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.