CHAPTER XXXVI. A GREAT DISCOVERY
About an hour after Massingbred's departure for Kilkieran, Mr. Repton set out for Cro' Martin Castle. The inn had furnished him its best chaise and four of its primest horses; and had the old lawyer been disposed to enjoy the pleasure which a great moralist has rated so highly, of rapid motion through the air, he might have been gratified on that occasion. Unhappily, however, he was not so minded. Many and very serious cares pressed upon him. He was travelling a road, too, which he had so often journeyed in high spirits, fancying to himself the pleasant welcome before him, and even rehearsing to his own mind the stores of agreeability he was to display,—and now it was to a deserted mansion, lonely and desolate, he was turning! Death and ruin both had done their work on that ancient family, whose very name in the land seemed already hastening to oblivion!
Few men could resist the influence of depression better than Repton. It was not alone that his temperament was still buoyant and energetic, but the habits of his profession had taught him the necessity of being prepared for emergencies, and he would have felt it a dereliction of duty were his sentiments to overmaster his power of action.
Still, as he went along, the well-known features of the spot would recall memories of the past. There lay a dense wood, of which he remembered the very day, the very hour, poor Martin had commenced the planting. There was the little trout-stream, where, under pretence of fishing, he had lounged along the summer day, with Horace for his companion; that, the school-house Mary had sketched, and built out of her own pocket-money. And now the great massive gates slowly opened, and they were within the demesne,—all silent and noiseless. As they came in sight of the castle, Repton covered his face with his hands, and sat for some minutes thus. Then, as if mastering his emotion, he raised his head and folded his arms on his chest.
“You are true to time, I perceive, Dr. Leslie,” said he, as the chaise stopped at the door and the venerable clergyman came forward to greet him.
“I got your note last night, sir, but I determined not to keep you waiting, for I perceive you say that time is precious now.”
“I thank you heartily,” said Repton, as he shook the other's hand. “I am grateful to you also for being here to meet me, for I begin to feel my courage fail me as to crossing that threshold again!”
“Age has its penalties as well as its blessings, sir,” said Leslie, “and amongst these is to outlive those dear to us!” There was a painful significance to his own desolate condition that made these words doubly impressive.
Repton made no reply, but pulled the bell strongly; and the loud, deep sounds rung out clearly through the silent house. After a brief interval a small window above the door was opened, and a man with a blunderbuss in his hand sternly demanded their business.
“Oh, I ax pardon, sir,” said he, as suddenly correcting himself. “I thought it was that man that 's come to take the place,—'the Jew,' they call him,—and Mr. Magennis said I was n't to let him in, or one belonging to him.”
“No, Barney, we are not his friends,” said Dr. Leslie; “this is Mr. Repton.”
“Sure I know the Counsellor well, sir,” said Barney. “I 'll be down in a minute and open the door.”
“I must go to work at once,” said Repton, in a low and somewhat broken voice, “or this place will be too much for me. Every step I go is calling up old times and old scenes. I had thought my heart was of sterner stuff. Isn't this the way to the library? No, not that way,—that was poor Martin's own breakfast-room!” He spoke hurriedly, like one who wished to suppress emotion by very activity of thought.
While the man who conducted them opened the window-shutters and the windows, Repton and his companion sat down without speaking. At last he withdrew, and Repton, rising, said,—“Some of the happiest hours of my life were passed in this same room. I used to come up here after the fatigues of circuit, and, throwing myself into one of those easy-chairs, dream away for a day or two, gazing out on that bold mountain yonder, above the trees, and wondering how those fellows who never relaxed, in this wise, could sustain the wear and tear of life; for that junketing to Harrow-gate, that rattling, noisy steamboating up the Rhine, that Cockney heroism of Swiss travel, is my aversion. The calm forenoon for thought, the pleasant dinner-table for genial enjoyment afterwards,—these are true recreations. And what evenings we have had here! But I must not dwell on these.” And now he threw upon the table a mass of papers and letters, amongst which he sought out one, from which he took a small key. “Dr. Leslie,” said he, “you might have been assured that I have not called upon you to meet me to-day without a sufficient reason. I know that, from certain causes, of which I am not well informed, you were not on terms of much intimacy with my poor friend here. This is not a time to think of these things; you, I am well assured, will never remember them.”
Leslie made a motion of assent; and the other went on, his voice gradually gaining in strength and fulness, and his whole manner by degrees assuming the characteristic of the lawyer.
“To the few questions to which I will ask your answers, now, I have to request all your attention. They are of great importance; they may, very probably, be re-asked of you under more solemn circumstances; and I have to bespeak, not alone all your accuracy for the replies, but that you may be able, if asked, to state the manner and even the words in which I now address you.—You have been the incumbent of this parish for a length of time,—what number of years?”
“Sixty-three. I was appointed to the vicarage on my ordination, and never held any other charge.”
“You knew the late Darcy Martin, father of the last proprietor of this estate?”
“Intimately.”
“You baptized his two children, born at the same birth. State what you remember of the circumstance.”
“I was sent for to the castle to give a private baptism to the two infants, and requested that I would bring the vestry-book along with me for the registration. I did so. The children were accordingly christened, and their births duly registered and witnessed.”
“Can you remember the names by which they were called?”
“Not from the incident in question, though I know the names from subsequent knowledge of them, as they grew up to manhood.”
“What means, if any, were adopted at the time to distinguish the priority of birth?”
“The eldest was first baptized, and his birth specially entered in the vestry-book as such; all the witnesses who signed the entry corroborating the fact by special mention of it under their signature. We also heard that the child wore a gold bracelet on one arm; but I did not remark it.”
“You have this vestry-book in your keeping?”
“No; Mr. Martin retained it, with some object of more formal registration. I repeatedly asked for it, but never could obtain it. At length some coolness grew up between us, and I could not, or did not wish to press my demand; and at last it lapsed entirely from my memory, so that from that day I never saw it.”
“You could, however, recognize it, and be able to verify your signature?”
“Certainly.”
“Was there, so far as you could see, any marked distinction made between the children while yet young?”
“I can remember that at the age of three or four the eldest boy wore a piece of red or blue ribbon on his sleeve; but any other mark I never observed. They were treated, so far as I could perceive, precisely alike; and their resemblance to each other was then so striking, it would have been a matter of great nicety to distinguish them. Even at school, I am told, mistakes constantly occurred, and one boy once received the punishment incurred by the other.”
“As they grew up, you came to recognize the eldest by his name?”
“Yes. Old Mr. Darcy Martin used to take the elder boy more about with him. He was then a child of ten or eleven years old. He was particular in calling attention to him, saying, 'This fellow is to be my heir; he 'll be the Martin of Cro' Martin yet'”
“And what name did the boy bear?”
“Godfrey,—Godfrey Martin. The second boy's name was Barry.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Quite sure. I have dined a number of times at the castle, when Godfrey was called in after dinner, and the other boy was generally in disgrace; and I could remark that his father spoke of him in a tone of irritation and bitterness, which he did not employ towards the other.”
“Mr. Martin died before his sons came of age?”
“Yes; they were only nineteen at his death.”
“He made a will, I believe, to which you were a witness?”
“I was; but somehow the will was lost or mislaid, and it was only by a letter to the Honorable Colonel Forbes, of Lisvally, that Martin's intentions about appointing him guardian to his elder boy were ascertained. I myself was named guardian to the second son, an office of which he soon relieved me by going abroad, and never returned for a number of years.”
“Godfrey Martin then succeeded to the estate in due course?”
“Yes, and we were very intimate for a time, till after his marriage, when estrangement grew up between us, and at last we ceased to visit at all.”
“Were the brothers supposed to be on good terms with each other?”
“I have heard two opposite versions on that subject. My own impression was that Lady Dorothea disliked Barry Martin, who had made a marriage that was considered beneath him; and then his brother was, from easiness of disposition, gradually weaned of his old affection for him. Many thought Barry, with all his faults, the better-hearted of the two.”
“Can you tell what ultimately became of this Barry Martin?”
“I only know, from common report, that after the death of his wife, having given his infant child, a girl, in charge to his brother, he engaged in the service of some of the Southern American Republics, and is supposed yet to be living there,—some say in great affluence; others, that he is utterly ruined by a failure in a mining speculation. The last time I ever heard Godfrey speak of him was in terms of sincere affection, adding the words, 'Poor Barry will befriend every one but himself.'”
“So that he never returned?”
“I believe not; at least I never heard of it.”
“I have written down these questions and your answers to them,” said Repton; “will you read them over, and if you find them correct, append your signature. I am expecting Mr. Nelligan here, and I 'll go and see if there be any sign of his arrival.”
Repton just reached the door as Mr. Nelligan drove up to it.
“All goes on well and promptly to-day,” said the old lawyer. “I have got through a good deal of business already, and I expect to do as much more ere evening sets in. I have asked you to be present, as a magistrate, while I examine the contents of a certain closet in this house. I am led to believe that very important documents are deposited there, and it is in your presence, and that of Mr. Leslie, I purpose to make the inquiry. Before I do so, however, I will entreat your attention to a number of questions, and the answers to them, which will be read out to you. You will then be in a better position to judge of any discovery which the present investigation may reveal. All this sounds enigmatically enough, Mr. Nelligan; but you will extend your patience to me for a short while, and I hope to repay it.”
Nelligan bowed in silence, and followed him into the house.
“There,” said Mr. Leslie, “I have written my name to that paper; it is, so far as I can see, perfectly correct.”
“Now, let me read it for Mr. Nelligan,” said Repton; and, without further preface, recited aloud the contents of the document. “I conclude, sir,” said he, as he finished, “that there is nothing in what you have just heard very new or very strange to your ears. You knew before that Darcy Martin had two sons; that they were twins; and that one of them, Godfrey, inherited the estate. You may also have heard something of the brother's history; more, perhaps, than is here alluded to.”
“I have always heard him spoken of as a wild, reckless fellow, and that it was a piece of special good fortune he was not born to the property, or he had squandered every shilling of it,” said Nelligan.
“Yes,” said Leslie, “such was the character he bore.”
“That will do,” said Repton, rising. “Now, gentlemen, I'm about to unlock this cabinet, and, if I be correctly informed, we shall find the vestry-book with the entries spoken of by Mr. Leslie, and the long missing will of Darcy Martin. Such, I repeat, are the objects I expect to discover; and it is in your presence I proceed to this examination.”
In some astonishment at his words, the others followed him to the corner of the room, where, half concealed in the wainscot, a small door was at length discovered, unlocking which, Repton and the others entered a little chamber, lighted by a narrow, loopholed window. Not stopping to examine the shelves loaded with old documents and account-books, Repton walked straight to a small ebony cabinet, on a bracket, opening which, he drew forth a square vellum-bound book, with massive clasps.
“The old vestry-book. I know it well,” said Leslie.
“Here are the documents in parchment,” continued Repton, “and a sealed paper. What are the lines in the corner, Mr. Nelligan,—your eyes are better than mine?”
“'Agreement between Godfrey and Barry Martin. To be opened by whichever shall survive the other.' The initials of each are underneath.”
“With this we have no concern,” said Repton; “our business lies with these.” And he pointed to the vestry-book. “Let us look for the entry you spoke of.”
“It is easily found,” said Leslie. “It was the last ever made in that book. Here it is.” And he read aloud: “'February 8th, 1772. Privately baptized, at Cro' Martin Castle, by me, Henry Leslie, Incumbent and Vicar of the said parish, Barry and Godfrey, sons of Darcy Martin and Eleanor his wife, both born on the fourth day of the aforesaid month; and, for the better discrimination of their priority in age, it is hereby added that Barry Martin is the elder, and Godfrey the second son, to which fact the following are attesting witnesses: Michael Keirn, house-steward; George Dorcas, butler; and Catharine Broon, maid of still-room.'”
“Is that in your handwriting, sir?” asked Repton.
“Yes, every word of it, except the superscription of the witnesses.”
“Why, then it would appear that the eldest son never enjoyed his rights,” cried Nelligan. “Is that possible?”
“It is the strict truth, sir,” said Repton. “The whole history of the case adds one to the thousand instances of the miserable failures men make who seek by the indulgence of their own caprices to obstruct the decrees of Providence. Darcy Martin died in the belief that he had so succeeded; and here, now, after more than half a century, are the evidences which reverse his whole policy, and subvert all his plans.”
“But what could have been the object here?” asked Nelligan.
“Simply his preference for the younger-born. No sooner had the children arrived at that time of life when dispositions display themselves, than he singled out Godfrey as his favorite. He distinguished him in every way, and as markedly showed that he felt little affection for the other. Whether this favoritism, so openly expressed, had its influence on the rest of the household, or that really they grew to believe that the boy thus selected for peculiar honor was the heir, it would be very difficult now to say. Each cause may have contributed its share; all we know is, that when sent to Dr. Harley's school, at Oughterard, Godfrey was called the elder, and distinguished as such by a bit of red ribbon in his button-hole. And thus they grew up to youth and manhood,—the one flattered, indulged, and caressed; the other equally depreciated and undervalued. Men are, in a great measure, what others make them. Godfrey became proud, indolent, and overbearing; Barry, reckless and a spendthrift Darcy Martin died, and Godfrey succeeded him as matter of course; while Barry, disposing of the small property bequeathed to him, set out to seek adventures in the Spanish Main.
“I am not able to tell, had you even the patience to hear, of what befell him there; the very strangest, wildest incidents are recorded of his life, but they have no bearing on what we are now engaged in. He came back, however, with a wife, to find his brother also married. This is a period of his life of which little is known. The brothers did not live well together. There were serious differences between them; and Lady Dorothea's conduct towards her sister-in-law, needlessly cruel and offensive, as I have heard, imbittered the relations between them. At last Barry's wife died, it was said, of a broken heart, and Barry arrived at Cro' Martin to deposit his infant child with his brother, and take leave of home and country forever.
“Some incident of more than usual importance, and with circumstances of no common pain, must now have occurred; for one night Barry left the castle, vowing nevermore to enter it. Godfrey followed, and tried to detain him. A scene ensued of entreaty on one side, and passionate vehemence on the other, which brought some of the servants to the spot. Godfrey imperiously ordered them away; they all obeyed but Catty. Catty Broon followed Barry, and never quitted him that night, which he spent walking up and down the long avenue of the demesne, watching and waiting for daybreak. We can only conjecture what, in the violence of her grief and indignation, this old attached follower of the house might have revealed. Barry had always been her favorite of the two boys; she knew his rights; she had never forgotten them. She could not tell by what subtleties of law they had been transferred to another, but she felt in her heart assured that in the sight of God they were sacred. How far, then, she revealed this to him, or only hinted it, we have no means of knowing. We can only say that, armed with a certain fact, Barry demanded the next day a formal meeting with his brother and his sister-in-law. Of what passed then and there, no record remains, save, possibly, in that sealed packet; for it bears the date of that eventful morning. I, however, am in a position to prove that Barry declared he would not disturb the possession Godfrey was then enjoying. 'Make that poor child,' said he, alluding to his little girl, your own daughter, and it matters little what becomes of me.' Godfrey has more than once adverted to this distressing scene to me. He told me how Lady Dorothea's passion was such that she alternately inveighed against himself for having betrayed her into a marriage beneath her, and abjectly implored Barry not to expose them to the shame and disgrace of the whole world by the assertion of his claim. From this she would burst out into fits of open defiance of him, daring him as an impostor; in fact, Martin said, 'That morning has darkened my life forever; the shadow of it will be over me to the last hour I live!' And so it was! Self-reproach never left him: at one time, for his usurpation of what never was his; at another, for the neglect of poor Mary, who was suffered to grow up without any care of her education, or, indeed, of any attention whatever bestowed upon her.
“I believe that, in spite of herself, Lady Dorothea visited the dislike she bore Barry on his daughter. It was a sense of hate from the consciousness of a wrong,—one of the bitterest sources of enmity! At all events, she showed her little affection,—no tenderness. Poor Godfrey did all that his weak and yielding nature would permit to repair this injustice; his consciousness that to that girl's father he owed position, fortune, station, everything, was ever rising up in his mind, and urging him to some generous effort in her behalf. But you knew him; you knew how a fatal indolence, a shrinking horror of whatever demanded action or energy overcame all his better nature, and made him as useless to all the exigencies of life as one whose heart was eaten up by selfishness.
“The remainder of this sad story is told in very few words. Barry Martin, from whom for several years before no tidings had been received, came suddenly back to England. At first it had not been his intention to revisit Ireland. There was something of magnanimity in the resolve to stay away. He would not come back to impose upon his brother a renewal of that lease of gratitude he derived from him; he would rather spare him the inevitable conflict of feeling which the contrast of his own affluence with the humble condition of an exile would evoke. Besides, he was one of those men whom, whatever Nature may have disposed them to be, the world has so crushed and hardened that they live rather to indulge strong resentments and stern duties than to gratify warm affections. Something he had accidentally heard in a coffee-room—the chance mention by a traveller recently returned from Ireland—about a young lady of rank and fortune whom he had met hunting her own harriers alone in the wildest glen of Connemara, decided him to go over there, and, under the name of Mr. Barry, to visit the scenes of his youth.
“I have but to tell you that it was in that dreary month of November, when plague and famine came together upon us, that he saw this country; the people dying on every side, the land until led, the very crops in some places uncut, terror and dismay on every side, and they who alone could have inspired confidence, or afforded aid, gone! Even Cro' Martin was deserted,—worse than deserted; for one was left to struggle alone against difficulties that the boldest and the bravest might have shrunk from. Had Barry Martin been like any other man, he would at once have placed himself at her side. It was a glorious occasion to have shown her that she was not the lone and friendless orphan, but the loved and cherished child of a doting father. But the hard, stern nature of the man had other and very different impulses; and though he tracked her from cottage to cottage, followed her in her lonely rambles, and watched her in her daily duties, no impulse of affection ever moved him to call her his daughter and bring her home to his heart. I know not whether it was to afford him these occasions of meeting her, or really in a spirit of benevolence, but he dispensed large sums in acts of charity among the people, and Mary herself recounted to me, with tears of delight in her eyes, the splendid generosity of this unknown stranger. I must hasten on. An accident, the mere circumstance of a note-book dropped by some strange chance in Barry's room, revealed to him the whole story of Captain Martin's spendthrift life; he saw that this young man had squandered away not only immense sums obtained by loans, but actually bartered his own reversionary right to the entire estate for money already lost at the gaming-table.
“Barry at once set out for Dublin to call upon me and declare himself; but I was, unfortunately, absent at the assizes. He endeavored next to see Scanlan. Scanlan was in London; he followed him there. To Scanlan he represented himself as a money-lender, who, having come to the knowledge of Merl's dealings with young Martin, and the perilous condition of the property in consequence, offered his aid to re-purchase the reversion while it was yet time. To effect this bargain, Scanlan hastened over to Baden, accompanied by Barry, who, however, for secrecy' sake, remained at a town in the neighborhood. Scanlan, it seems, resolved to profit by an emergency so full of moment, and exacted from Lady Dorothea—for Martin was then too ill to be consulted—the most advantageous terms for himself. I need not mention one of the conditions,—a formal consent to his marriage with Miss Martin! and this, remember, when that young lady had not the slightest, vaguest suspicion that such an indignity could be offered her, far less concurred in by her nearest relatives! In the exuberance of his triumph, Scanlan showed the formal letter of assent from Lady Dorothea to Barry. It was from this latter I had the account, and I can give you no details, for all he said was, 'As I crushed it in my hand, I clenched my fist to fell him to the ground! but I refrained. I muttered a word or two, and got out into the street. I know very little more.'
“That night he set out for Baden; but of his journey I know nothing. The only hint of it he ever dropped was when, giving me this key, he said, 'I saw Godfrey.'
“He is now back here once more; come to insist upon his long unasserted rights, and by a title so indisputable that it will leave no doubt of the result.
“He is silent and uncommunicative; but he has said enough to show me that he is possessed of evidence of the compact between Godfrey and himself; nor is he the man to fail for lack of energy.
“I have now come to the end of this strange history, in which it is not impossible you yourselves may be called to play a part, in confirmation of what you have seen this day.”
“Then this was the same Mr. Barry of whom we spoke last night?” said Nelligan, thoughtfully. “When about to describe him to you, I was really going to say, something like what Mr. Martin might look, if ten years older and white-haired.”
“There is a strong resemblance still!” said Repton, as he busied himself sealing up the vestry-book and the other documents. “These I mean to deposit in your keeping, Mr. Nelligan, till they be called for. I have sent over Massingbred to Barry to learn what his wishes may be as to the next legal steps; and now I am ready to return with you to Oughterard.”
Talking over this singular story, they reached the town, where Massingbred had just arrived a short time before.
“I have had a long chase,” said Jack, “and only found him late in the afternoon at the cottage.”
“You gave him the packet, then, and asked when we should meet?” asked Repton, hurriedly.
“Yes; he was walking up and down before the door with the doctor, when we rode up. He scarcely noticed us; and taking your letter in his hand he placed it, without breaking the seal, on a seat in the porch. I then gave him your message, and he seemed so lost in thought that I fancied he had not attended to me. I was about to repeat it, when he interrupted me, saying, 'I have heard you, sir; there is no answer.' As I stood for a moment or two, uncertain what to do or say, I perceived that Joe Nelligan, who had been speaking to the doctor, had just staggered towards a bench, ill and fainting. 'Yes,' said Barry, turning his eyes towards him, 'she is very—very ill; tell Repton so, and he 'll feel for me!'”
Repton pressed his handkerchief to his face and turned away.
“I 'm afraid,” said Massingbred, “that her state is highly dangerous. The few words the doctor dropped were full of serious meaning.”
“Let us hope, and pray,” said Repton, fervently, “that, amidst all the calamities of this sorrow-struck land, it may be spared the loss of one who never opened a cabin door without a blessing, nor closed it but to shut a hope within.”