CHAPTER XXVI. A LETTER THAT NEVER REACHES ITS ADDRESS
It was not without a very painful emotion that Lady Dorothea turnedover a mass of letters addressed to her husband. They came from variousquarters, written in all the moods of many minds. Some were the meregossip of clubs and dinnerparties,--some were kindly and affectionateinquiries, gentle reproachings on his silence, and banterings about hispretended low spirits. A somewhat favorite tone is that same raillerytowards those whose lot in life seems elevated above the casualties offortune, forgetting the while that the sunniest path has its shadows,and they whom we deem exempt from the sore trials of the world havetheir share of its sorrows. These read strangely now, as he to whom theywere addressed lay breathing the heavy and labored breath, and mutteringthe low broken murmurs that prelude the one still deeper sleep!
With a tremulous hand, and a gesture of fretful impatience, she threwthem from her one after the other. The topics and the tone alike jarredupon her nerves. They seemed so unfeeling, too, and so heartless at sucha moment. Oh, if we wanted to moralize over the uncertainty of life,what a theme might we have in the simple fact that, quicker than thelines we are writing fall from our pen, are oftentimes changing thewhole fate and fortune of him for whom we destine them! We are tellingof hope where despair has already entered,--we are speaking joy to ahouse of mourning! But one letter alone remained unopened. It was inRepton's hand, and she broke the seal, wondering how he, who of all menhated writing, should have turned a correspondent.
The "strictly confidential" of the cover was repeated within; but thehour had come when she could violate the caution, and she read on. Thefirst few lines were a half-jesting allusion to Martin's croakings abouthis health; but even these had a forced, constrained air, and none ofthe jocular ease of the old man's manner. "And yet," continued he, "itis exactly about your health I am most anxious. I want you to be strongand stout, body and mind, ready for action, and resolute. I know thetone and style that an absentee loves and even requires to be addressedin. He wants to be told that, however he may be personally regretted,matters go on wonderfully well in his absence, that rent is paid, farmsimproved, good markets abound, and the county a pattern of quietness. Icould tell you all this, Martin, and not a syllable of it be true. Therents are not paid, partly from a season of great pressure, but, morestill, from an expectancy on the side of the people that something--theyknow not what--is coming. The Relief Bill only relieved those who wantedto job in politics and make market of their opinions; the masses it hasscarcely touched. They are told they are emancipated, but I am at a lossto know in what way they realize to their minds the new privilege. Theirleaders have seen this. Shrewd fellows as they are, they have guessedwhat disappointment must inevitably ensue when the long-promised booncan show nothing as its results but certain noisy mob-orators madeParliament men; and so they have slyly hinted,--as yet it is only ahint,--'this is but the first step--an instalment they call it--of alarge debt, every fraction of which must yet be paid!'
"Now there is not in all Europe a more cunning or a deeper fellow thanPaddy. He has an Italian's subtlety and a Celt's suspicion; but enlisthis self-love, his vanity, and his acquisitiveness in any scheme, andall his shrewdness deserts him. The old hackney coach-horses neverfollowed the hay on the end of the pole more hopefully than will hetravel after some promised future of 'fine times,' with plenty to eatand drink, and nothing to do for it! They have booked themselves now forthis journey, and the delusion must run its course. Meanwhile rents willnot be paid, farms not improved, bad prices and poverty will abound, andthe usual crop of discontent and its consequent crime. I 'm not goingto inflict you with my own opinions on this theme. You know well enoughalready that I never regarded these 'Agrarian disturbances,' as they arecalled, in the light of passing infractions of the peace, but traced inthem the continuous working of a long preconcerted plan,--the scheme ofvery different heads from those who worked it,--by which the law shouldever be assailed and the right of property everlastingly put in dispute.In plain words, the system was a standing protest against the sway ofthe Saxons in Ireland! 'The agitators' understood thoroughly how toprofit by this, and they worked these alternate moods of outrage andpeace pretty much as the priests of old guided their auguries. Theybrought the game to that perfection that a murder could shake aministry, or a blank calendar become the triumph of an Administration!
"Such is, at the moment I am writing, the actual condition of Ireland!Come home, then, at once,--but come alone. Come back resolved to see andact for yourself. There is a lingering spark of the old feudalismyet left in the people. Try and kindle it up once more into the oldhealthful glow of love to the landlord. Some would say it is too latefor all this; but I will not think so. Magennis has given us an opendefiance; we are to be put on our title. Now, you are well aware thereis a complication here, and I shall want to consult you personally;besides, we must have a search through those registries that are lockedup in the strong-room. Mary tells me you carried away the key of it.I tell you frankly, I wish we could hit upon some means ofstopping Magennis. The suit is a small war, that demands grandpreparation,--always a considerable evil! The fellow, I am told, is alsoconcocting another attack,--an action against your niece and others forthe forcible abduction of his wife. It would read fabulously enough,such a charge, but as old Casey said, 'There never yet was anything youcould n't impute at law, if you only employed the word "conspiracy;"'and I believe it! The woman certainly has deserted him, and herwhereabouts cannot be ascertained. The scandal of such a cause would ofcourse be very great; but if you were here we might chance upon somemode of averting it,--at all events, your niece shouldn't be deserted atsuch a moment. What a noble girl it is, Martin, and how gloriously shecomprehends her station! Give me a dozen like her, and I 'll biddefiance to all the machinations of all the agitators; and they know it!
"If your estate has resisted longer than those of your neighbors thedemoralizing influences that are now at work here, you owe it to Mary.If crime has not left its track of blood along your avenue or on yourdoor-sill, it is she who has saved you. If the midnight hour has notbeen scared by the flame of your burning house or haggard, thank _her_for it,--ay, Martin, _her_ courage, _her_ devotion, _her_ watchfulcharity, _her_ unceasing benevolence, the glorious guarantee her dailylife gives, that _she_, at least, is with the people in all theirsufferings and their trials! You or I had abandoned with impatience thecause that she had succored against every disappointment. Her woman'snature has endowed her with a higher and a nobler energy than ever a manpossessed. She _will not_ be defeated.
"Henderson may bewail, and Maurice Scanlan deride, the shortcomings ofthe people. But through evil and good report she is there to hear fromtheir own lips, to see with her own eyes, the story of their sorrows. Isthis nothing? Is there no lesson in the fact that she, nurtured inevery luxury, braves the wildest day of winter in her mission ofcharity?--that the most squalid misery, the most pestilent disease neverdeterred her? I saw her a few days back coming home at daybreak; shehad passed the night in a hovel where neither you nor I would have takenshelter in a storm. The hectic flush of fatigue and anxiety was on hercheek; her eyes, deep sunk, showed weariness; and her very voice, asshe spoke to me, was tremulous and weak; and of what, think you, was hermind full? Of the noble calm, the glorious, patient endurance ofthose she had just quitted. 'What lessons might we not learn,' saidshe,'beneath the wet thatch of poverty! There are three struck down withfever in that cabin; she who remains to nurse them is a little girl ofscarcely thirteen. There is all that can render sickness wretched aroundthem. They are in pain and in want; cold winds and rain sweep acrosstheir beds, if we could call them such. If they cherish the love oflife, it must be through some instinct above all reason; and there theylie, uncomplaining. The little remnant of their strength exhausts itselfin a look of thankfulness,--a faint effort to say their gratitude. Oh,if querulous hypochondriacism could but see them, what teaching it mightlearn! Sufferings that call forth from us not alone peevishness
andimpatience, but actually traits of rude and ungenerous meaning, developin them an almost refined courtesy, and a trustfulness that supplies allthat is most choice in words of gratitude.'
"And this is the girl whose life every day, every hour isimperilling,--who encounters all the hazards of our treacherous climate,and all the more fatal dangers of a season of pestilence, withoutfriends, without a home! Now, Martin, apart from all higher and betterconsiderations on the subject, this was not your compact,--such was notthe text of your bargain with poor Barry. The pledge you gave him atyour last parting was that she should be your daughter. That you madeher feel all the affection of one, none can tell more surely thanmyself. That your own heart responds to her love I am as fully convincedof. But this is not enough, my dear Martin. She has rights--actualrights--that no special pleading on the score of intentions or goodwishes can satisfy. I should but unworthily discharge my office, as youroldest friend in the world, if I did not place this before you broadlyand plainly. The country is dull and wearisome, devoid of society, andwithout resources, and you leave it; but you leave behind you, to endureall its monotony, all its weariness, one who possesses every charm andevery attention that are valued in the great world! There is fever andplague abroad, insurrection threatens, and midnight disturbances arerife, and she who is to confront these perils is a girl of twenty. Thespirit of an invading party threatens to break down all the prestige ofold family name and property,--a cunningly devised scheme menaces theexistence of an influence that has endured for centuries; and to opposeits working, or fall victim to its onslaught, you leave a young lady,whose very impulses of generous meaning may be made snares to entrapher. In a word, you neglect duty, desert danger, shun the path ofhonorable exertion, and retreat before the menace of an encounter, toplace, where you should stand yourself, the frail figure and gentlenature of one who was a child, as it were, but yesterday. Neitheryour health nor your happiness can be purchased at such a price,--yourconscience is too sound for that,--nor can your ease! No, Martin, yourthoughts will stray over here, and linger amongst these lonely glensthat she is treading. Your fancy will follow her through the dark nightsof winter, as alone she goes forth on her mission of mercy. You willthink of her, stooping to teach the young--bending over the sick-bed ofage. And then, tracing her footsteps homeward, you will see her sit downby a solitary hearth,--none of her own around her,--not one to advise,to counsel, to encourage her! I will say no more on this theme; your owntrue heart has already anticipated all that _I_ could _speak_,--all that_you_ should _do_.
"Now for one more question, and I shall have finished the most painfulletter I ever wrote in my life. There are rumors--I cannot trace them,nor fully understand them, but they imply that Captain Martin has beenraising very considerable sums by reversionary bonds and post-obits.Without being able to give even a guess, as to the truth of this, Idraw your attention to the bare possibility, as of a case full of veryserious complications. Speak to your son at once on the subject, andlearn the truth,--the whole truth. My own fears upon the matter havebeen considerably strengthened by hearing of a person who has beenfor several weeks back making inquiries on the estate. He has residedusually at Kilkieran, and spends his time traversing the property in alldirections, investigating questions of rent, wages, and tenure of land.They tell marvellous stories of his charity and so forth,--blinds,doubtless, to cover his own immediate objects. Mary, however, I ought tosay, takes a very different view of his character, and is so anxious toknow him personally that I promised her to visit him, and bring him tovisit her at the cottage. And, by the way, Martin, why should she beat the cottage,--why not at Cro' Martin? What miserable economy hasdictated a change that must reflect upon her influence, not to speak ofwhat is justly due to her own station? I could swear that you nevergave a willing consent to this arrangement. No, no, Martin, the plan wasnever yours.
"I 'm not going to bore you with borough politics. To tell truth, Ican't comprehend them. They want to get rid of Massingbred, but theydon't see who is to succeed him. Young Nelligan ought to be the man, buthe will not. He despises his party,--or at least what would callitself his party,--and is resolved never to concern himself with publicaffairs. Meanwhile he is carrying all before him at the Bar, and is assure of the Bench as though he were on it.
"When he heard of Magennis's intention of bringing this action againstMary, he came up to town to ask me to engage him on our side, 'since,'said he, 'if they send me a brief I cannot refuse it, and if I acceptit, I promise you it shall be my last cause, for I have resolved toabandon the Bar the day after.' This, of course, was in strictestsecrecy, and so you must regard it. He is a cold, calm fellow, and yeton this occasion he seemed full of impulsive action.
"I had something to tell you about Henderson, but I actually forget whatit was. I can only remember it was disagreeable; and as this epistle hasits due share of bitters, my want of memory is perhaps a benefit; and soto release you at once, I 'll write myself, as I have never ceased to befor forty years,
"Your attached friend,
"Val. Repton."
"I believe I was wrong about Henderson; at least the disagreeable wentno further than that he is supposed to be the channel through which LadyDorothea occasionally issues directions, not always in agreement withMary's notions. And as your niece never liked the man, the measures arenot more palatable when they come through his intervention."
Lady Dorothea was still pondering over this letter, in which there wereso many things to consider, when a hurried message called her to thesick-room. As she approached the room, she could hear Martin's voicecalling imperiously and angrily to the servants, and ordering themto dress him. The difficulty of utterance seemed to increase hisirritation, and gave to his words a harsh, discordant tone, very unlikehis natural voice.
"So," cried he, as she entered, "you have come at last. I am nighexhausted with telling them what I want. I must get up, Dora. They musthelp me to dress."
As he was thus speaking, the servants, at a gesture from her Ladyship,quietly stole from the chamber, leaving her alone at his bedside.
"You are too weak for this exertion, Godfrey," said she, calmly. "Anyeffort like this is certain to injure you."
"You think so?" asked he, with the tone of deference that he generallyused towards her. "Perhaps you are right, Dora; but how can it behelped?--there is so much to do, such a long way to travel. What astrange confusion is over me! Do you know, Dolly,"--here his voice fellto a mere whisper,--"you'll scarcely credit it; but all the time I havebeen fancying myself at Cro' Martin, and here we are in--in--what do youcall the place?"
"Baden."
"Yes--yes--but the country?"
"Germany."
"Ay, to be sure, Germany; hundreds of miles away from home!" Herehe raised himself on one arm, and cast a look of searching eagernessthrough the room. "Is he gone?" whispered he, timidly.
"Of whom are you speaking?" said she.
"Hush, Dolly, hush!" whispered he, still lower. "I promised I 'd nottell any one, even you, of his being here. But I must speak of it--Imust--or my brain will turn. He was here--he sat in that very chair--heheld my hand within both his own. Poor, poor fellow! how his eyes filledwhen he saw me! He little knew how changed he himself was!--his hairwhite as snow, and his eyes so dimmed!"
"This was a dream, Godfrey,--only a dream!"
"I thought you 'd say so,--I knew it," said he, sorrowfully; "but _I_know better. The dear old voice rang in my heart as I used to hear itwhen a child, as he said, 'Do you remember me?' To be sure I rememberedhim, and told him to go and fetch Molly; and his brow darkened whenI said this, and he drew back his hand and said, 'You have desertedher,--she is not here!'"
"All this is mere fancy, Godfrey; you have been dreaming of home."
"Ay," muttered he, gloomily, "it was but too true; we did desert her,and that was not our bargain, Dolly. It was all the poor fellow askedat our hands,--his last, his only condition. What's that letter you havethere?" cried he, impatiently, as Lady Dorothe
a, in the agitation of themoment, continued to crumple Repton's letter between her fingers.
"A letter I have been reading," said she, sternly.
"From whom--from whom?" asked he, still more eagerly.
"A letter from Mr. Repton. You shall read it when you are better. Youare too weak for all this exertion, God-frey; you must submit--"
"Submit!" broke he in; "the very word he said. You submit yourself toanything, if it only purchase your selfish ease. No, Dolly, no, I amwrong. It was I that said so. I owned to him how unworthily I had acted.Give me that letter, madam. Let me see it," said he, imperiously.
"When you are more tranquil, Godfrey,--in a fitting state."
"I tell you, madam," cried he, fiercely, "this, is no time for triflingor deception. Repton knows all our affairs. If he has written now, it isbecause matters are imminent. My head is clear now. I can think--I canspeak. It is full time Harry should hear the truth. Let him come here."
"Take a little rest, Godfrey, be it only half an hour, and you shallhave everything as you wish it."
"Half an hour! you speak of half an hour to one whose years are minutesnow!" said he, in a broken voice. "This poor brain, Dora, is alreadywandering. The strange things I have seen so lately--that poor fellowcome back after so many years--so changed, so sadly changed--but I knewhim through all the mist and vapor of this feverish state; I saw himclearly, my own dear Barry!" The word, as it were the last barrier tohis emotion, brought forth a gush of tears; and burying his face withinthe bedclothes, he sobbed himself to sleep. As he slept, however, hecontinued to mutter about home and long passed years,--of boyish sportswith his brother; childish joys and sorrows were all mingled there, withnow and then some gloomier reveries of later days.
"He has been wandering in his mind!" whispered Lady Dorothea to her son,as he joined her in the darkened room. "He woke up, believing that hehad seen his brother, and the effect was very painful."
"Has he asked for _me?_" inquired the other.
"No; he rambled on about Mary, and having deserted her, and all that;and just as ill-luck would have it, here is a letter from Repton,exactly filled with the very same theme. He insists on seeing it; but ofcourse he will have forgotten it when he awakes."
"You have written to Scanlan?" asked he.
"Yes; my letter has been sent off."
"Minutes are precious now. If anything should occur here,"--his eyesturned towards the sick-bed as he spoke,--"Merl will refuse to treat.His people--I know they are his--are hovering about the hotel all themorning. I heard the waiter whispering as I passed, and caught thewords, 'No better; worse, if anything.' The tidings would be in Londonbefore the post."
Lady Dorothea made no reply, and all was now silent, save the unequalbut heavy breathings of the sick man, and the faint, low mutterings ofhis dream. "In the arras--between the window and the wall--there it is,Barry," cried he, in a clear, distinct voice. "Repton has a copy of it,too, with Catty's signature,--old Catty Broon."
"What is he dreaming of?" asked the young man.
But, instead of replying to the question, Lady Dorothea bent down herhead to catch the now muttered words of the sleeper.
"He says something of a key. What key does he mean?" asked he.
297]
"Fetch me that writing-desk," said Lady Dorothea, as she took severalkeys from her pockets; and noiselessly unlocking the box, she began tosearch amidst its contents. As she continued, her gestures grew more andmore hurried; she threw papers recklessly here and there, and at lastemptied the entire contents upon the table before her. "See, search ifthere be a key here," cried she, in a broken voice; "I saw it here threedays ago."
"There is none here," said he, wondering at her eagerness.
"Look carefully,--look well for it," said she, her voice trembling atevery word.
"Is it of such consequence--"
"It is of such consequence," broke she in, "that he into whose hands itfalls can leave you and me beggars on the world!" An effort at awakingby the sick man here made her hastily restore the papers to the desk,which she locked, and replaced upon the table.
"Was it the Henderson did this?" said she aloud, as if asking thequestion of herself. "Could she have known this secret?"
"Did what? What secret?" asked he, anxiously.
A low, long sigh announced that the sick man was awaking; and in afaint voice he said, "I feel better, Dora. I have had a sleep, and beendreaming of home and long ago. To-morrow, or next day, perhaps, I may bestrong enough to leave this. I want to be back there again. Nay, don'trefuse me," said he, timidly.
"When you are equal to the journey--"
"I have a still longer one before me, Dora, and even less preparationfor it. Harry, I have something to say to you, if I were strong enoughto say it,--this evening, perhaps." Wearied by the efforts he had made,he lay back again with a heavy sigh, and was silent.
"Is he worse--is he weaker?" asked his son.
A mournful nod of the head was her reply.
Young Martin arose and stole noiselessly from the room, he scarcely knewwhither; he indeed cared not which way he turned. The future threw itsdarkest shadows before him. He had little to hope for, as little tolove. His servant gave him a letter which Massingbred had left on hisdeparture, but he never opened it; and in a listless vacuity he wanderedout into the wood.
It was evening as he turned homeward. His first glance was towards thewindows of his father's room. They were wont to be closely shuttered andfastened; now one of them lay partly open, and a slight breeze stirredthe curtain within. A faint, sickly fear of he knew not what crept overhim. He walked on quicker; but as he drew nigh the door, his servant methim. "Well!" cried he, as though expecting a message.
"Yes, sir, it is all over; he went off about an hour since." The manadded something; but Martin heard no more, but hurried to his room, andlocked the door.