CHAPTER XIII. A NIGHT OF STORM
The curtains were closely drawn, and a cheerful turf fire blazed in the room where Mr. Merl sat at dinner. The fare was excellent, and even rustic cookery sufficed to make fresh salmon and mountain mutton and fat woodcocks delectable; while the remains of Mr. Scanlan's hamper set forth some choice Madeira and several bottles of Sneyd's claret. Nor was he for whose entertainment these good things were provided in any way incapable of enjoying them. With the peculiar sensuality of his race, he loved his dinner all to himself and alone. He delighted in the privileged selfishness that isolation conferred, and he revelled in a sort of complacent flattery at the thought of all the people who were dining worse than himself, and the stray thousands besides who were not destined on that day to dine at all.
The self-caressing shudder that came over him as the sound of a horse at speed on the shore outside was heard, spoke plainly as words themselves the pleasant comparison that crossed his mind between the condition of the rider and his own. He drew nearer the fire, he threw on a fresh log of pine, and, filling up a bumper, seemed to linger as he viewed it, as though wishing health and innumerable blessings to Mr. Herman Merl.
The noise of the clattering hoofs died away in distance and in the greater uproar of the storm, and Mr. Merl thought no more of them. How often happens it, dear reader, that some brief interruption flashes through our seasons of enjoyment; we are startled, perhaps; we even need a word or two to reassure us that all is well, and then the work of pleasure goes on, and we forget that it had ever been retarded; and yet, depend upon it, in that fleeting second of time some sad episode of human life has, like a spectre, crossed our path, and some deep sorrow gone 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 in torrents; the wind in fitful gusts dashes the mountain stream in many a wayward shape, and snaps the stems of old trees in pieces; landslips and broken rocks impede the way; and yet that brave horse holds ever onward, now stretching to a fast gallop, now gathering himself to clear some foaming torrent, or some fragment of fallen timber.
The night is so dark that the rider cannot see the horse's length in advance; but every feature of the way is well known, and an instinctive sense of the peril to be apprehended at each particular spot guides that hand and nerves that heart. Mary Martin—for she it is—had ridden that same path at all seasons and all hours, but never on a wilder night, nor through a more terrible hurricane than this. At moments her speed relaxed, as if to breathe her horse; and twice she pulled up short, to listen and distinguish between the sound of thunder and the crashing noise of rocks rolling from the mountain. There was a sublimity in the scene, lit up at moments by the lightning; and a sense of peril, too, that exalted the adventurous spirit of the girl, and imparted to her heart a high heroic feeling. The glorious sentiment of confronting danger animated and excited her; and her courage rose with each new difficulty of the way, till her very brain seemed to reel with the wild transport of her emotions.
As she emerged from the gorge, she gained a high tableland, over which the wind swept unimpeded. Not a cliff, not a rock, not a tree, broke the force 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 could barely make way against the hurricane; and more than once her noble charger was driven backward, and forced to turn his back to the storm. Her courage never failed. Taking advantage of every passing lull, she dashed forward, ready to wheel and halt when the wind shot past with violence.
Descending at last from this elevated plateau, she again entered a deep cleft between the mountain, the road littered with fallen earth and branches of trees, so as almost to defy a passage. After traversing upwards of a mile of this wearisome way, she arrived at the door of a small cabin, the first trace of habitation since she had quitted the village. It was a mere hovel, abutting against a rock, and in its dreary solitude seemed the last refuge of direst poverty.
She bent down from her saddle to look in at the window; but, except some faint embers on the hearth, all was dark within. She then knocked with her whip against the door, and called “Morris” two or three times; but no reply was given. Springing from her horse, Mary fastened the bridle to the hasp of the door-post, and entered. The heavy breathing of one in deep sleep at once caught her attention > and, approaching the fireplace, she lighted a piece of pine-wood to examine about her. On a low settle in one corner lay the figure of a young woman, whose pale, pinched features contrasted strongly with the bright ribbons of her cap floating loosely at either side. Mary tottered as she drew nigher; a terrible 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! Poor Margaret, she had been one of Mary's chief favorites; the very cap that now decked her cold forehead was Mary's wedding-gift to her. But a few days before, her little child had been carried to the churchyard; and it was said that the mother never held up her head after. Sick almost to fainting, Mary Martin sank into a chair, and then saw, for the first time, the figure of a man, who, half kneeling, lay with his head on the foot of the bed, fast asleep! Weariness, utter exhaustion, were marked in his pale-worn features, while his attitude bespoke complete prostration. His hand still clasped a little rosary.
It seemed but the other day that she had wished them “joy” upon their wedding, and they had gone home to their little cabin in hopefulness and high-hearted spirit, and there she lay now a cold corpse, and he, bereaved and childless. What a deal of sad philosophy do these words reveal! What dark contrasts do we bring up when we say, “It was but the other day.” It was but “the other day,” and Cro' Martin was the home of one whose thriving tenantry reflected back all his efforts for their welfare, when movement and occupation bespoke a condition of activity and cheerful industry; when, even in their poverty, the people bore bravely up, and the cases of suffering but sufficed to call out traits of benevolence and kind feeling. It was but “the other day,” and Mary herself rode out amidst the people, like some beloved sovereign in the middle of her subjects; happy faces beamed brighter when she came, and even misery half forgot itself in her presence. But “the other day” and the flag waved proudly from the great tower, to show that Cro' Martin was the residence of its owner, and Mary the life and soul of all that household!
Such-like were her thoughts as she stood still gazing on the sad scene before her. She could not bring herself to awaken the poor fellow, who thus, perchance, stole a short respite from his sorrows; but leaving some money beside him on a chair, and taking one farewell look of poor Margaret, she stole silently away, and remounted her horse.
Again she is away through the storm and the tempest! Her pace is now urged to speed, for she knows every field and every fence,—where to press her horse to his gallop, where to spare and husband his strength. At one moment she steals carefully along amid fragments of fallen rocks and broken timber; at another, she flies, with racing speed, over the smooth sward. At length, through the gloom and darkness, the tall towers of Cro' Martin are seen over the deep woods; but her horse's head is not turned thitherward. No; she has taken another direction, and, skirting the wall of the demesne, she is off towards the wild, bleak country beyond. It is past midnight; not a light gleams from a cabin window as she dashes past; all is silent save the plashing rain, which, though the wind has abated, continues to fall in torrents. Crossing the bleak moor, whose yawning pits even in daylight suggest care and watchfulness, she gains the foot of the barren mountain on which Barnagheela stands, and descries in the distance the flickering of a light dimly traceable through the falling rain.
For the first time her horse shows signs of fatigue, and Mary caresses him with her hand, and speaks encouragingly to him as she slackens her pace, ascending the hill at a slow walk. After about half an hour of this toilsome progress, for the surface is stony and rock-covered, she reaches the little “boreen” road which forms the approach to the house. Mary has never been there before, and advances now slowly and carefully between two rude walls of dry masonry which lead to the hall-door. As she nears the house, the gleam of lights from between the ill-closed shutters attracts her, and suddenly through the swooping rain come the sounds of several voices in tones of riot and revelry. She listens; and it is now the rude burst of applause that breaks forth,—a din of voices loudly proclaiming the hearty approval of some sentiment or opinion.
While she halts to determine what course next to follow,—for these signs of revelry have disconcerted her,—she hears a rough, loud voice from within call out, “There's another toast you must drink now, and fill for it to the brim. Come, Peter Hayes, no skulking; the liquor is good, and the sentiment the same. Gentlemen, you came here to-night to honor my poor house—my ancestral house, I may call it—on the victory we 've gained over tyranny and oppression.” Loud cheers here interrupted him, but he resumed: “They tried—by the aid of the law that they made themselves—to turn me out of my house and home. They did all that false swearing and forged writing could do, to drive me—me, Tom Magennis, the last of an ancient stock—out upon the highways.” (Groans from the hearers.) “But they failed,—ay, gentlemen, they failed. Old Repton, with all his skill, and Scanlan, with all his treachery, could n't do it. Joe Nelligan, like Goliath—no, like David, I mean—put a stone between 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,” resumed the speaker, “ye may well ask where is he this night? when we are celebrating not only our triumph, but his; for it was the first brief he ever held,—the first guinea he ever touched for a fee! I 'll tell you where he is. Skulking—ay, that's the word for it—skulking in Oughterard,—hiding himself for shame because he beat the Martins!” ( Loud expressions of anger, and some of dissent, here broke forth; some inveighing against this cowardice, others defending him against the charge.) “Say what you like,” roared Magennis; “I know, and he knows that I know it. What was it he said when Mahony went to him with my brief? 'I'll not refuse to undertake the case,' said he, 'but I 'll not lend myself to any scurrilous attack upon the family at Cro' Martin!'” (Groans.) “Ay, but listen,” continued he: “'And if I find,' said he—'if I 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 Joe Nelligan for you! There's the stuff you thought you 'd make a Patriot out of!”
“Say what you like, Tom Magennis, he's a credit to the town,” said old Hayes, “and he won your cause this day against one of the 'cutest of the Dublin counsellors.”
“He did so, sir,” resumed Magennis, “and he got his pay, and there's nothing 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 a serpent or a boa-constrictor to them; but take my word for it, Mister Joe,—or Counsellor Nelligan, if you like it better,—they'll never forget who and what you are,—the son of old Dan there, of the High Street,—and you 've a better chance to be the Chief Justice than the husband of Mary Martin!'”
“You told him that!” cried several together. “I did, sir; and I believe for a minute he meant to strike me; he got pale with passion, and then he 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 way to 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,” said the 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 of France.' It was—” Mary did not wait for more, but, turning her horse's head, moved slowly around towards the back of the house.
Through a wide space, of which the rickety broken gate hung by a single hinge, Mary entered a large yard, a court littered with disabled carts, harrows, and other field implements, all equally unserviceable. Beneath a low shed along one of the walls stood three or four horses, with harness on them, evidently belonging to the guests assembled within. All these details were plainly visible by the glare of an immense fire which blazed on the kitchen hearth, and threw its light more than half-way across 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 her drooped head and bent-down attitude, either moping or asleep. Various cooking utensils were on the fire, and two or three joints of meat hung roasting before it, while the hearth was strewn with dishes, awaiting the 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 eagerness of 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, but how different from the half-timid, half-reckless peasant girl that last we saw her! Dressed in a heavy gown of white satin, looped up on either side with wreaths of flowers, and wearing a rich lace cap on her head, she rushed hurriedly in, her face deeply flushed, and her eyes sparkling with 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 her gesture, as she took the ladle from the old woman's hand, that she was angry, and by her manner seemed as if rebuking her. The old crone, however, only crouched lower, and spreading out her wasted fingers towards the blaze, appeared insensible to everything addressed to her. Meanwhile Joan busied herself about the fire with all the zealous activity of one accustomed to the task. Mary watched her intently; she scrutinized with piercing keenness every lineament of that face, now moved by its passing emotions, and she muttered to herself, “Alas, I have come in vain!” Nor was this depressing sentiment less felt as Joan, turning from the fire, approached a fragment of a broken looking-glass that stood against the wall. Drawing herself up to her full height, she stood gazing proudly, delightedly, at her own figure. The humble apron, too, was speedily discarded, and as she trampled it beneath her feet she seemed to spurn the mean condition of which it was the symbol. Mary Martin sighed deeply as she looked, and muttered once more, “In vain!”
Then suddenly starting, with one of those bursts of energy which so often had steeled her heart against peril, she walked to the kitchen-door, raised the latch, and entered. She had made but one step within the door when Joan turned and beheld her; and there they both stood, silently, each surveying the other. Mary felt too intensely the difficulty of the task before her to utter a word without well weighing the consequences. She knew how the merest accident might frustrate all she had in view, and stood hesitating and uncertain, when Joan, who now recognized her, vacillated between her instinctive sense of respect and a feeling of defiance in the consciousness of where she was. Happily for Mary the former sentiment prevailed, and in a tone of kindly anxiety Joan drew near her and said,—“Has anything happened? I trust in God no accident has befell you.”
“Thank God, nothing worse than a wetting,” said Mary,—“some little fatigue; and I'll think but little of either if they have brought me here 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 the kitchen which served for a species of larder,—“come in here.”
“I have come on a sad errand,” said Mary, taking her hand between both her own, “and I would that it had fallen to any other than myself. It is for you to decide that! have not come in vain.”
“What is it? tell me what it is?” cried Joan, as a sudden paleness spread 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 a sudden gesture of Joan interrupted her,—“no, not yet; he is still alive, and entreats to see you.”
“To curse me again, is it?” cried the other, wildly; “to turn me from the door, and pray down curses on me,—is it for that he wants to see me?”
“Not for that, indeed,” said Mary; “it is to see you—to give you his last kiss—his last blessing—to forgive you and be forgiven. Remember that he is alone, deserted by all that once were his. Your father and mother and sisters are all gone to America, and poor old Mat lingers on,—nay, the journey is nigh ended. Oh, do not delay, lest it be too late. Come now—now.”
“And if I see him once, can I ever come back to this?” cried Joan, in bitter agony. “Will I ever be able to hear his words and live as I do now?”
“Let your own good heart guide you for that,” cried Mary; “all I ask is that you should see him and be with him. I have pledged myself for your coming, 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 and never 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 of Barnagheela? and if I'm not your equal, I 'm as good as any other in the barony. Was it to insult me you came here to-night, to bring up to me who I am and where I came from? That 's the errand that brought you through the storm! Ay,” cried she, lashed to a wilder passion by her own words,—“ay! ay! and if you and yours had their will we 'd not have the roof to shelter us this night. It 's only to-day that we won the trial against 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 your bitterest 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 grandfather this 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 in the world.”
“Come with me this night, and whatever happen I 'll befriend you,” said Mary.
“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 you said the truth; you have goodness enough in your heart to make up for us all! 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 by Burnane—by the Gap—I know it well—too well!” added she, as the tears rushed to her eyes. As she was speaking, she took off the cap she wore and threw it from her; and then removing her dress, put on the coarse woollen gown of her daily wear. “Oh, God forgive me!” cried she, “if I curse the day that I ever wore better than this.”
Mary assisted her with her dress, fastening the hood of her cloak over her head, and preparing her, as best she might, for the severe storm she was to encounter; and it was plain to see that Joan accepted these little services without a thought of by whom they were rendered, so intensely occupied was her mind by the enterprise before her. A feverish haste to be away marked all she did. It was partly terror lest her escape might be prevented; partly a sense of distrust in herself, and that she might abandon her own resolution.
“Oh, tell me,” she cried, as the tears streamed from her eyes, and her lips quivered with agony,—“oh, tell me I'm doing right; tell me that God'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 will support 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 the discordant sounds of half-drunken voices burst upon their ears.
Joan started, and gazed wildly around her. The agonized look of her features bespoke her dread of detection; and then with a bound she sprung madly from the spot, and was away. Mary followed quickly; but before she had secured her horse and mounted, the other was already half-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 of mountain before you.”
“I know it well,” was the brief reply.
“And if you go by Burnane the rocks are slippy with the rain, and the path to the shore is full of danger.”
“If I was afeard of danger, would I be here?” cried she. “Oh, Miss Mary,” added she, stopping and grasping her hand in both her own, “leave me to myself; don't come with me,—it's not one like you ought to keep me company.”
“But Joan,—dear Joan,—I have promised to be your friend, and I am not one 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 the two trees there, is the way to Cro' Martin; take it, and may the Saints guide 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 she kissed it.
“Then God bless and protect you, poor girl!” said Mary. “It is not for me to dictate to your own full heart. Goodbye,—good-bye.”
Before Mary had dried the warm tears that rose to her eyes, Joan was gone.