach a tea-table. We surroundourselves with fifty mockeries of home-life; we can manage soft carpets,warm curtains, snug dinners, but somehow our cup of tea is a rudeimitation that only depicts the inaccuracy of the copy. Without thepriestess the tea-urn sings forth no incantation."

  "How came it that Mr. Repton remained a Benedict?" asked she, gayly.

  "By the old accident, that he would n't take what he might have, andcould n't get what he wished. Add to that," continued he, after a pause,"when a man comes to a certain time of life without marrying, the worldhas given to him a certain place, assigned to him, as it were, a certainpart which would be utterly marred by a wife. The familiarity of one'sfemale acquaintance--the pleasantest spot in old bachelorhood--could n'tstand such an ordeal; and the hundred-and-one eccentricities pardonableand pardoned in the single man would be condemned in the married one.You shake your head. Well, now, I 'll put it to the test. Would you, orcould you, make me your confidant so unreservedly if there were such aperson as Mrs. Repton in the world? Not a bit of it, my dear child. Weold bachelors are the lay priests of society, and many come to us withconfessions they 'd scruple about making to the regular authorities."

  "Perhaps you are right," said she, thoughtfully; "at all events, _I_should have no objection to you as my confessor."

  "I may have to claim that promise one of these day yet," said he,significantly. "Eh, here comes William again. Well, the postboy won'twait, or something has gone wrong. Eh, William, what is it?"

  "The boy's afraid, sir, if you don't go soon, that there will be nopassing the river at Barnagheela,--the flood is rising every minute."

  "And already the water is too deep," cried Mary. "Give the lad hissupper, William. Let him make up his cattle, and say that Mr. Reptonremains here for the night."

  "And Mr. Repton obeys," said he, bowing; "though what is to become of'Kelly _versus_ Lenaham and another,' is more than I can say."

  "They 'll have so many great guns, sir," said Mary, laughing; "won'tthey be able to spare a twenty-four pounder?"

  "But I ought, at least, to appear in the battery, my dear. They 'll saythat I stayed away on account of that young fellow Nelligan; he has abrief in that cause, and I know he 'd like another tussle with me. Bythe way, Miss Mary, that reminds me that I promised him to make his--no,not his excuses, he was too manly for that; but his--his explanationsto you about yesterday's business. He was sorely grieved at the partassigned him; he spoke feelingly of all the attentions he once met atyour uncle's hands, but far more so of certain kindnesses shown tohis mother by yourself; and surmising that you might be unaware of theexacting nature of our bar etiquette, that leaves no man at libertyto decline a cause, he tortured himself inventing means to set himselfright with you."

  "But I know your etiquette, sir, and I respect it; and Mr. Nelligannever stood higher in my estimation than by his conduct of yesterday.You can tell him, therefore, that you saw there was no necessity totouch on the topic; it will leave less unpleasantness if we should meetagain."

  "What a diplomatist it is!" said Repton, smiling affectionately at her."How successful must all this tact be when engaged with the people! Nay,no denial; you know in your heart what subtle devices it supplies youwith."

  "And yet, I 'm not so certain that what you call my diplomacy may nothave involved me in some trouble,--at least, there is the chance of it."

  "As how, my dear child?"

  "You shall hear, sir. You know the story of that poor girl atBarnagheela, whom they call Mrs. Magennis? Well, her old grandfather--asnoble a heart as ever beat--had never ceased to pine after her fall. Shehad been the very light of his life, and he loved her on, throughher sorrow, if not her shame, till, as death drew nigh him, unable torestrain his craving desire, he asked me to go and fetch her, to giveher his last kiss and receive his last blessing. It was a task I hadfain have declined, were such an escape open to me, but I could not. Ina word, I went and did his bidding. She stayed with him till he breathedhis last breath, and then--in virtue of some pledge I hear that shemade him--she fled, no one knows whither. All trace of her is lost; andthough I have sent messengers on every side, none have yet discoveredher."

  "Suicide is not the vice of our people," said Repton, gravely.

  "I know that well, and the knowledge makes me hopeful. But whatsufferings are yet before her, what fearful trials has she to meet!"

  "By Jove!" cried Repton, rising and pacing the room, "you have courage,young lady, that would do honor to a man. You brave the greatest perilswith a stout-heartedness that the best of us could scarcely summon."

  "But, in this case, the peril is not mine, sir."

  "I am not so sure of that, Miss Mary," said Repton, doubtingly,--"I'm not so sure of that." And, with crossed arms and bent-down head, hepaced the room slowly back and forwards. "Ay," muttered he to himself,"Thursday night--Friday, at all events--will close the record. I canspeak to evidence on the morning, and be back here again some time inthe night. Of course it is a duty,--it is more than a duty." Then headded, aloud, "There 's the moon breaking out, and a fine breezy sky. I'll take the road, Miss Mary, and, with your good leave, I 'll drink teawith you on Friday evening. Nay, my dear, the rule is made absolute."

  "I agree," said she, "if it secures me a longer visit on your return."

  A few moments afterwards saw Repton seated in the corner of his chaise,and hurrying onward at speed. His eyes soon closed in slumber, and ashe sank off to rest, his lips murmured gently, "My Lord, in rising toaddress the Court, under circumstances of no ordinary difficulty, and ina case where vast interest, considerable influence, and, I may add--mayadd--" The words died away, and he was asleep.