CHAPTER XXVIII. HOW MR. SCANLAN GIVES SCOPE TO A GENEROUS IMPULSE
It is a remark of Wieland's, that although the life of man is measured by the term of fourscore years and ten, yet that his ideal existence or, as he calls it, his “unacted life,” meaning thereby his period of dreamy, projective, and forecasting existence, would occupy a far wider space. And he goes on to say that it is in this same imaginative longevity men differ the most from each other, the poet standing to the ungifted peasant in the ratio of centuries to years.
Mr. Maurice Scanlan would not appear a favorable subject by which to test this theory. If not endowed with any of the higher and greater qualities of intellect, he was equally removed from any deficiency on that score. The world called him “a clever fellow,” and the world is rarely in fault in such judgments. Where there is a question of the creative faculties, where it is the divine essence itself is the matter of decision, the world will occasionally be betrayed into mistakes, as fashion and a passing enthusiasm may mislead it; but where it is the practical and the real, the exercise of gifts by which men make themselves rich and powerful, then the world makes no blunders. She knows them as a mother knows her children. They are indeed the “World's own.”
We have come to these speculations by contemplating Mr. Scanlan as he sat with Mary Martin's open letter before him. The note was couched in polite terms, requesting Mr. Scanlan to favor the writer with a visit at his earliest convenience, if possible early on the following morning. Had it been a document of suspected authenticity, a forged acceptance, an interpolated article in a deed, a newly discovered codicil to a will, he could not have canvassed every syllable, scrutinized every letter, with more searching zeal. It was hurriedly written; there was, therefore, some emergency. It began, “Dear sir,” a style she had never employed before; the letter “D” was blotted, and seemed to have been originally destined for an “M,” as though she had commenced “Miss Martin requests,” etc., and then suddenly adopted the more familiar address. The tone of command by which he was habitually summoned to Cro' Martin was assuredly not there, and Maurice was not the man to undervalue the smallest particle of evidence.
“She has need of me,” cried he to himself; “she sees everything in a state of subversion and chaos around her, and looks to me as the man to restore order. The people are entreating her to stay law proceedings, to give them time, to employ them; the poorest are all importuning her with stories of their sufferings. She is powerless, and, what's worse, she does not know what it is to be powerless to help them. She'll struggle and fret and scheme, and plan fifty things, and when she has failed in them all, fall back upon Maurice Scanlan for advice and counsel.”
It was a grave question with Scanlan how far he would suffer her persecutions to proceed before he would come to her aid. “If I bring my succor too early, she may never believe the emergency was critical; if I delay it too long, she may abandon the field in despair, and set off to join her uncle.” These were the two propositions which he placed before himself for consideration. It was a case for very delicate management, great skill, and great patience, but it was well worth all the cost. “If I succeed,” said he to himself, “I'm a made man. Mary Martin Mrs. Scanlan, I 'm the agent for the whole estate, with Cro' Martin to live in, and all the property at my discretion. If I fail,—that is, if I fail without blundering,—I 'm just where I was. Well,” thought he, as he drove into the demesne, “I never thought I'd have such a chance as this. All gone, and she alone here by herself: none to advise, not one even to keep her company! I'd have given a thousand pounds down just for this opportunity, without counting all the advantages I have in my power from my present position, for I can do what I like with the estate,—give leases or break them. It will be four months at least before old Repton comes down here, and in that time I'll have finished whatever I want to do. And now to begin the game.” And with this he turned into the stable-yard, and descended from his gig. Many men would have been struck by the changed aspect of the place,—silence and desolation where before there were movement and bustle; but Scanlan only read in the altered appearances around the encouragement of his own ambitious hopes. The easy swagger in which the attorney indulged while moving about the stable-yard declined into a more becoming gait as he traversed the long corridors, and finally became actually respectful as he drew nigh the library, where he was informed Miss Martin awaited him, so powerful was the influence of old habit over the more vulgar instincts of his nature. He had intended to be very familiar and at his ease, and ere he turned the handle of the door his courage failed him.
“This is very kind of you, Mr. Scanlan,” said she, advancing a few steps towards him as he entered. “You must have started early from home.”
“At five, miss,” said he, bowing deferentially.
“And of course you have not breakfasted?”
“Indeed, then, I only took a cup of coffee. I was anxious to be early. I thought from your note that there might be something urgent.”
Mary half smiled at the mingled air of bashfulness and gallantry in which he uttered these broken sentences; for without knowing it himself, while he began in some confusion, he attained a kind of confidence as he went on.
“Nor have I breakfasted, either,” said she; “and I beg, therefore, you will join me.”
Scanlan's face actually glowed with pleasure.
“I have many things to consult you upon with regard to the estate, and I am fully aware that there is nobody more competent to advise me.”
“Nor more ready and willing, miss,” said Maurice, bowing.
“I 'm perfectly certain of that, Mr. Scanlan. The confidence my uncle has always reposed in you assures me on that head.”
“Was n't I right about the borough, Miss Mary?” broke he in. “I told you how it would be, and that if you did n't make some sort of a compromise with the Liberal party—”
“Let me interrupt you, Mr. Scanlan, and once for all assure you that there is not one subject of all those which pertain to this county and its people which has so little interest for me as the local squabbles of party; and I 'm sure no success on either side is worth the broken friendships and estranged affections it leaves behind it.”
“A beautiful sentiment, to which I respond with all my heart,” rejoined Scanlan, with an energy that made her blush deeply.
“I only meant to say, sir,” added she, hastily, “that the borough and its politics need never be discussed between us.”
“Just so, miss. We'll call on the next case,” said Scanlan.
“My uncle's sudden departure, and a slight indisposition under which I have labored for a week or so, have thrown me so far in arrear of all knowledge of what has been done here, that I must first of all ask you, not how the estate is to be managed in future, but does it any longer belong to us?”
“What, miss?” cried Scanlan, in amazement.
“I mean, sir, is it my uncle's determination to lease out everything,—even to the demesne around the Castle; to sell the timber and dispose of the royalties? If so, a mere residence here could have no object for me. It seems strange, Mr. Scanlan, that I should have to ask such a question. I own to you,—it is not without some sense of humiliation that I do so,—I believed, I fancied I had understood my uncle's intentions. Some of them he had even committed to writing, at my request; you shall see them yourself. The excitement and confusion of his departure,—the anxieties of leave-taking,—one thing or another, in short, gave me little time to seek his counsel as to many points I wished to know; and, in fact, I found myself suddenly alone before I was quite prepared for it, and then I fell ill,—a mere passing attack, but enough to unfit me for occupation.”
“Breakfast is served, miss,” said a maid-servant, at this conjuncture, opening a door into a small room, where the table was spread.
“I'm quite ready, and so I hope is Mr. Scanlan,” said Mary, leading the way.
No sooner seated at table than she proceeded to do the honors with an ease that plainly told that all the subject of her late discourse was to be left for the present in abeyance. In fact, the very tone of her voice was changed, as she chatted away carelessly about the borough people and their doings, what strangers had lately passed through the town, and the prospects of the coming season at Kilkieran.
No theme could more readily have put Mr. Scanlan at his ease. He felt, or fancied he felt, himself at that degree of social elevation above the Oughterard people, which enabled him to talk with a species of compassionate jocularity of their little dinners and evening parties. He criticised toilet and manners and cookery, therefore, with much self-complacency,—far more than had he suspected that Mary Martin's amusement was more derived from the pretension of the speaker than the matter which he discussed.
“That's what I think you'll find hardest of all, Miss Martin,” said he, at the close of a florid description of the borough customs. “You can have no society here.”
“And yet I mean to try,” said she, smiling; “at least, I have gone so far as to ask Mrs. Nelligan to come and dine with me on Monday or Tuesday next.”
“Mrs. Nelligan dine at Cro' Martin!” exclaimed he.
“If she will be good enough to come so far for so little!”
“She 'd go fifty miles on the same errand; and if I know old Dan himself, he 'll be a prouder man that day than when his son gained the gold medal.”
“Then I'm sure I, at least, am perfectly requited,” said Mary.
“But are you certain, Miss, that such people will suit you?” said Scanlan, half timidly. “They live in a very different style, and have other ways than yours. I say nothing against Mrs. Nelligan; indeed, she comes of a very respectable family; but sure she hasn't a thought nor an idea in common with Miss Martin.”
“I suspect you are wrong there, Mr. Scanlan. My impression is, that Mrs. Nelligan and I will find many topics to agree upon, and that we shall understand each other perfectly; and if, as you suppose, there may be certain things new and strange to me in her modes of thinking, I 'm equally sure she 'll have to conquer many prejudices with regard to me.
“I'm afraid you'll be disappointed, miss!” was the sententious reply of Scanlan.
“Then there's our vicar!” broke in Mary. “Mr. Leslie will, I hope, take pity on my solitude.”
“Indeed, I forgot him entirely. I don't think I ever saw him at Cro' Martin.”
“Nor I, either,” said Mary; “but he may concede from a sense of kindness what he would decline to a mere point of etiquette. In a word, Mr. Scanlan,” said she, after a pause, “all the troubles and misfortunes which we have lately gone through—even to the destitution of the old house here—have in a great measure had their origin in the studious ignorance in which we have lived of our neighbors. I don't wish to enter upon political topics, but I am sure that had we known the borough people, and they us,—had we been in the habit of mingling and associating together, however little,—had we interchanged the little civilities that are the charities of social life,—we 'd have paused, either of us, ere we gave pain to the other; we'd at least have made concessions on each side, and so softened down the asperities of party. More than half the enmities of the world are mere misconceptions.”
“That's true!” said Scanlan, gravely. But his thoughts had gone on a very different errand from the theme in question, and were busily inquiring what effect all these changes might have upon his own prospects.
“And now for a matter of business,” said Mary, rising and taking her place at another table. “I shall want your assistance, Mr. Scanlan. There is a small sum settled upon me, but not payable during my uncle's life. I wish to raise a certain amount of this, by way of loan,—say a thousand pounds. Will this be easily accomplished?”
“What's the amount of the settlement, miss?” said Scanlan, with more eagerness than was quite disinterested.
“Five thousand pounds. There is the deed.” And she pushed a parchment towards him.
Scanlan ran his practised eye rapidly over the document, and with the quick craft of his calling saw it was all correct. “One or even two thousand can be had upon this at once, miss. It 's charged upon Kelly's farm and the mills—”
“All I want to know is, that I can have this sum at my disposal, and very soon; at once, indeed.”
“Will next week suit you?”
“Perfectly. And now to another point. These are the few memoranda my uncle left with me as to his wishes respecting the management of the estate. You will see that, although he desires a considerable diminution of the sum to be spent in wages, and a strict economy in all outlay, that he still never contemplated throwing the people out of employment. The quarries were to be worked as before,—the planting was to be continued,—the gardens and ornamental grounds, indeed, were to be conducted with less expense; but the harbor at Kilkieran and the new school-house at Ternagh were to be completed; and if money could be spared for it, he gave me leave to build a little hospital at the cross-roads, allowing forty pounds additional salary to Dr. Cloves for his attendance. These are the chief points; but you shall have the papers to read over at your leisure. We talked over many other matters; indeed, we chatted away till long after two o'clock the last night he was here, and I thought I understood perfectly all he wished. Almost his last words to me at parting were, 'As little change as possible, Molly. Let the poor people believe that I am still, where my heart is, under the roof of Cro' Martin!'”
The recollection of the moment brought the tears to her eyes, and she turned her head away in silence.
“Now,” said she, rallying, and speaking with renewed energy, “if what Henderson says be correct, something later must have been issued than all this; some directions which I have never seen,—not so much as heard of. He tells me of works to be stopped, people discharged, schoolhouses closed, tenants ejected; in fact, a whole catalogue of such changes as I never could have courage to see, much less carry through. I know my dear uncle well; he never would have imposed such a task upon me, nor have I the resources within me for such an undertaking.”
“And have you received no letter from Mr. Martin, from Dublin?” asked Scanlan.
“None,—not a line; a note from my aunt—indeed, not from my aunt, but by her orders, written by Kate Henderson—has reached me, in which, however, there is no allusion to the property or the place.”
“And yet her Ladyship said that Mr. Martin would write to you himself, in the course of the week, fully and explicitly.”
“To whom was this said, sir?”
“To myself, miss; there is the letter.” And Scanlan drew from his pocket-book a very voluminous epistle, in Kate Henderson's hand. “This contains the whole of her Ladyship's instructions. How all the works are to be stopped,—roads, woods, and quarries; the townlands of Carrigalone and Killybogue to be distrained; Kyle-a-Noe the same. If a tenant can be got for the demesne, it is to be let, with the shooting over the seven mountains, and the coast-fishing too. There's to be no more charges for schools, hospital, or dispensary after next November; everything is to be on the new plan, what they call 'Self-supporting.' I 'd like to know what that means. In fact, miss, by the time one half the orders given in that same letter is carried out, there won't be such another scene of misery and confusion in all Ireland as the estate of Cro' Martin.”
“And this is sanctioned by my uncle?”
“I suppose we must conclude it is, for he says nothing to the contrary; and Mr. Repton writes me what he calls 'my instructions,' in a way that shows his own feeling of indignation about the whole business.”
Mary was silent; there was not a sentiment which could give pain that had not then its place in her heart. Commiseration, deep pity for the sorrows she was to witness unavailingly, wounded pride, insulted self-esteem,—all were there! And she turned away to hide the emotions which overcame her. For a moment the sense of self had the mastery, and she thought but of how she was to endure all this humiliation. “Am I,” said she to her own heart,—“am I to be insulted by the rivalry of Scotch stewards and gardeners, to be thrust from my place of power by some low-born creature, not even of the soil, but an alien?—to live here bereft of influence, representing nothing save the decay of our fortunes?” The torrent of her passion ran full and deep, and her bosom heaved in the agony of the moment. And then as suddenly came the reaction. “How small a share is mine in all this suffering, and how miserably selfish are even my sorrows! It is of others I should think!—of those who must leave hearth and home to seek out a new resting-place,—of the poor, who are to be friendless,—of the suffering, to whom no comfort is to come,—of the old, who are to die in distant lands,—and the young, whose hearts are never to warm to the affections of a native country!”
While affecting to arrange the papers in his pocket-book, Scanlan watched every passing shade of emotion in her face. Nor was it a study in which he was ignorant; the habits of his calling had made him a very subtle observer. Many a time had he framed his question to a witness by some passing expression of the features. More than once had he penetrated the heart through the eye! The elevation of sentiment had given its own character to her handsome face; and as she stood proudly erect, with arms folded on her breast, there was in her look and attitude all the calm dignity of an antique statue.
Scanlan interpreted truthfully what passed within her, and rightly judged that no small sentiment of condolence or sympathy would be appropriate to the occasion. Nor was he altogether unprovided for the emergency. He had seen a king's counsel warm up a jury to the boiling-point, and heard him pour forth, with all the seeming vehemence of an honest conviction, the wildest rhapsodies about desecrated hearths and blackened roof-trees,—talk of the spoiler and the seducer,—and even shed a tear “over the widow and the orphan!”
“What say you to all this, sir?” cried she. “Have you any counsel to give me,—any advice?”
“It is just what I have not, miss,” said he, despondingly; “and, indeed, it was uppermost in my heart this morning when I was writing my letter. What 's all I 'm suffering compared to what Miss Martin must feel?”
“What letter do you allude to?” asked she, suddenly.
“A letter I wrote to Mr. Repton, miss,” said he, with a deep sigh. “I told him plainly my mind about everything; and I said, 'If it 's for exterminating you are,—if you 're going to turn out families that were on the land for centuries, and drive away over the seas, God knows where, the poor people that thought the name of Martin a shield against all the hardships of life, all I have to say is, you must look elsewhere for help, since it is not Maurice Scanlan will aid you.'”
“You said all this, sir?” broke she in, eagerly.
“I did, miss. I told him I 'd hold the under-agency till he named some one to succeed me; but that I 'd not put my hand to one act or deed to distress the tenants. It 's giving up,” said I, “the best part of my means of support; it's surrendering what I reckoned on to make me independent. But a good conscience is better than money, miss; and if I must seek out a new country, I 'll go at least without the weight of a cruel wrong over me; and if I see one of our poor Western people beyond seas, I 'll not be ashamed to meet him!”
“Oh, that was noble,—that was truly noble conduct!” cried she, grasping his hand in both her own. “How I thank you from my very heart for this magnanimity!”
“If I ever suspected you 'd have said the half of this, Miss Mary, the sacrifice would have been a cheap one, indeed. But, in truth, I never meant to tell it. I intended to have kept my own secret; for I knew if any one only imagined why it was I threw up the agency, matters would only be worse on the estate.”
“Yes, you are right,” said she, thoughtfully. “This was most considerate. Such a censure would augment every difficulty.”
“I felt that, miss. What I said to myself was, 'My successor will neither know the place nor the people; he 'll be cruel where he ought to have mercy, and spare those that he ought to keep to their duty.' It isn't in a day nor a week that a man learns the habits of a large tenantry, nor was it without labor and pains that I acquired my present influence amongst them.”
“Quite true,” said she; but more as though following out her own reflections than hearing his.
“They 'll have you, however,” said Scanlan,—“you, that are better to them than all the agents that ever breathed; and the very sight of you riding down amongst them will cheer their hearts in the darkest moments of life. I turned back the whole townland of Terry Valley. They were packing up to be off to America; but I told them, 'she 's not going,—she 'll stay here, and never desert you.'”
“Nor will you either, sir,” cried Mary. “You will not desert them, nor desert me. Recall your letter!”
“It's not gone off to the post yet. I was waiting to see you—”
“Better still. Oh, Mr. Scanlan, bethink you how much yet may be done for these poor people, if we will but forget ourselves and what we think we owe to self-esteem. If you will have sacrifices to make, believe me, I shall not escape them also. It is nobler, too, and finer to remain here bereft of influence, stripped of all power, to share their sufferings and take part in their afflictions. Neither you nor I shall be to them what we have been; but still, let us not abandon them. Tell me this,—say that you will stay to counsel and advise me, to guide me where I need guidance, and give me all the benefit of your experience and your knowledge. Let it be a compact between us then; neither shall go while the other remains!”
It was with difficulty Scanlan could restrain his delight at these words. How flattering to his present vanity,—how suggestive were they of the future! With all the solemnity of a vow he bound himself to stay; and Mary thanked him with the fervor of true gratitude.
If there be few emotions so pleasurable as to be the object of acknowledged gratitude for real services, it may well be doubted whether the consciousness of not having merited this reward does not seriously detract from this enjoyment. There are men, however, so constituted that a successful scheme—no matter how unscrupulously achieved—is always a triumph, and who cherish their self-love even in degradation! Maurice Scanlan is before our reader, and whether he was one of this number it is not for us to say; enough if we record that when he cantered homeward on that day he sang many a snatch of a stray ballad, and none of them were sad ones.