“You are rather silent today, Mr. Smith,” Maureen ventured.
“I am thoughtful. You are right.”
“Is there anything you wish to tell me?”
Was there? The report he had received was ambiguous. A young woman, thought to be named Nuala, and similar in description, had been found dead of a fever in a parish in County Cork, not far from the Wexford border. But should he tell her? The thing was so inconclusive. Would it help her to know, or distress her unduly? He had been trying to make up his mind all the way out. He stared at a willow tree.
“It is possible that Nuala may have died,” he said at last. “But I cannot be sure.”
“Oh.” She seemed a little stunned. “I see.” How pale she looked. How bitterly disappointed. He shouldn’t have told her. “I must thank you for all the trouble you have gone to for me,” she said with quiet dignity. “Is there any further information you can give me?”
He told her all he knew.
After they had walked on in silence for a little way, she began to weep, and so, not knowing what to do, he put his arm around her.
“I am so sorry,” she said, “so sorry.”
Yet two days later, when he called again before returning to Wexford, she surprised him with her powers of recovery. Not only was she self-possessed, but he saw that she had been reading the newspaper, and upon making some enquiries as to her views on the political situation, found her to be surprisingly well-informed. Not only that, but she made some shrewd and quite cynical observations upon political events, which interested him, truth to tell, far more than her cake or even her singing had ever done. Her face, he reflected, might be somewhat plain, but it had an intelligence that was quite pleasing.
He did not see her for another month. But in May he returned, and this time, he had news.
“We have found your brother William,” he reported. There is no doubt about the matter. He is living in Boston. It seems that he had attempted to make contact with you, but had failed to find you and supposed you must be either dead or have moved away. I have his address, and also that of your uncle. Their circumstances are not especially prosperous, but they are employed and in good health.” He smiled. “You are not alone in the world, then.”
She thanked him deeply, and that evening, he joined the whole family to eat, and rejoice at this happy turn of events.
For Samuel Tidy, the month of June was very difficult. For it was then that the Quaker community, having won the admiration of all parties for its dedication to the welfare of Famine-stricken Ireland, finally announced that it had had enough. The Quaker relief work was ending. Was it the right thing to do? Samuel himself wasn’t sure.
“One thing is quite certain,” he told his family. “Neither the Quakers nor anyone else have the resources to feed the starving and help the sick. Only the government can do it. The problem is too huge for anything else.” And there was another factor to consider. “So long as the government can persuade itself that the problems are being solved by others, I fear it will continue to do nothing. The Quakers cannot continue forever as an excuse for government neglect.” While the argument was perfectly sound, he felt uncomfortable with it, and for several days his family found him to be quite short with them.
At the end of the month, his wife gave him a further piece of news.
“Maureen wants to go to America. She wants to be with her brother.”
“Will anything change her mind, do you think?”
“Who knows? You can hardly blame her. He’s the only family she has. And there is no other reason for her to stay.”
“Has she written to her brother?”
“She means to go and seek him out instead.”
“When will she go?”
“When she has the money. She has saved every penny we have given her. She hasn’t enough yet, but soon . . .”
“Perhaps the fact she is going will cause Stephen . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.
“Perhaps.”
He saw Stephen two weeks later, in Dublin, and informed him of this development.
“We shall miss her when she does go, I must say,” Tidy said.
Stephen looked thoughtful.
“Yes,” he replied. “Yes. I shall miss her, too.”
“You’ll wish to see her, no doubt, before she leaves.”
“Oh, I will.” Stephen frowned. “Certainly.”
A week passed.
Then news came of a very different kind.
When Queen Victoria of England had come to the throne a dozen years ago, she had only been a girl of just eighteen. She was a young woman of thirty now, married to her German cousin, Prince Albert, and with a young family.
They were a charming young couple. Some, it was true, found Albert rather serious. He drank little, disliked bad language, and had a passionate belief in man’s capacity to improve himself and the world. But he and his wife seemed to be utterly devoted to each other, and anxious to do right in every way. Nobody doubted their good intentions. All in all, therefore, they were well liked.
So it had seemed a good idea to the British cabinet, in the summer of 1849, that the royal couple should make a visit to Ireland.
“It will spread good feeling. Improve relations,” they judged. “It will show that this wretched Famine is—to all intents and purposes—over.”
Based upon this remarkable assertion, the visit was to take place in August.
Stephen had given the matter a great deal of thought. He was quite surprised himself by how much the thought of Maureen’s leaving affected him. He supposed, because she was the one person he had been able to save from those terrible days in Ennis, when his own life, too, was in such a state of flux, that she had come to mean more in his imagination, and his heart, than she should. At a time when the continuing crisis in Ireland and the large volume of business he was transacting for the earl were keeping him as busy as he had ever been in his political life, her presence with the Tidy family had come to seem like a fact, a constant in his life. He wished she were not going. And he felt an urge to do something for her.
On a sunny morning in early July, therefore, he presented himself at the Tidy house and asked if he might have a private conference with her. She sat in the parlour.
“I could not let you contemplate leaving for America, Miss Madden,” his words, for some reason, sounded oddly stiff, “without some token of my respect and warm feeling towards you.” She was looking at him with an expression of uncertainty. “Indeed, I feel,” he continued, “after all we have seen together, and the time in Dublin which has followed, that we have become true friends. I hope I may say so.”
“I feel so, too, Mr. Smith,” she said quietly.
“And so I hope that you will accept this from me, as a dear friend, who wishes you well and who will ever keep you in his thoughts.” And he handed her an envelope. “You will find in there all that you will require for your voyage to America. For a cabin on a good ship. And something else besides, to ensure you have lodgings there. I beg you to accept this from one who would wish, most truly, to be your friend.” He smiled. “Even a brother.”
She was pale as a ghost. He supposed it was to be expected. She bowed her head.
“You have always been my benefactor,” she said softly.
“It is my honour, Miss Madden, to be of assistance.”
Still she could not look up.
“You saved my life, Mr. Smith. I shall remember it as long as I live. Forgive me if I express my feelings as they should properly be expressed, when I have collected myself.” She rose.
“Of course.”
She left the room.
He spoke to Mrs. Tidy before he left.
“She was moved, I think,” he said.
“You gave her the fare to America? So that she could leave?”
“I did.” He felt a glow of emotion at what he’d done, for it was no small sum of money, and he had given up a couple of months of his salary to do it.
&n
bsp; Mrs. Tidy sighed. But she said nothing.
It was a splendid August day when the royal yacht came in sight. It was not a large vessel, but decidedly handsome, sides painted black and gold, with a tall funnel, and the royal ensign gallantly flying from its masthead in the breeze. Everyone was excited as they saw it appear round the southern point of Dublin Bay.
Queen Victoria and her Consort might well have felt pleasure as they enjoyed that sunlit day. Wisely, their government had not thought it right that they should see the western part of the island, where, it had to be said, their subjects were not yet quite in a fit state to receive them as, doubtless, they would have wished. They had begun their visit in Cork, therefore, where the merchant community had made sure they received a splendid welcome. “Such kind, such loyal people,” the young queen had innocently remarked. Today, they would visit Dublin, and thence to Belfast.
And what a charming prospect the royal couple must have enjoyed as they approached. Having come up from the south, past the lovely, volcanic mountains that graced the Wicklow coastline, and steamed past the high southern point, and Dalkey Island, the whole expanse of the bay would have suddenly opened up before them. By the shore, starting a few miles down the coast at Bray, they would have noticed another, man-made feature. For every few miles along this part of the coast there was now a small, grey-stone, round tower with gunrests and parapet, standing plump and stately by the shore. Martello towers, they were called, and they had been built there as a defence against invasion by Napoleon the generation before. They continued round the bay, past Howth, up to Malahide, and beyond. There was one at Dalkey, and another, only half a mile farther, at a charming little sandy cove beyond.
The harbour towards which the royal yacht was heading was not the great port of Dublin in the centre of the bay, but a smaller and altogether more elegant place, half mail boat terminal, half resort, that lay just a short way farther into the bay from Dalkey. Dun Laoghaire, this hamlet had once been called—but even though the English had learned that this barbarous-looking Irish name was simply pronounced Dunleery, they had decided to simplify matters and rename it Kingstown.
Apart from the mail packet, there had not been much activity there until the building of a jolly little steam train line out to Dalkey, fifteen years ago, had made the place easily accessible. And now, as well as the broad quay, a big church, and some gentlemen’s villas, and pleasant stucco terraces overlooking the sea were starting to give the place a new air of gentility.
Along the quay today, a long temporary pavilion, with a blue and white striped canvas top, stretched out in gracious welcome. Above it, and on every available flagpole, St. George’s flags flapped their bright red crosses in the sky. There was a red-coated guard of honour all smartly drawn up, and a brass band playing a patriotic melody to the awaiting crowds.
Just behind the official reception committee stood a company of aristocrats and gentlemen. And amongst these were Lord and Lady Mountwalsh, who, with typical generosity, had told Stephen to accompany them so that he should get a good view of the proceedings.
The Mountwalshes were greatly surprised, therefore, just as the royal yacht had rounded the point, to see the respectable but flustered figure of Samuel Tidy pushing his way through the crowd towards them.
“Stephen. Stephen Smith,” he called. “You must come at once.”
As Tidy drove his pony and trap briskly along, he explained. He had written to Stephen at Mount Walsh, but the letter had missed Stephen, since he had left for Kildare, where he had been a week before getting to Dublin two days before.
“If you hadn’t sent me a note yesterday to say you were in Dublin, and coming down here with Lord Mountwalsh, I shouldn’t have known how to find you,” the Quaker explained. “I hope Lord Mountwalsh will forgive my intrusion.”
The two Mountwalshes had behaved with typical grace. “Oh, Stephen, you’ll miss the queen,” Lady Mountwalsh had cried, and given him a pitying look. “If he has to go, he has to go,” said William. “But you’d better go quickly, Stephen, because you can’t walk out on a monarch, you know. It’s not allowed.”
So now they rattled along from Kingstown up to Ballsbridge, over the Grand Canal and up to the Liffey, towards the docks where the steamer to Liverpool was due to leave.
There were several ways to reach America, but the most favoured was to cross to England, and there take the ship to New York or Boston. “I secured Maureen an excellent berth,” Tidy explained, “on a first-rate ship from Liverpool. She’ll travel in comfort, insofar as anyone can. And she has money left over when she arrives.” The fact that he and his wife had augmented her savings still further was not something he needed to say. “But I knew you would not wish to let her depart without a word of farewell.”
“No. Of course,” said Stephen.
It was not until they were at the Liffey that Samuel Tidy said what was really in his mind. It came out quite suddenly.
“I must speak plainly with thee, Stephen Smith,” he said, as they passed Trinity College. “This day decides whether you are a wise man or a great fool.”
“How so?”
“Have you not understood that Maureen Madden loves you?”
“Loves me? She likes me, I think. She is grateful, I know.”
“You do not realise, then, that you are loved? You have not seen what should be obvious to any man with half an eye, that for the last year at least, and perhaps much longer, she has suffered all the pain of a passion unrequited?”
“No. What makes you suppose this is so?”
“It has been plain enough to myself and Mrs. Tidy since the spring of last year. And two weeks ago, to my wife, upon some gentle questioning, she confessed the same. So there is the matter. I put it plainly before you. Have you any tender feelings towards her?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“Would you consider making her your wife?”
“My wife?”
“You have a good position now. You are not ambitious for fortune. You have known what it is to suffer and to be grateful for life. Why have you never considered her? We cannot understand it. For there is no better thing in all the world—I speak from experience— than to have at one’s side a woman who is loving and tender.”
“This comes a little suddenly, Tidy. She has never said anything.”
“Of course she has not. How could she? And you have done nothing yourself to encourage her. Quite the reverse. So I ask you plainly—is it really your wish that the woman who secretly loves you should now sail to America and never see you again?”
“I should have to consider the matter.”
“The ship sails in less than an hour,” said Tidy bluntly, and then said no more. He did not often speak so much, and he never meddled in the affairs of others; but his conscience had told him that he should take matters into his own hands, even at this late date, and he was glad that he had.
They had already crossed the Liffey. They were bowling towards the place where the cross-channel steamers left for Liverpool.
As they drew near, it was a dreary picture that met their eyes. There was the usual mess of barrels and crates, bustling porters and carters, loitering passengers and sailors on the quay where the ships were tied up. But there was also another, sadder, sight.
For the traffic in humans between Ireland and England was not a simple one. The majority of those at the dock were those who were leaving. The more fortunate would take ship to America, either in the relative comfort purchased to Maureen Madden, or in miserable steerage accommodation which might, or might not, prove healthy and safe enough during the long voyage. The less fortunate, not having the wherewithal to go to America, would sail no farther than Liverpool, and drift into the poorer parts of that huge port or one of the other industrial cities of England, where they might hope to find manual labour.
But there was another class nowadays, and it was a large one. For the Famine had produced a great army of the starving and the sick. And these wretched fo
lk, having managed to make the crossing to Liverpool, had not remained there. For when the English authorities had looked at them and seen what they were—men and women too weak to work, and carrying disease—they had told the ship-masters: “Take them back. We cannot admit them here.” And so back they would come, to their native land, and stand on the dock, helplessly, having neither place to rest, nor chance of escape. It happened every day.
There were about two hundred of these folk at the dockside now.
Ignoring them, Tidy pulled up near the steamer but behind a pile of crates, so that they should not be seen. He glanced at Stephen.
Stephen sat where he was. He did not speak. He did not move. He sat there for several minutes.
Then he started to move. Tidy looked at him.
“What will you do?”
“I shall fetch her.”
Tidy put out his hand and took Stephen by the arm.
“You are sure? For her sake, you cannot change your mind. She has suffered enough.”
“I am sure.” Stephen smiled. “Truly, I am sure.”
“I shall come with thee,” said the Quaker.
So they went up the gangplank onto the little steamer, and on the deck they found Maureen, who had been looking out across the Liffey and had not seen them coming. And having not much time, Stephen went up to her and, after a few words expressing the tenderness of his feelings for her and the realization that he could not allow her to depart forever without acquainting her of those feelings, asked her gently if she would be his wife. And she stared at him, almost blankly at first, not knowing whether she had comprehended. So he said it again. And still she stared, very pale, almost numb. And Tidy smiled and said: “It’s all right.” But still she said nothing.
What could she say? For a time, in the comfortable Tidy house, she had felt a sense of healing and of warmth. She had felt ready to live again, and she had even dared to hope. But that had been weeks ago. Since then, something had quietly died within her again.