CHAPTER XXIII. THE COAST IN WINTER
Although Tate Sullivan had arrived in Coleraine and provided himself with a chaise expressly to bring his mistress and her daughter back to “The Corvy,” – from which the sheriff’s officers had retired in discomfiture, on discovering the loss of their warrants, – Lady Eleanor, dreading a renewal of the law proceedings, had determined never to return thither.
From the postilion they learned that a small but not uncomfortable lodging could be had near the little village of Port Ballintray, and to this spot they now directed their course. The transformation of a little summer watering-place into the dismal village of some poor fishermen in winter, is a sad spectacle; nor was the picture relieved by the presence of the fragments of a large vessel, which, lately lost with all its crew, hung on the rocks, thumping and clattering with every motion of the waves. By the faint moonlight Lady Eleanor and her daughter could mark the outlines of figures, as they waded in the tide or clambered along the rocks, stripping the last remains of the noble craft, and contending with each other for the spoils of the dead.
If the scene itself was a sorrowful one, it was no less painful to their eyes from feeling a terrible similitude between their own fortunes and that of the wrecked vessel; the gallant ship, meant to float in its pride over the ocean, now a broken and shattered wreck, falling asunder with each stroke of the sea!
“How like and yet how unlike!” sighed Lady Eleanor; “if these crushed and shattered timbers have no feeling in the hour of adversity, yet are they denied the glorious hopefulness that in the saddest moments clings to humanity. Ours is shipwreck, too, but, taken at its worst, is only temporary calamity!”
Helen pressed her mother’s hands with fervor to her lips; perhaps never had she loved her with more intensity than at that instant.
The chaise drew up at the door of a little cabin, built at the foot of, and, as it actually seemed, against a steep rocky cliff of great height. In summer it was regarded as one of the best among the surrounding lodgings, but now it looked dreary enough. A fishing-boat, set up on one end, formed a kind of sheltering porch to the doorway; while spars, masts, and oars were lashed upon the thatch, to serve as a protection against the dreadful gales of winter.
A childless widow was the only occupant, whose scanty livelihood was eked out by letting lodgings to the summer visitors, – a precarious subsistence, which in bad seasons, and they were not unfrequent, failed altogether. It was with no small share of wonderment that Mary Spellan – or “old Molly,” as the village more usually called her – saw a carriage draw up to the cabin door late of a dark night in winter; nor was this feeling unalloyed by a very strong tincture of suspicion, for Molly was an Antrim woman, and had her proportion of the qualities, good and bad, of the “Black North.”
“They ‘ll no be makin’ a stay on’t,” said she to the postboy, who, in his capacity of interpreter, had got down to explain to Molly the requirements of the strangers. “They ‘ll be here to-day and awa to-morrow, I ‘m thenkin’,” said she, with habitual and native distrust. “And what for wull I make a ‘hottle’” – no greater indignity could be offered to the lodging-house keeper than to compare the accommodation in any respect with that of an hotel – “of my wee bit house, takin’ out linen and a’ the rest o’ it for maybe a day or twa.”
Lady Eleanor, who watched from the window of the chaise the course of the negotiations without hearing any part of the colloquy, was impatient at the slow progress events seemed to take, and supposing that the postboy’s demands were made with more regard to their habits than to old Molly’s means of accommodation, called out, —
“Tell the good woman that we are easily satisfied; and if the cabin be but clean and quiet – ”
“What’s the leddie sayin’?” said Molly, who heard only a stray word, and that not overpleasing to her.
“She ‘s saying it will do very well,” said the postboy, conciliatingly, “and ‘tis maybe a whole year she ‘ll stay with you.”
“Ech, dearee me!” sighed Molly, “it’s wearisome enough to hae’ them a’ the summer, without hae’ing them in the winter too. Tell her to come ben, and see if she likes the place.” And with this not over-courteous proposal, Molly turned her back, and rolled, rather thau walked, into the cabin.
The three little rooms which comprised the whole suite destined for strangers, were, in all their poverty, scrupulously clean; and Molly, gradually thawed by the evident pretensions of her guests, volunteered little additions to the furniture, as she went along, concluding with the very characteristic remark, —
“But ye maun consider, that it’s no my habit, or my likin’ either, to hae lodgers in the winter; and af ye come, ye maun e’en pay for your whistle, like ither folk.”
This was the arrangement that gave Lady Eleanor the least trouble; and though the terms demanded were in reality exorbitant, they were acceded to without hesitation by those who never had had occasion to make similar compacts, and believed that the sum was a most reasonable one.
As is ever the case, the many wants and inconveniences of a restricted dwelling were far more placidly endured by those long habituated to every luxury than by their followers; and so, while Lady Eleanor and Helen submitted cheerfully to daily privations of one kind or other, Tate lived a life of everlasting complaint and grumbling over the narrow accommodation of the cabin, continually irritating old Molly by demands impossible to comply with, and suggesting the necessity of changes perfectly out of her power to effect. It is but justice to the faithful old butler to state, that to this line of conduct he was prompted by what he deemed due to his mistress and her high station, rather than by any vain hope of ever succeeding, his complaints being less demands for improvement than after the fashion of those “protests” which dissentient members of a legislature think it necessary to make in cases where opposition is unavailing.
These half-heard mutterings of Tate were the only interruptions to a life of sad but tranquil monotony. Lady Eleanor and her daughter lived as though in a long dream; the realities around them so invested with sameness and uniformity that days, weeks, and months blended into each other, and became one commingled mass of time, undivided and unmarked. Of the world without they heard but little; of those dearest to them, absolutely nothing. The very newspapers maintained a silence on the subject of the expedition under Abercrombie, so that of the Knight himself they had no tidings whatever. Of Daly they only heard once, at the end of one of Bicknell’s letters, one of those gloomy records of the law’s delay; that he said, “You will be sorry to learn that Mr. Bagenal Daly, having omitted to appear personally or by counsel in a cause lately called on here, has been cast in heavy damages, and pronounced in contempt, neither of which inflictions will probably give him much uneasiness, if, as report speaks, he has gone to pass the remainder of his days in America. Miss Daly speaks of joining him, when she learns that he has fixed on any spot of future residence.” The only particle of consolation extractable from the letter was in a paragraph at the end, which ran thus: “O’Reilly’s solicitor has withdrawn all the proceedings lately commenced, and there is an evident desire to avoid further litigation. I hear that for the points now in dispute an arbitration will be proposed. Would you feel disposed or free to accept such an offer, if made? Let me know this, as I should be prepared at all events.”
Even this half-confession of a claim gave hope to the drooping spirits of Lady Eleanor, and she lost no time in acquainting Bicknell with her opinion that while they neither could nor would compromise the rights of their son, for any interests actually their own, and terminating with their lives, they would willingly adopt any arrangement that should remove the most pressing evils of poverty, and permit them to live united for the rest of their days.
The severe winter of northern Ireland closed in, with all its darkening skies and furious storms; scattered fragments of wrecked vessels, spars, and ship-gear strewed the rocky coast for miles. The few cottages here and there were closed and barricaded as if against an enemy, the roofs fastened down by ropes and heavy implements of husbandry, to keep safe the thatch; the boats of the fishermen drawn up on land, grouped round the shealings in sad but not unpicturesque confusion. The ever-restless sea beating like thunder upon that iron shore, the dark impending clouds lowering over cliff and precipice, were all that the eye could mark. No cattle were on the hills; the sheep nestling in the little glens and valleys were almost undistinguishable from the depth of gloom around; not a man was to be seen.
The little village of Port Ballintray, which a few months before abounded in all the sights and sounds of human intercourse, was now perfectly deserted. Most of the cottages were fastened on the inside; in some the doors, burst open by the storm, showed still more unquestionably that no dwellers remained; the little gardens, tended with such care, were now uprooted and devastated; fallen trellises and ruined porches were seen on every side; and even Mrs. Fumbally’s, the pride and glory of the place, had not escaped the general wreck, and the flaunting archway, on which, in bright letters, her name was inscribed, hung pensively by one pillar, and waved like a sad pendulum, “counting the weary minutes over!”
While nothing could less resemble the signs of habitation than the aspect of matters without, within a fire burned on more than one hearth, and a serving-woman was seen moving from place to place occupied in making those arrangements which bespoke the speedy arrival of visitors.
It was long after nightfall that a travelling carriage and four – a rare sight in such a place, even in the palmiest days of summer – drew up at the front of the little garden, and after some delay a very old and feeble man was lifted out, and carried between two servants into the house; he was followed by another, whose firm step and erect figure indicated the prime of life; while after him again came a small man, most carefully protected by coats and comforters against the severity of the season. He walked lame, and in the shuddering look he gave around in the short transit from the carriage to the house-door, showed that such prospects, however grand and picturesque, had few charms for him.
A short interval elapsed after the luggage was removed from the carriage, and then one of the servants mounted the box, the horses’ beads were turned, and the conveyance was seen retiring by the road to Coleraine.
The effective force of Mrs. Fum’s furniture was never remarkable, in days of gala and parade; it was still less imposing now, when nothing remained save an invalided garrison of deal chairs and tables, a few curtainless beds, and a stray chest of drawers or two of the rudest fashion.
The ample turf fire on the hearth of the chief sitting-room, cheering and bright as was its aspect, after the dark and rainy scene without doors, could not gladden the air of these few and comfortless movables into a look of welcome; and so one of the newly arrived party seemed to feel, as he threw his glance over the meagre-looking chamber, and in a half-complaining, half-inquiring tone, said, —
“Don’t you think, sir, they might have done this a little better? These windows are no defence against the wind or rain, the walls are actually soaked with wet; not a bit of carpet, not a chair to sit upon! I ‘m greatly afraid for the old gentleman; if he were to be really ill in such a place – ”
A heavy fit of coughing from the inner room now seemed to corroborate the suspicion.
“We must make the best of it, Nalty,” said the other. “Remember, the plan was of your own devising; there was no time for much preparation here, if even it had been prudent or possible to make it; and as to my father, I warrant you his constitution is as good as yours or mine; anxiety about this business has preyed upon him; but let your plan only succeed, and I warrant him as able to undergo fatigue and privation as either of us.”
“His cough is very troublesome,” interposed Nalty, timidly.
“About the same I have known it every winter since I was a boy,” said the other, carelessly. “I say, sir,” added he, louder, while he tapped the door with his knuckles, – “I say, sir, Nalty is afraid you have caught fresh cold.”
“Tell him his annuity is worth three years’ purchase,” said the old man from within, with a strange unearthly effort at a laugh. “Tell him, if he ‘ll pay five hundred pounds down, I ‘ll let him run his own life against mine in the deed.”
“There, you hear that, Nalty! What say you to the proposal?”
“Wonderful old man! astonishing!” muttered Nalty, evidently not flattered at the doubts thus suggested as to his own longevity.
“He doesn’t seem to like that, Bob, eh?” called out the old man, with another cackle.
“After that age they get a new lease, sir, – actually a new lease of life,” whispered Nalty.
Mr. O’Reilly – for it was that gentleman, who, accompanied by his father and confidential lawyer, formed the party – gave a dry assent to the proposition, and drawing his chair closer to the fire, seemed to occupy himself with his own thoughts. Meanwhile the old doctor continued to maintain a low muttering conversation with his servant, until at length the sounds were exchanged for a deep snoring respiration, and he slept.
The appearance of a supper, which, if not very appetizing, was at least very welcome, partially restored the drooping spirits of Mr. Nalty, who now ate and talked with a degree of animation quite different from his former mood.
“The ham is excellent, sir, and the veal very commendable,” said he, perceiving that O’Reilly sat with his untouched plate before him, “and a glass of sherry is very grateful after such a journey.”
“A weary journey, indeed,” said O’Reilly, sighing: “the roads in this part of the island would seem seldom travelled, and the inns never visited; however, if we succeed, Nalty – ”
“So we shall, sir, I have not the slightest doubt of it; it is perfectly evident that they have no money to go on. ‘The sinews of war’ are expended, all Bicknell’s late proceedings indicate a failing exchequer; that late record, for instance, at Westport, should never have been left to a common jury.”
“All this may be true, and yet we may find them unwilling to adopt a compromise: there is a spirit in this class of men very difficult to deal with.”
“But we have two expedients,” interrupted Nalty.
“Say, rather, a choice between two; you forget that if we try my father’s plan, the other can never be employed.”
“I incline to the other mode of procedure,” said Nalty, thoughtfully; “it has an appearance of frankness and candor very likely to influence people of this kind; besides, we have such a strong foundation to go upon, – the issue of two trials at bar, both adverse to them, O’Grady’s opinion on the ejectment cases equally opposed to their views. The expense of a suit in equity to determine the validity of the entail, and show how far young Darcy can be a plaintiff: then the cases for a jury; all costly matters, sir! Bicknell knows this well; indeed, if the truth were out, I suspect Sam is getting frightened about his own costs, he has sold out of the funds twice to pay fees.”
“Yet the plan is a mere compromise, after all,” said O’Reilly; “it is simply saying, relinquish your right, and accept so much money.”
“Not exactly, sir; we deny the right, we totally reject the claim, we merely say, forego proceedings that are useless, spare yourselves and us the cost and publicity of legal measures, whose issue never can benefit you, and, in return for your compliance, receive an annuity or a sum, as may be agreed upon.”
“But how is Lady Eleanor to decide upon a course so important, in the absence of her husband and her son? Is it likely, is it possible, she would venture on so bold a step?”
“I think so; Bicknell half acknowledged that the funds of the suit were her jointure, and that Darcy, out of delicacy towards her, had left it entirely at her option to continue or abandon the proceedings.”
“Still,” said O’Reilly, “a great difficulty remains; for supposing them to accept our terms, that they give up the claim and accept a sum in return, what if at some future day evidence should turn up to substantiate their views, – they may not, it is true, break the engagement – though I don’t see why they should not – but let us imagine them to be faithful to the contract, – what will the world say? In what position shall we stand when the matter gains publicity?”
“How can it, sir?” interposed Nalty, quickly; “how is it possible, if there be no trial? The evidence, as you call it, is no evidence unless produced in court. You know, sir,” said the little man, with twinkling eyes and pleased expression, “that a great authority at common law only declined the testimony of a ghost because the spirit was n’t in court to be cross-examined. Now all they could bring would be rumor, newspaper allegations and paragraphs, asterisks and blanks.”
“There may come a time when public opinion, thus expounded, will be as stringent as the judgments of the law courts,” said O’Reilly, thoughtfully.
“I am not so certain of that, sir; the license of an unfettered press will always make its decisions inoperative; it is ‘the chartered libertine’ the poet speaks of.”
“But what if, yielding to public impression, it begins to feel that its weight is in exact proportion to its truth, that well-founded opinions, just judgments, correct anticipations, obtain a higher praise and price than scandalous anecdotes and furious attacks? What if that day should arrive, Nalty? I am by no means convinced that such an era is distant.”
“Let it come, sir,” said the little man, rubbing his hands, “and when it does there will be enough employment on its hand without going back on our trangressions; the world will always be wicked enough to keep the moralist at his work of correction. But to return to our immediate object, I perceive you are inclined to Dr. Hickman’s plan.”
“I am so far in its favor,” said O’Reilly, “that it solves the present difficulty, and prevents all future danger. Should my father succeed in persuading Lady Eleanor to this marriage, the interest of the two families is inseparably united. It is very unlikely that any circumstance, of what nature soever, would induce young Darcy to dispute his sister’s claim, or endanger her position in society. This settlement of the question is satisfactory in itself, and shows a good face to the world, and I confess I am curious to know what peculiar objection you can see against it.”
“It has but one fault, sir.”
“And that?”
“Simply, it is impossible.”
“Is it the presumption of a son of mine seeking an alliance with the daughter of Maurice Darcy that appears so very impossible?” said Hickman, with a hissing utterance of each word, that bespoke a fierce conflict of passion within him.
“Certainly not, sir,” replied Nalty, hastily excusing himself. “I am well aware which party contributes most to such a compact. Mr. Beecham O’Reilly might look far higher – ”
“Wherein lies the impossibility you speak of, then?” rejoined O’Reilly, sternly.
“I need scarcely remind you, sir,” said Nalty, with an air of deep humility, “you that have seen so much more of life than I have, of what inveterate prejudices these old families, as they like to call themselves, are made up; that, creating a false standard of rank, they adhere to its distinctions with a tenacity far greater than what they exhibit towards the real attributes of fortune. They seem to adopt for their creed the words of the old song, —
“The King may make a Baron bold,
Or an Earl of any fool, sir,
But with all his power, and all his gold
He can never make an O’Toole, sir.”
“These are very allowable feelings when sustained by wealth and fortune,” said O’Reilly, quietly.
“I verily believe their influence is greater in adversity,” said Nalty; “they seem to have a force of consolation that no misery can rob them of. Besides, in this case – for we should not lose sight of the matter that concerns us most – we must not forget that they regard your family in the light of oppressors. I am well aware that you have acted legally and safely throughout; but still – let us concede something to human prejudices and passions – is it unreasonable to suppose that they charge you and yours with their own downfall?”
“The more natural our desire to repair the apparent wrong.”
“Very true on your part, but not perhaps the more necessary on theirs to accept the amende.”
“That will very much depend, I think, on the way of its being proffered. Lady Eleanor, cold, haughty, and reserved as she is to the world, has always extended a degree of cordiality and kindness towards my father; his age, his infirmities, a seeming simplicity in his character, have had their influence. I trust greatly to this feeling, and to the effect of a request made by an old man, as if from his death-bed. My father is not deficient in the tact to make an appeal of this kind very powerful; at all events, his heart is in the scheme, and nothing short of that would have induced me to venture on this long and dreary journey at such a season. Should he only succeed in gaining an influence over Lady Eleanor, through pity or any other motive, we are certain to succeed. The Knight, I feel sure, would not oppose; and as for the young lady, a handsome young fellow with a large fortune can scarcely be deemed very objectionable.”
“How was the proposition met before?” said Nalty, inquiringly; “was their refusal conveyed in any expression of delicacy? Was there any acknowledgment of the compliment intended them?”
“No, not exactly,” said O’Reilly, blushing; for, while he hesitated about the danger of misleading his adviser, he could not bear to repeat the insolent rejection of the offer. “The false position in which the families stood towards each other made a great difficulty; but, more than all, the influence of Bagenal Daly increased the complexity; now he, fortunately for us, is not forthcoming, his debts have driven him abroad, they say.”
“So, then, they merely declined the honor in cold and customary phrase?” said Nalty, carelessly.
“Something in that way,” replied O’Reilly, affecting an equal unconcern; “but we need not discuss the point, it affords no light to guide us regarding the future.”
If Nalty saw plainly that some concealment was practised towards him, he knew his client too well to venture on pushing his inquiries further; so he contented himself with asking when and in what manner O’Reilly proposed to open the siege.
“To-morrow morning,” replied the other; “there’s no time to be lost. A few lines from my father to Lady Eleanor will acquaint her with his arrival in the neighborhood, after a long and fatiguing search for her residence. We may rely upon him performing his part well; he will allude to his own breaking health in terms that will not fail to touch her, and ask permission to wait upon her. As for us, Nalty, we must not be foreground figures in the picture. You, if known to be here at all, must be supposed to be my father’s medical friend. I must be strictly in the shade.”
Nalty gave a grim smile at the notion of his new professional character, and begged O’Reilly to proceed.
“Our strategy goes no further; such will be the order of battle. We must trust to my father for the mode he will engage the enemy afterwards, for the reasons which have led him to take this step, – the approaching close of a long life, unburdened with any weighty retrospect, save that which concerns the Darcy family; for, while affecting to sorrow over their changed fortunes, he can attribute their worst evils to bad counsels and rash advice, and insinuate how different had been their lot had they only consented to regard us – as they might and ought to have done – in the light of friends. Hush! who is speaking there?”
They listened for a second or two, and then came the sound of the old man’s voice, as he talked to himself in his sleep; his accents were low and complaining, as if he were suffering deeply from some mental affliction, and at intervals a heavy sob would break from him.
“He is ill, sir; the old gentleman is very ill!” said Nalty, in real alarm.
“Hush!” said O’Reilly, as, with one hand on the door, he motioned silence with the other.
“Yes, my Lady,” muttered the sleeper, but in a voice every syllable of which was audible, “eighty-six years have crept to your feet, to utter this last wish and die. It is the last request of one that has already left the things of this world, and would carry from it nothing but the thought that will track him to the grave!” A burst of grief, too sudden and too natural to admit of a doubt of its sincerity, followed the words; and O’Reilly was about to enter the room, when a low dry laugh arrested his steps, and the old man said, —
“Ay! Bob Hickman, did n’t I tell you that would do? I knew she ‘d cry, and I told you, if she cried one tear, the day was ours!”
There was something so horrible in the baseness of a mind thus revelling in its own duplicity, that even Nalty seemed struck with dread. O’Reilly saw what was passing in the other’s mind, and, affecting to laugh at these “effects of fatigue and exhaustion,” half led, half pushed him from the room, and said “Good-night.”