CHAPTER XXIX. THE COTTAGE.
It was one of those fresh and breezy days where brilliant flashes of sunlight alternate with deep shadow, making of every landscape a succession of pictures, that Kate Henderson set out on her way to the cottage. Her path led through the demesne, but it was as wild as any forest scene in Germany, now wending through dark woods, now issuing forth over swelling lawns, from which the view extended many a mile away,—at one moment displaying the great rugged mountains of Connemara, and at another, the broad blue sea, heaving heavily, and thundering in sullen roar against the rocks.
The fast-flitting clouds, the breezy grass, the wind-shaken foliage, and the white-crested waves, all were emblems of life; there was motion and sound and conflict! and yet to her heart, as she walked along, these influences imparted no sense of pleasure or relief. For a few seconds, perhaps, would she suddenly awake to the consciousness of the fair scene before her, and murmur to herself, perchance, the lines of some favorite poet; but in another moment her gloomy thoughtfulness was back again, and with bent-down head was she again moving onward. At times she walked rapidly forward, and then, relaxing her pace, she would stroll listlessly along, as though no object engaged her. And so was it in reality,—her main desire being to be free, in the open air; to be from beneath that roof whose shadow seemed to darken her very heart! Could that haughty spirit have humbled itself in sorrow, she might have found relief; but her proud nature had no such resource, and in her full heart injury and wrong had alone their place.
“And this,” burst she forth at length,—“and this is Home! this the dreamland of those far away over the seas,—the cherished spot of all affections,—the quiet nook wherein we breathe an atmosphere of love, blending our lives with all dearest to us. Is it, then, that all is hollow, false, and untrue; or is it that I alone have no part in the happiness that is diffused around me? I know not which would be the sadder!”
Thus, reasoning sadly, she went along, when suddenly, on the slope of a gentle hill in front of her, gracefully encircled with a young wood of larch and copper-beech, she caught sight of the cottage. It was a tasteful imitation of those seen in the Oberland, and with its wild background of lofty mountain, an appropriate ornament to the landscape.
A small stream running over a rocky, broken bed formed the boundary of the little grounds, and over this a bridge of a single plank conducted the way to the cottage. The whole was simple and unpretending; there was none of that smart trimness which gives to such scenes the air of an imitation. The lawn, it is true, was neatly shaven, and the flower-plots, which broke its uniformity, clean from weeds; but the flowers were of the simplest kind,—the crocus and the daffodil had to stand no dangerous rivalry, and the hyacinth had nothing to vie with.
Kate loitered for some time here, now gazing at the wild, stern landscape, now listening to the brawling rivulet, whose sounds were the only ones in the stillness. As she drew nigh the cottage, she found the windows of a little drawing-room open. She looked in: all was comfortable and neat-looking, but of the strictest simplicity. She next turned to the little porch, and pulled the bell; in a few seconds the sounds of feet were heard approaching, and a very old woman, whose appearance and dress were the perfection of neatness, appeared.
“Don't you know me, Mrs. Broon?” said Kate, gently.
“I do not, then, my Lady,” said she, respectfully, “for my eyes is gettin' dimmer every day.”
“I 'm Kate Henderson, Mrs. Broon. Do you forget me?”
“Indeed I do not,” said Catty, gravely. “You were here with the master and my Lady?”
“Yes. I went away with them to Germany; but I have come home for a while, and wish to pay my respects to Miss Mary.”
“She isn't at home to-day,” was the dry response.
“But she will return soon, I conclude. She'll be back some time in the evening, won't she?”
“If she plazes it, she will. There's nobody to control or make her do but what she likes herself,” said Catty.
“I ask,” said Kate, “because I'm a little tired. I've come off a long journey, and if you'd allow me to rest myself, and wait awhile in the hope of seeing Miss Martin, I'd be very thankful.”
“Come in, then,” said Catty; but the faint sigh with which the words were uttered, gave but a scant significance of welcome.
Kate followed her into the little drawing-room, and at a sign from the old woman, took a seat.
“Miss Mary is quite well, I'm glad to hear,” said Kate, endeavoring to introduce some conversation.
“Will they ever come back?” asked the old woman, in a stern, harsh voice, while she paid no attention whatever to Kate's remark.
“It is very unlikely,” said Kate. “Your poor master had not long to live when I came away. He was sinking rapidly.”
“So I heard,” muttered the other, dryly; “the last letter from Mr. Repton said 'he was n't expected.'”
“I fear it will be a great shock to Miss Mary,” said Kate.
The old woman nodded her head slowly several times without speaking.
“And, perhaps, cause great changes here?” continued Kate.
“There's changes enough, and too many already,” muttered Catty. “I remember the place upwards of eighty years. I was born in the little house to the right of the road as you come up from Kelly's mills. There was no mill there then, nor a school-house, no, nor a dispensary either! Musha, but the people was better off, and happier, when they had none of them.”
Kate smiled at the energy with which these words were uttered, surmising, rightfully, that Catty's condemnation of progress had a direct application to herself.
“Now it's all readin' and writin', teachin' honest people to be rogues, and givin' them new contrivances to cheat their masters. When I knew Cro' Martin first,” added she, almost fiercely, “there was n't a Scotch steward on the estate; but there was nobody turned out of his houldin', and there was n't a cabin unroofed to make the people seek shelter under a ditch.”
“The world would then seem growing worse every day,” remarked Kate, quietly.
“To be sure it is. Why would n't it? Money is in every one's heart. Nobody cares for his own flesh and blood. 'T is all money! What will I get if I take that farm over another man's head, or marry that girl that likes somebody better than me? 'Tis to be rich they're all strivin', and the devil never made people his own children so completely as by teachin' them to love goold!”
“Your young mistress has but little of this spirit in her heart?” said Kate.
“Signs on it! look at the life she leads: up before daybreak, and away many times before I 'm awake. She makes a cup of coffee herself, and saddles the pony, too, if Patsey is n't there to do it; and she 's off to Glentocher, or Knock-mullen, twelve, fourteen miles down the coast, with barley for one, and a bottle of wine for the other. Sometimes she has a basket with her, just a load to carry, with tay and shugar; ay, and—for she forgets nothing—toys for the children, too, and clothes, and even books. And then to see herself, she 's not as well dressed as her own maid used to be. There 's not a night she does n't sit up patchin' and piecin' her clothes. 'T is Billy at the cross-roads made her shoes last time for her, just because he was starvin' with nothing' to do. She ordered them, and she wears them, too; it makes him so proud, she says, to see them. And this is the niece of the Martins of Cro' Martin! without one of her kith or kin to welcome her home at nightfall,—without father or mother, brother or sister,—without a kind voice to say 'God bless her,' as she falls off to sleep many a time in that big chair there; and I take off her shoes without her knowin' it, she does be so weary and tired; and in her dhrames it 's always talking to the people, givin' them courage, and cheerin' them up, tellin' them there 's good times for every one; and once, the other evenin', she sang a bit of a song, thinkin' she was in Mat Leahy's cabin amusin' the children, and she woke up laughin', and said, 'Catty, I 've had such a pleasant dhrame. I thought I had little Nora, my godchild, on my knee, and was teachin' her “Why are the daisies in the grass?” I can't tell you how happy I felt!' There it was: the only thing like company to her poor heart was a dhrame!”
“I do not wonder that you love her, Catty,” said Kate; and the words fell tremulously from her lips.
“Love her! what's the use of such as me lovin' her?” cried the old woman, querulously. “Sure, it's not one of my kind knows how good she is! If you only seen her comin' in here, after dark, maybe, wet and weary and footsore, half famished with cold and hunger,—out the whole livelong day, over the mountains, where there was fever and shakin' ague, and starvin' people, ravin' mad between disease and destitution; and the first word out of her mouth will be, 'Oh, Catty, how grateful you and I ought to be with our warm roof over us, and our snug fire to sit at,' never thinkin' of who she is and what she has the right to, but just makin' herself the same as me. And then she 'd tell me where she was, and what she seen, and how well the people was bearin' up under their trials,—all the things they said to her, for they 'd tell her things they would n't tell the priest. 'Catty,' said she, t' other night, 'it looks like heartlessness in me to be in such high spirits in the midst of all this misery here; but I feel as if my courage was a well that others were drinking out of; and when I go into a cabin, the sick man, as he turns his head round, looks happier, and I feel as if it was my spirit that was warmin' and cheerin' him; and when a poor sick sufferin' child looks up at me and smiles, I 'm ready to drop on my knees and thank God in gratitude.'”
Kate covered her face with her hands, and never spoke; and now the old woman, warming with the theme she loved best, went on to tell various incidents and events of Mary's life,—the perilous accidents which befell her, the dangers she braved, the fatigues she encountered. Even recounted by her, there was a strange adventurous character that ran through these recitals, showing that Mary Martin, in all she thought and said and acted, was buoyed and sustained by a sort of native chivalry that made her actually court the incidents where she incurred the greatest hazard. It was plain to see what charm such traits possessed for her who recorded them, and how in her old Celtic blood ran the strong current of delight in all that pertained to the adventurous and the wild.
“'Tis her own father's nature is strong in her,” said Catty, with enthusiasm. “Show him the horse that nobody could back, tell him of a storm where no fisherman would launch his boat, point out a cliff that no man could climb, and let me see who 'd hould him! She 's so like him, that when there 's anything daring to be done you would n't know her voice from his own. There, now, I hear her without,” cried the old woman, as, rising suddenly, she approached the window. “Don't you hear something?”
“Nothing but the wind through the trees,” said Kate.
“Ay, but I did, and my ears are older than yours. She's riding through the river now; I hear the water splashin'.”
Kate tried to catch the sounds, but could not; she walked out upon the lawn to listen, but except the brawling of the stream among the rocks, there was nothing to be heard.
“D' ye see her comin'?” asked Catty, eagerly.
“No. Your ears must have deceived you. There is no one coming.”
“I heard her voice, as I hear yours now. I heard her spake to the mare, as she always does when she 's plungin' into the river. There, now, don't you hear that?”
“I hear nothing, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Broon. It is your own anxiety that is misleading you; but if you like, I 'll go down towards the river and see.” And without waiting for a reply Kate hastened down the slope. As she went, she could not help reflecting over the superstition which attaches so much importance to these delusions, giving them the character of actual warnings. It was doubtless from the mind dwelling so forcibly on Miss Martin's perilous life that the old woman's apprehensions had assumed this palpable form, and thus invented the very images which should react upon her with terror.
“Just as I thought,” cried Kate, as she stood on the bank of the stream; “all silent and deserted, no one within sight.” And slowly she retraced her steps towards the cottage. The old woman stood at the door, pale and trembling; an attempt to smile was on her features, but her heart denied the courage of the effort.
“Where is she now?” cried Catty, wildly. “She rang the bell this minute, and I heerd the mare trottin' round to the stable by herself, as she always does. But where 's Miss Mary?”
“My dear Mrs. Broon,” said Kate, in her kindest accents, “it is just as I told you. Your mind is anxious and uneasy about Miss Martin; you are unhappy at her absence, and you think at every stir you hear her coming; but I have been to the river-side, and there is no one there. I 'll go round to the stables, if you wish it.”
“There 's no tracks of a hoof on the gravel,” muttered the old woman, in a broken voice; “there was nobody here!”
“So I said,” replied Kate. “It was a mere delusion,—a fancy.”
“A delusion,—a fancy!” cried Catty, scornfully; “that's the way they always spake of whatever they don't understand. It's easier to say that than confess you don't see how to explain a thing; but I heerd the same sounds before you came to-day; ay, and I went down to see why she was n't comin', and at the pool there was bubbles and froth on the water, just as if a baste had passed through, but no livin' thing to be seen. Was n't that a delusion, too?”
“An accident, perchance. Only think, what lives of misery we should lead were we ever tracing our own fears, and connecting them with all the changes that go on around us!”
“It's two days she's away, now,” muttered the old woman, who only heeded her own thoughts; “she was to be back last night, or early this mornin'.”
“Where had she gone to?” asked Kate, who now saw that the other had lapsed into confidence.
“She's gone to the islands!—to Innishmore, and maybe, on to Brannock!”
“That's a long way out to sea,” said Kate, thoughtfully; “but still, the weather is fine, and the day favorable. Had she any other object than pleasure in this excursion?”
“Pleasure is it?” croaked Catty. “'Tis much pleasure she does be given herself! Her pleasure is to be where there 's fever and want,—in the lonely cabin, where the sick is lyin'! It 's to find a poor crayture that run away from home she 's gone now,—one Joan Landy. She's missin' this two months, and nobody knows where she 's gone to! and Miss Mary got so uneasy at last that she could n't sleep by night nor rest by day,—always talkin' about her, and say in' as much as it was all her fault; as if she could know why she went, or where?”
“Did she go alone on this errand, then?”
“To be sure she did. Who could she have with her? She towld Loony she 'd want the boat with four men in it, and maybe to stay out three days, for she 'd go to all the islands before she came back.”
“Loony 's the best sailor on the coast, I 've heard; and with such weather as this there is no cause for alarm.”
Catty did not seem to heed the remark; she felt that within her against which the words of consolation availed but little, and she sat brooding sorrowfully and in silence.
“The night will soon be fallin' now,” said she, at last. “I hope she's not at sea!”
In spite of herself, Kate Henderson caught the contagion of the old woman's terrors, and felt a dreamy, undefined dread of coming evil. As she looked out, however, at the calm and fair landscape, which, as day declined, grew each moment more still, she rallied from the gloomy thoughts, and said,—“I wish I knew how to be of any service to you, Mrs. Broon. If you could think of anything I could do—anywhere I could go—” She stopped suddenly at a gesture from the old woman, who, lifting her hand to impress silence, stood a perfect picture of eager anxiety to hear. Bending down her head, old Catty stood for several seconds motionless.
“Don't ye hear it now?” broke she in. “Listen! I thought I heerd something like a wailin' sound far off, but it is the wind. See how the tree-tops are bendin'!—That's three times I heerd it now,” said Catty. “If ye live to be as old as me, you 'll not think light of a warnin'. You think your hearin' better because you're younger; but I tell you that there 's sounds that only reach ears that are goin' to where the voices came from. When eyes grow dim to sights of this world, they are strainin' to catch a glimpse of them that's beyond it.” Although no tears rose to her eyes, the withered face trembled in her agony, and her clasped hands shook in the suffering of her sorrow.
Against impressions of this sort, Kate knew well enough how little reasoning availed, and she forbore to press arguments which she was aware would be unsuccessful. She tried, however, to turn the current of the old woman's thoughts, by leading her to speak of the condition of the country and the state of the people. Catty gave short, abrupt, and unwilling answers to all she asked, and Kate at length arose to take her leave.
“You're goin' away, are ye?” said Catty, half angrily.
“I have only just remembered that I have a long way to walk, and it is already growing late.”
“Ay, and ye 're impatient to be back again, at home, beside your own fire, with your own people. But she has no home, and her own has deserted her!”
“Mine has not many charms for me!” muttered Kate to herself.
“It's happy for you that has father and mother,” went on the old woman. “Them 's the only ones, after all!—the only ones that never loves the less, the less we desarve it! I don't wonder ye came back again!” And in a sort of envious bitterness Catty wished her a good-night.
If the distance she had to walk was not shortened by the tenor of her thoughts, as little did she feel impatient to press onward. Dreary and sad enough were her reveries. Of the wild visionary ambitions which once had stirred her heart, there remained nothing but disappointments. She had but passed the threshold of life to find all dreary and desolate; but perhaps the most painful feeling of the moment was the fact that now pressed conviction on her, and told that in the humble career of such a one as Mary Martin there lay a nobler heroism and a higher devotion than in the most soaring path of political ambition, and that all the theorizing as to popular rights made but a sorry figure beside the actual benefits conferred by one true-hearted lover of her kind. “She is right, and I am wrong!” muttered she to herself. “In declining to entertain questions of statecraft she showed herself above, and not beneath, the proud position she had taken. The very lowliness of this task is its glory. Oh, if I could but win her confidence and be associated in such a labor! and yet my very birth denies me the prestige that hers confers.” And then she thought of home, and all the coldness of that cheerless greeting smote upon her heart.
The moon was up ere Kate arrived at her father's door. She tapped at it gently, almost timidly. Her stepmother, as if expecting her, came quickly, and in a low, cautious whisper told her that she would find her supper ready in her bedroom.
“To-morrow, perhaps, he may be in better humor or better spirits. Good-night.” And so Kate silently stole along to her room, her proud heart swelling painfully, and her tearless eye burning with all the heat of a burning brain.