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

  CHAPTER XIII. A NIGHT OF STORM

  The curtains were closely drawn, and a cheerful turf fire blazed inthe room where Mr. Merl sat at dinner. The fare was excellent, and evenrustic cookery sufficed to make fresh salmon and mountain mutton andfat woodcocks delectable; while the remains of Mr. Scanlan's hamper setforth some choice Madeira and several bottles of Sneyd's claret. Nor washe for whose entertainment these good things were provided in any wayincapable of enjoying them. With the peculiar sensuality of his race,he loved his dinner all to himself and alone. He delighted in theprivileged selfishness that isolation conferred, and he revelled in asort of complacent flattery at the thought of all the people who weredining worse than himself, and the stray thousands besides who were notdestined on that day to dine at all.

  The self-caressing shudder that came over him as the sound of a horse atspeed on the shore outside was heard, spoke plainly as words themselvesthe pleasant comparison that crossed his mind between the condition ofthe rider and his own. He drew nearer the fire, he threw on a fresh logof pine, and, filling up a bumper, seemed to linger as he viewed it, asthough wishing health and innumerable blessings to Mr. Herman Merl.

  The noise of the clattering hoofs died away in distance and in thegreater uproar of the storm, and Mr. Merl thought no more of them. Howoften happens it, dear reader, that some brief interruption flashesthrough our seasons of enjoyment; we are startled, perhaps; we evenneed a word or two to reassure us that all is well, and then the work ofpleasure goes on, and we forget that it had ever been retarded; andyet, depend upon it, in that fleeting second of time some sad episode ofhuman life has, like a spectre, crossed our path, and some deep sorrowgone wearily past us.

  Let us follow that rider, then, who now, quitting the bleak shore,has entered a deep gorge between the mountain. The rain swept along intorrents; the wind in fitful gusts dashes the mountain stream in many awayward shape, and snaps the stems of old trees in pieces; landslips andbroken rocks impede the way; and yet that brave horse holds ever onward,now stretching to a fast gallop, now gathering himself to clear somefoaming torrent, or some fragment of fallen timber.

  The night is so dark that the rider cannot see the horse's length inadvance; but every feature of the way is well known, and an instinctivesense of the peril to be apprehended at each particular spot guides thathand and nerves that heart. Mary Martin--for she it is--had ridden thatsame path at all seasons and all hours, but never on a wilder night,nor through a more terrible hurricane than this. At moments her speedrelaxed, as if to breathe her horse; and twice she pulled up short, tolisten and distinguish between the sound of thunder and the crashingnoise of rocks rolling from the mountain. There was a sublimity in thescene, lit up at moments by the lightning; and a sense of peril, too,that exalted the adventurous spirit of the girl, and imparted to herheart a high heroic feeling. The glorious sentiment of confrontingdanger animated and excited her; and her courage rose with each newdifficulty of the way, till her very brain seemed to reel with the wildtransport of her emotions.

  As she emerged from the gorge, she gained a high tableland, over whichthe wind swept unimpeded. Not a cliff, not a rock, not a tree, broke theforce of the gale, which raged with all the violence of a storm at sea.Crouching low upon the saddle, stooping at times to the mane, she couldbarely make way against the hurricane; and more than once her noblecharger was driven backward, and forced to turn his back to the storm._Her_ courage never failed. Taking advantage of every passing lull, shedashed forward, ready to wheel and halt when the wind shot past withviolence.

  Descending at last from this elevated plateau, she again entered a deepcleft between the mountain, the road littered with fallen earth andbranches of trees, so as almost to defy a passage. After traversingupwards of a mile of this wearisome way, she arrived at the door of asmall cabin, the first trace of habitation since she had quitted thevillage. It was a mere hovel, abutting against a rock, and in its drearysolitude seemed the last refuge of direst poverty.

  She bent down from her saddle to look in at the window; but, except somefaint embers on the hearth, all was dark within. She then knocked withher whip against the door, and called "Morris" two or three times; butno reply was given. Springing from her horse, Mary fastened the bridleto the hasp of the door-post, and entered. The heavy breathing of onein deep sleep at once caught her attention > and, approaching thefireplace, she lighted a piece of pine-wood to examine about her. On alow settle in one corner lay the figure of a young woman, whose pale,pinched features contrasted strongly with the bright ribbons of her capfloating loosely at either side. Mary tottered as she drew nigher; aterrible sense of fear was over her,--a terror of she knew not what.She held the flickering flame closer, and saw that she was dead! PoorMargaret, she had been one of Mary's chief favorites; the very cap thatnow decked her cold forehead was Mary's wedding-gift to her. But a fewdays before, her little child had been carried to the churchyard; andit was said that the mother never held up her head after. Sick almostto fainting, Mary Martin sank into a chair, and then saw, for the firsttime, the figure of a man, who, half kneeling, lay with his head on thefoot of the bed, fast asleep! Weariness, utter exhaustion, weremarked in his pale-worn features, while his attitude bespoke completeprostration. His hand still clasped a little rosary.

  156]

  It seemed but the other day that she had wished them "joy" upon theirwedding, and they had gone home to their little cabin in hopefulnessand high-hearted spirit, and there she lay now a cold corpse, and he,bereaved and childless. What a deal of sad philosophy do these wordsreveal! What dark contrasts do we bring up when we say, "It was but theother day." It was but "the other day," and Cro' Martin was the homeof one whose thriving tenantry reflected back all his efforts for theirwelfare, when movement and occupation bespoke a condition of activityand cheerful industry; when, even in their poverty, the people borebravely up, and the cases of suffering but sufficed to call out traitsof benevolence and kind feeling. It was but "the other day," and Maryherself rode out amidst the people, like some beloved sovereign in themiddle of her subjects; happy faces beamed brighter when she came, andeven misery half forgot itself in her presence. But "the other day" andthe flag waved proudly from the great tower, to show that Cro' Martinwas the residence of its owner, and Mary the life and soul of all thathousehold!

  Such-like were her thoughts as she stood still gazing on the sad scenebefore her. She could not bring herself to awaken the poor fellow, whothus, perchance, stole a short respite from his sorrows; but leavingsome money beside him on a chair, and taking one farewell look of poorMargaret, she stole silently away, and remounted her horse.

  Again she is away through the storm and the tempest! Her pace is nowurged to speed, for she knows every field and every fence,--where topress her horse to his gallop, where to spare and husband his strength.At one moment she steals carefully along amid fragments of fallen rocksand broken timber; at another, she flies, with racing speed, over thesmooth sward. At length, through the gloom and darkness, the tall towersof Cro' Martin are seen over the deep woods; but her horse's head is notturned thitherward. No; she has taken another direction, and, skirtingthe wall of the demesne, she is off towards the wild, bleak countrybeyond. It is past midnight; not a light gleams from a cabin window asshe dashes past; all is silent save the plashing rain, which, though thewind has abated, continues to fall in torrents. Crossing the bleak moor,whose yawning pits even in daylight suggest care and watchfulness, shegains the foot of the barren mountain on which Barnagheela stands,and descries in the distance the flickering of a light dimly traceablethrough the falling rain.

  For the first time her horse shows signs of fatigue, and Mary caresseshim with her hand, and speaks encouragingly to him as she slackens herpace, ascending the hill at a slow walk. After about half an hour ofthis toilsome progress, for the surface is stony and rock-covered, shereaches the little "boreen" road which forms the approach to the house.Mary has never been there before, and advances now slowly and carefullybetween two
rude walls of dry masonry which lead to the hall-door. Asshe nears the house, the gleam of lights from between the ill-closedshutters attracts her, and suddenly through the swooping rain come thesounds of several voices in tones of riot and revelry. She listens; andit is now the rude burst of applause that breaks forth,--a din of voicesloudly proclaiming the hearty approval of some sentiment or opinion.

  While she halts to determine what course next to follow,--for thesesigns of revelry have disconcerted her,--she hears a rough, loud voicefrom within call out, "There's another toast you must drink now, andfill for it to the brim. Come, Peter Hayes, no skulking; the liquor isgood, and the sentiment the same. Gentlemen, you came here to-night tohonor my poor house--my ancestral house, I may call it--on the victorywe 've gained over tyranny and oppression." Loud cheers here interruptedhim, but he resumed: "They tried--by the aid of the law that they madethemselves--to turn me out of my house and home. They did all that falseswearing and forged writing could do, to drive me--me, Tom Magennis,the last of an ancient stock--out upon the highways." (Groans from thehearers.) "But they failed,--ay, gentlemen, they failed. Old Repton,with all his skill, and Scanlan, with all his treachery, could n't doit. Joe Nelligan, like Goliath--no, like David, I mean--put a stonebetween their two eyes, and laid them low." (Loud cheering, and cries of"Why is n't he here?" "Where is he to-night?") "Ay, gentlemen," resumedthe speaker, "ye may well ask where is he this night? when we arecelebrating not only our triumph, but his; for it was the first brief heever held,--the first guinea he ever touched for a fee! I 'll tellyou where he is. Skulking--ay, that's the word for it--skulking inOughterard,--hiding himself for shame because he beat the Martins!" (Loud expressions of anger, and some of dissent, here broke forth; someinveighing against this cowardice, others defending him against thecharge.) "Say what you like," roared Magennis; "I know, and he knowsthat I know it. What was it he said when Mahony went to him with mybrief? 'I'll not refuse to undertake the case,' said he, 'but I 'll notlend myself to any scurrilous attack upon the family at Cro' Martin!'"(Groans.) "Ay, but listen," continued he: "'And if I find,' said he--'ifI find that in the course of the case such an attempt should be made, I'll throw down my brief though I never should hold another.' There's JoeNelligan for you! There's the stuff you thought you 'd make a Patriotout of!"

  "Say what you like, Tom Magennis, he's a credit to the town," said oldHayes, "and he won your cause this day against one of the 'cutest of theDublin counsellors."

  "He did so, sir," resumed Magennis, "and he got his pay, and there'snothing between us; and I told him so, and more besides; for I said,'You may flatter them and crawl to them; you may be as servile as aserpent or a boa-constrictor to them; but take _my_ word for it, MisterJoe,--or Counsellor Nelligan, if you like it better,--they'll neverforget who and what you are,--the son of old Dan there, of the HighStreet,--and you 've a better chance to be the Chief Justice than thehusband of Mary Martin!'"

  "You told him that!" cried several together. "I did, sir; and I believefor a minute he meant to strike me; he got pale with passion, and thenhe got red--blood red; and, in that thick way he has when he 's angry,he said, 'Whatever may be my hopes of the Bench, I'll not win my wayto it by ever again undertaking the cause of a ruffian!' 'Do you mean_me?_' said I,--'do you mean _me?_' But he turned away into the house,and I never saw him since. If it had n't been for Father Neal there, I'd have had him out for it, sir!"

  "We've other work before us than quarrelling amongst ourselves," saidthe bland voice of Father Rafferty; "and now for your toast, Tom, for I'm dry waiting for it."

  "Here it is, then," cried Magennis. "A speedy downfall to the Martins!"

  "A speedy downfall to the Martins!" was repeated solemnly in chorus;while old Hayes interposed, "Barring the niece,--barring Miss Mary."

  "I won't except one," cried Magennis. "My august leader remarked,'It was false pity for individuals destroyed the great revolution ofFrance.' It was--" Mary did not wait for more, but, turning her horse'shead, moved slowly around towards the back of the house.

  Through a wide space, of which the rickety broken gate hung by a singlehinge, Mary entered a large yard, a court littered with disabled carts,harrows, and other field implements, all equally unserviceable. Beneatha low shed along one of the walls stood three or four horses, withharness on them, evidently belonging to the guests assembled within. Allthese details were plainly visible by the glare of an immense fire whichblazed on the kitchen hearth, and threw its light more than half-wayacross the yard. Having disposed of her horse at one end of the shed,Mary stealthily drew nigh the kitchen window, and looked in. An old,very old woman, in the meanest attire, sat crouching beside the fire;and although she held a huge wooden ladle in her hand, seemed, by herdrooped head and bent-down attitude, either moping or asleep. Variouscooking utensils were on the fire, and two or three joints of meat hungroasting before it, while the hearth was strewn with dishes, awaitingthe savory fare that was to fill them.

  These, and many other indications of the festivity then going on within,Mary rapidly noticed; but it was evident, from the increasing eagernessof her gaze, that the object which she sought had not yet met her eye.Suddenly, however, the door of the kitchen opened and a figure entered,on which the young girl bent all her attention. It was Joan Landy, buthow different from the half-timid, half-reckless peasant girl that lastwe saw her! Dressed in a heavy gown of white satin, looped up on eitherside with wreaths of flowers, and wearing a rich lace cap on her head,she rushed hurriedly in, her face deeply flushed, and her eyes sparklingwith excitement. Hastily snatching up a check apron that lay on a chair,she fastened it about her, and drew near the fire. It was plain from hergesture, as she took the ladle from the old woman's hand, that shewas angry, and by her manner seemed as if rebuking her. The old crone,however, only crouched lower, and spreading out her wasted fingerstowards the blaze, appeared insensible to everything addressed toher. Meanwhile Joan busied herself about the fire with all the zealousactivity of one accustomed to the task. Mary watched her intently; shescrutinized with piercing keenness every lineament of that face, nowmoved by its passing emotions, and she muttered to herself, "Alas, Ihave come in vain!" Nor was this depressing sentiment less felt as Joan,turning from the fire, approached a fragment of a broken looking-glassthat stood against the wall. Drawing herself up to her full height, shestood gazing proudly, delightedly, at her own figure. The humble apron,too, was speedily discarded, and as she trampled it beneath her feetshe seemed to spurn the mean condition of which it was the symbol. MaryMartin sighed deeply as she looked, and muttered once more, "In vain!"

  Then suddenly starting, with one of those bursts of energy whichso often had steeled her heart against peril, she walked to thekitchen-door, raised the latch, and entered. She had made but one stepwithin the door when Joan turned and beheld her; and there they bothstood, silently, each surveying the other. Mary felt too intensely thedifficulty of the task before her to utter a word without well weighingthe consequences. She knew how the merest accident might frustrate allshe had in view, and stood hesitating and uncertain, when Joan, who nowrecognized her, vacillated between her instinctive sense of respect anda feeling of defiance in the consciousness of where she was. Happilyfor Mary the former sentiment prevailed, and in a tone of kindly anxietyJoan drew near her and said,--"Has anything happened? I trust in God noaccident has befell you."

  "Thank God, nothing worse than a wetting," said Mary,--"some littlefatigue; and I'll think but little of either if they have brought mehere to a good end. May I speak with you alone,--quite alone?"

  "Come in here," said Joan, pushing open the door of a small room off thekitchen which served for a species of larder,--"come in here."

  "I have come on a sad errand," said Mary, taking her hand between bothher own, "and I would that it had fallen to any other than myself. It isfor you to decide that! have not come in vain."

  "What is it? tell me what it is?" cried Joan, as a sudden palenessspread over her features.

  "These
are days of sorrow and mourning everywhere," said Mary, gloomily."Can you not guess what my tidings may be? No, no," cried she, as asudden gesture of Joan interrupted her,--"no, not yet; he is stillalive, and entreats to see you."

  "To curse me again, is it?" cried the other, wildly; "to turn me fromthe door, and pray down curses on me,--is it for that he wants to seeme?"

  "Not for that, indeed," said Mary; "it is to see you--to give you hislast kiss--his last blessing--to forgive you and be forgiven. Rememberthat he is alone, deserted by all that once were his. Your father andmother and sisters are all gone to America, and poor old Mat lingerson,--nay, the journey is nigh ended. Oh, do not delay, lest it be toolate. Come now--now."

  "And if I see him once, can I ever come back to this?" cried Joan, inbitter agony. "Will I ever be able to hear his words and live as I donow?"

  162]

  "Let your own good heart guide you for that," cried Mary; "all I ask isthat you should see him and be with him. I have pledged myself for yourcoming, and you will not dishonor my words to one on his death-bed."

  "And I 'll be an outcast for it. Tom will drive me from the door andnever see me again. I know it,--I know _him_!"

  "You are wrong, Joan Landy."

  "Joan!--who dares to call me Joan Landy when I'm Mrs. Magennis ofBarnagheela? and if _I'm_ not _your_ equal, I 'm as good as any other inthe barony. Was it to insult me you came here to-night, to bring up tome who I am and where I came from? That 's the errand that brought youthrough the storm! Ay," cried she, lashed to a wilder passion by her ownwords,--"ay! ay! and if you and yours had their will we 'd not have theroof to shelter us this night. It 's only to-day that we won the trialagainst you."

  "Whatever my errand here this night," said Mary, with a calm dignity,"it was meant to serve and not insult you. I know, as well as yourbitterest words can tell me, that this is not my place; but I know, too,if from yielding to my selfish pride I had refused your old grandfatherthis last request, it had been many a year of bitter reproach to me."

  "Oh, you 'll break my heart, you will, you will!" cried Joan, bitterly."You 'll turn the only one that's left against me, and I 'll be alone inthe world."

  "Come with me this night, and whatever happen I 'll befriend you," saidMary.

  "And not desert me because I 'm what I am?"

  "Never, Joan, never!"

  "Oh, my blessings on you,--if the blessing of one like me is any good,"cried she, kissing Mary's hand fervently. "Oh, they that praised yousaid the truth; you have goodness enough in your heart to make up for usall! I 'll go with you to the world's end."

  "We'll pass Cro' Martin, and you shall have my horse--"

  "No, no, Miss Mary, I 'll go on my feet; it best becomes me. I 'll go byBurnane--by the Gap--I know it well--too well!" added she, as the tearsrushed to her eyes. As she was speaking, she took off the cap she woreand threw it from her; and then removing her dress, put on the coarsewoollen gown of her daily wear. "Oh, God forgive me!" cried she, "if Icurse the day that I ever wore better than this."

  Mary assisted her with her dress, fastening the hood of her cloak overher head, and preparing her, as best she might, for the severe stormshe was to encounter; and it was plain to see that Joan accepted theselittle services without a thought of by whom they were rendered, sointensely occupied was her mind by the enterprise before her. A feverishhaste to be away marked all she did. It was partly terror lest herescape might be prevented; partly a sense of distrust in herself, andthat she might abandon her own resolution.

  "Oh, tell me," she cried, as the tears streamed from her eyes, and herlips quivered with agony,--"oh, tell me I'm doing right; tell me thatGod's blessing is going with me this night, or I can't do it."

  "And so it is, dear Joan," said Mary; "be of good heart, and Heaven willsupport you. I 'm sure the trial is a sore one."

  "Oh, is it not to leave this--to leave him--maybe forever? To be sure,it's forever," cried she, bitterly. "He 'll never forgive me!"

  A wild burst of revelry now resounded from the parlor, and thediscordant sounds of half-drunken voices burst upon their ears.

  Joan started, and gazed wildly around her. The agonized look of herfeatures bespoke her dread of detection; and then with a bound shesprung madly from the spot, and was away. Mary followed quickly; butbefore she had secured her horse and mounted, the other was alreadyhalf-way down the mountain. Now catching, now losing sight of her again,Mary at last came up with her.

  "Remember, dear Joan," said Mary, "there are nine weary miles ofmountain before you."

  "I know it well," was the brief reply.

  "And if you go by Burnane the rocks are slippy with the rain, and thepath to the shore is full of danger."

  "If I was afeard of danger, would I be here?" cried she. "Oh, MissMary," added she, stopping and grasping her hand in both her own, "leaveme to myself; don't come with me,--it's not one like you ought to keepme company."

  "But Joan,--dear Joan,--I have promised to be your friend, and I am notone who forgets a pledge."

  "My heart will break; it will break in two if you talk to me. Leave me,for the love of Heaven, and let me go my road all alone. There, at thetwo trees there, is the way to Cro' Martin; take it, and may the Saintsguide you safe home!"

  "And if I do, Joan, will you promise me to come straight back to Cro'Martin after you 've seen him? Will you do this?"

  "I will,--I will," cried she, bathing Mary's hand with her tears as shekissed it.

  "Then God bless and protect you, poor girl!" said Mary. "It is not forme to dictate to your own full heart. Goodbye,--good-bye."

  Before Mary had dried the warm tears that rose to her eyes, Joan wasgone.