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“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.”

CHAPTER XXXVII. A DARK DAY

A mild, soft day, with low-lying clouds, and rich odors of wild-flowers rising from the ground, a certain dreamy quiet pervading earth and sky and sea, over which faint shadows lingered lazily; some drops of the night dew still glittered on the feathery larches, and bluebells hung down their heads, heavy with moisture; so still the scene that the plash of the leaping trout could be heard as he rose in the dark stream. And yet there was a vast multitude of people there. The whole surface of the lawn that sloped from the cottage to the river was densely crowded, with every age, from the oldest to very infancy; with all conditions, from the well-clad peasant to the humblest “tramper” of the high-roads. Weariness, exhaustion, and even hunger were depicted on many of their faces. Some had passed the night there; others had come long distances, faint and footsore; but as they sat, stood, or lay in groups around, not a murmur, not a whisper escaped them; with aching eyes they looked towards an open window, where the muslin curtain was gently stirred in the faint air.

The tidings of Mary Martin’s illness had spread rapidly: far-away glens down the coast, lonely cabins on the bleak mountains, wild remote spots out of human intercourse had heard the news, and their dwellers had travelled many a mile to satisfy their aching hearts.

From a late hour of the evening before they had learnt nothing of her state; then a few words whispered by old Catty to those nearest the door told “that she was no better, – if anything, weaker!” These sad tidings were soon passed from lip to lip; and thus they spent the night, praying or watching wearily, their steadfast gaze directed towards that spot where the object of all their fears and hopes lay suffering.

Of those there, there was scarcely one to whom she was not endeared by some personal benefit. She had aided this one in distress, the other she had nursed in fever; here were the old she had comforted and cheered, there the children she had taught and trained beside her chair. Her gentle voice yet vibrated in every heart, her ways of kindness were in every memory. Sickness and sorrow were familiar enough to themselves. Life was, at least to most of them, one long struggle; but they could not bring themselves to think of her thus stricken down! She! that seemed an angel, as much above the casualties of such fortune as theirs as she was their superior in station, – that she should be sick and suffering was too terrible to think of.

There was a stir and movement in the multitude, a wavy, surging motion, for the doctor was seen to issue from the stable-yard, and lead his pony towards the bridge. He stopped to say a word or two as he went. They were sad words; and many a sobbing voice and many a tearful eye told what his tidings had been. “Sinking, – sinking rapidly!”

A faint low cry burst from one in the crowd at this moment, and the rumor ran that a woman had fainted. It was poor Joan, who had come that night over the mountain, and, overcome by grief and exhaustion together, had at last given way.

“Get a glass of wine for her, or even a cup of water,” cried out three or four voices; and one nigh the door entered the cottage in search of aid. The moment after a tall and handsome girl forced her way through the crowd, and gave directions that Joan might be carried into the house.

“Why did ye call her my Lady?” muttered an old hag to one of the men near her; “sure, she’s Henderson’s daughter!”

“Is she, faith? By my conscience, then, she might be a better man’s! She’s as fine a crayture as ever I seen!”

“If she has a purty face, she has a proud heart!” muttered another.

“Ayeh! she’ll never be like her that’s going to leave us!” sighed a young woman with a black ribbon in her cap.

Meanwhile Kate had Joan assisted into the cottage, and was busily occupied in restoring her. Slowly, and with difficulty, the poor creature came to herself, and gazing wildly around, asked where she was; then suddenly bursting out in tears, she said, – “Sure, I know well where I am; sure, it’s my own self, brought grief and sorrow under this roof. But for me she ‘d be well and hearty this day!”

“Let us still hope,” said Kate, softly. “Let us hope that one so dear to us all may be left here. You are better now. I ‘ll join you again presently.” And with noiseless footsteps she stole up the stairs. As she came to the door, she halted and pressed her hands to her heart, as if in pain. There was a low murmuring sound, as if of voices, from within, and Kate turned away and sat down on the stairs.

Within the sick-room a subdued light came, and a soft air, mild and balmy, for the rose-trees and the jessamine clustered over the window, and mingled their blossoms across it. Mary had just awoke from a short sleep, and lay with her hand clasped within that of a large and white-haired man at the bedside.

“What a good, kind doctor!” said she, faintly; “I’m sure to find you ever beside me when I awake.”

“Oh, darlin’, dear,” broke in old Catty, “sure you ought to know who he is. Sure it ‘s your own – ”

“Hush! be silent!” muttered the old man, in a low, stern voice.

“Is it Tuesday to-day?” asked Mary, softly.

“Yes, dear, Tuesday,” said the old man.

“It was on Thursday my poor uncle died. Could I live till Thursday, doctor?”

The old man tried to speak, but could not.

“You are afraid to shock me,” said she, with a faint attempt to smile, “but if you knew how happy I am, – happy even to leave a life I loved so well. It never could have been the same again, though – the spell was breaking, hardship and hunger were maddening them – who knows to what counsels they ‘d have listened soon! Tell Harry to be kind to them, won’t you? Tell him not to trust to others, but to know them himself; to go, as I have done, amongst them. They ‘ll love him so for doing it. He is a man, young, rich, and high-hearted, – how they ‘ll dote upon him! Catty used to say it was my father they ‘d have worshipped; but that was in flattery to me, Catty, you always said we were so like – ”

“Oh dear! oh dear! why won’t you tell her?” broke in Catty. But a severe gesture from the old man again checked her words.

“How that wild night at sea dwells in my thoughts! I never sleep but to dream of it. Cousin Harry must not forget those brave fellows. I have nothing to requite them with. I make no will, doctor,” said she, smiling, “for my only legacy is that nosegay there. Will you keep it for my sake?”

The old man hid his face, but his strong frame shook and quivered in the agony of the moment.

“Hush!” said she, softly; “I hear voices without. Who are they?”

“They’re the country-people, darlin’, come from Kiltimmon and beyond Kyle-a-Noe, to ax after you. They passed the night there, most of them.”

“Catty, dear, take care that you look after them; they will be hungry and famished, poor creatures! Oh, how unspeakably grateful to one’s heart is this proof of feeling! Doctor, you will tell Harry how I loved them and how they loved me. Tell him, too, that this bond of affection is the safest and best of all ties. Tell him that their old love for a Martin still survives in their hearts, and it will be his own fault if he does not transmit it to his children. There’s some one sobbing there without. Oh, bid them be of good heart, Catty; there is none who could go with less of loss to those behind. There – there come the great waves again before me! How my courage must have failed me to make this impression so deep! And poor Joan, and that dear fond girl who has been as a sister to me, – so full of gentleness and love, – Kate, where is she? No, do not call her; say that I asked for her – that I blessed her – and sent her this kiss!” She pressed a rose to her hot, parched lips as she spoke, and then closing her eyes seemed to fall off to sleep. Her breathing, at first strong and frequent, grew fainter and fainter, and her color came and went, while her lips slightly moved, and a low, soft murmur came from them.

“She’s asleep,” muttered Catty, as she crouched down beside the bed.

The old man bent over the bed, and watched the calm features. He sat thus long, for hours, but no change was there; he put his lips to hers, and then a sickly shuddering came over him, and a low, deep groan, that seemed to rend his very heart!

Three days after, the great gateway of Cro’ Martin Castle opened to admit a stately hearse drawn by six horses, all mournfully caparisoned, shaking with plumes and black-fringed drapery. Two mourning-coaches followed, and then the massive gates were closed, and the sad pageant wound its slow course through the demesne. At the same moment another funeral was approaching the churchyard by a different road. It was a coffin borne by men bareheaded and sorrow-struck. An immense multitude followed, of every rank and age; sobs and sighs broke from them as they went. Not an eye was tearless, not a lip that did not tremble. At the head of this procession walked a small group whose dress and bearing bespoke their class. These were Barry Martin, leaning on Repton; Massingbred and the two Nelligans came behind.

The two coffins entered the churchyard at the same instant The uncle and the niece were laid side by side in the turf! The same sacred words consigned them both to their last bed; the same second of time heard the dank reverberation that pronounced “earth” had returned “to earth.” A kind of reverential awe pervaded the immense crowd during the ceremony, and if here and there a sob would burst from some overburdened heart, all the rest were silent; respecting, with a deference of true refinement, a sorrow deeper and greater than their own, they never uttered a word, but with bent-down heads stole quietly away. And now by each grave the mourners stood, silently gazing on the little mounds which typify so much of human sorrow!

Barry Martin’s bronzed and weather-beaten features were a thought paler, perhaps. There was a dark shade of color round the eyes, but on the whole the expression conveyed far more of sternness than sorrow. Such, indeed, is no uncommon form for grief to take in certain natures. There are men who regard calamity like a foe, and go out to meet it in a spirit of haughty defiance. A poor philosophy! He who accepts it as chastisement is both a braver and a better man!

Repton stood for a while beside him, not daring to interrupt his thoughts. At length he whispered a few words in his ear. Barry started suddenly, and his dark brow grew sterner and more resolute.

“Yes, Martin, you must,” said Repton, eagerly, “I insist upon it. Good heavens! is it at such a time, in such a place as this, you can harbor a thought that is not forgiveness? Remember he is poor Godfrey’s son, the last of the race now.” As he spoke, passing his arm within the other’s, he drew him gently along, and led him to where a solitary mourner was standing beside the other grave.

Barry Martin stood erect and motionless, while Repton spoke to the young man. At first the words seemed to confuse and puzzle him, for he looked vaguely around, and passed his hand across his brow in evident difficulty.

“Did you say here, in this country? Do I understand you aright?”

“Here, in this very spot; there, standing now before you!” said Repton, as he pushed young Martin towards his uncle.

Barry held out his hand, which the young man grasped eagerly; and then, as if unable to resist his emotions longer, fell, sobbing violently, into the other’s arms.

“Let us leave them for a while,” said Repton, hurrying over to where Massingbred and the Nelligans were yet standing in silent sorrow.

They left the spot together without a word. Grief had its own part for each. It is not for us to say where sorrow eat deepest, or in which heart the desolation was most complete.

“I’d not have known young Martin,” whispered Nelligan in Repton’s ear; “he looks full twelve years older than when last I saw him.”

“The fast men of this age, sir, live their youth rapidly,” replied the other. “It is rarely their fortune to survive to be like me, or heaven knows what hearts they would be left with!”

While they thus talked, Massingbred and Joe Nelligan had strolled away into the wood. Neither spoke. Massingbred felt the violent trembling of the other’s arm as it rested on his own, and saw a gulping effort by which more than once he suppressed his rising emotion. For hours they thus loitered along, and at length, as they issued from the demesne, they found Repton and Mr. Nelligan awaiting them.

“Barry Martin has taken his nephew back with him to the cottage,” said Repton, “and we ‘ll not intrude upon them for the rest of the evening.”