The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)

“Is it ever too late to repair a wrong, to assist destitution, relieve misery, and console misfortune?” broke in Mary, eagerly.

“It is too late to try the feudal system in the year of our Lord 1829, Miss Martin. We live in an age where everything is to be redressed by a Parliament. The old social compact between proprietor and peasant is repealed, and all must be done by ‘the House.’ Now, if your grandfather had pursued the path that you are doing to-day, this crisis might never have arrived; but he did not, young lady. He lived like a real gentleman; he hunted, and drank, and feasted, and rack-rented, and horsewhipped all around him; and what with duelling of a morning and drinking over-night, taught the people a code of morals that has assumed all the compactness of a system. Ay, I say it with grief, this is a land corrupted from the top, and every vice of its gentry has but filtered down to its populace! What was that I heard? – was it not a shot?” cried he, reining in his horse to listen.

“I thought so, too; but it might be a blast, for we are not far from the quarries.”

“And do you preserve the game, Miss Martin? are you sworn foe to the poacher?”

“I do so; but in reality more for the sake of the people than the partridges. Your lounging country fellow, with a rusty gun and a starved lurcher, is but an embryo highwayman.”

“So he is,” cried Repton, delighted at the energy with which she spoke; “and I have always thought that the worst thing about the game-laws was the class of fellows we educate to break them. Poor old Cranbury was n’t of that opinion, though. You could never have seen him, Miss Martin; but he was a fine specimen of the Irish Bench in the old time. He was the readiest pistol in the Irish house; and, as they said then, he ‘shot up’ into preferment. He always deemed an infraction of the game-laws as one of the gravest crimes in the statute. Juries, however, did n’t concur with him; and, knowing the severity of the penalty, they invariably brought in a verdict of Not Guilty, rather than subject a poor wretch to transportation for a jack-snipe. I remember once, – it was at Maryborough; the fellow in the dock was a notable poacher, and, worse still, the scene of his exploits was Cranbury’s own estate. As usual, the jury listened apathetically to the evidence; they cared little for the case, and had predetermined the verdict. It was, however, so palpably proven, so self-evident that he was guilty, that they clubbed their heads together to concert a pretext for their decision. Cranbury saw the movement, and appreciated it, and, leaning his head down upon his hand, mumbled out, as if talking to himself, in broken sentences, ‘A poor man – with a large family – great temptation – and, after all, a slight offence, – a very slight offence.’ The jury listened and took courage; they fancied some scruples were at work in the old judge’s heart, and that they might venture on the truth, innocuously. ‘Guilty, my Lord,’ said the foreman. ‘Transportation for seven years!’ cried the judge, with a look at the jury-box that there was no mistaking. They were ‘done,’ but there never was another conviction in that town afterwards.”

“And were such things possible on the justice-seat?” exclaimed Mary, in horror.

“Ah, my dear young lady, I could tell you of far worse than that. There was a time in this country when the indictment against the prisoner was Secondary in importance to his general character, his party, his connections, and fifty other things which had no bearing upon criminality. There goes another shot! I ‘ll swear to that,” cried he, pulling up short, and looking in the direction from which the report proceeded.

Mary turned at the same moment, and pointed with her whip towards a beech wood that skirted the foot of the mountain.

“Was it from that quarter the sound came?” said she.

The sharp crack of a fowling-piece, quickly followed by a second report, now decided the question; and, as if by mutual consent, they both wheeled their horses round, and set off at a brisk canter towards the wood.

“I have taken especial pains about preserving this part of the estate,” said Mary, as they rode along. “It was my cousin Harry’s favorite cover when he was last at home, and he left I can’t say how many directions about it when quitting us; though, to say truth, I never deemed any precautions necessary till he spoke of it.”

“So that poaching was unknown down here?”

“Almost completely so; now and then some idle fellow with a half-bred greyhound might run down a hare, or with a rusty firelock knock over a rabbit, but there it ended. And as we have no gentry neighbors to ask for leave, and the Oughterard folks would not venture on that liberty, I may safely say that the report of a gun is a rare event in these solitudes.”

“Whoever he be, yonder, is not losing time,” said Rep-ton; “there was another shot.”

Their pace had now become a smart half-gallop; Mary, a little in advance, leading the way, and pointing out the safe ground to her companion. As they drew nigh the wood, however, she slackened speed till he came up, and then said, —

“As I know everybody hereabouts, it will be enough if I only see the offender; and how to do that is the question.”

“I am at your orders,” said Repton, raising his whip to a salute.

“It will be somewhat difficult,” said Mary, pondering; “the wood is so overgrown with low copse that one can’t ride through it, except along certain alleys. Now we might canter there for hours and see nothing. I have it,” cried she, suddenly; “you shall enter the wood and ride slowly along the green alley, yonder, till you come to the crossroad, when you ‘ll turn off to the left; while I will remain in observation outside here, so that if our friend make his exit I am sure to overtake him. At all events, we shall meet again at the lower end of the road.”

Repton made her repeat her directions, and then, touching his hat in respectful salutation, rode away to fulfil his mission. A low gate, merely fastened by a loop of iron without a padlock, admitted the lawyer within the precincts, in which he soon discovered that his pace must be a walk, so heavy was the deep clayey soil, littered with fallen leaves and rotting acorns. Great trees bent their massive limbs over his head, and, even leafless as they were, formed a darksome, gloomy aisle, the sides of which were closed in with the wild holly and the broom, and even the arbutus, all intermingled inextricably. There was something solemn even to sadness in the deep solitude, and so Repton seemed to feel as he rode slowly along, alone, tingeing his thoughts of her he had just quitted with melancholy.

“What a girl and what a life!” said he, musingly. “I must tell Martin that this will never do! What can all this devotion end in but disappointment! With the first gleam of their newly acquired power the people will reject these benefits; they will despise the slow-won fruits of industry as the gambler rejects a life of toil. Then will come a reaction – a terrible reaction – with all the semblance of black ingratitude! She will herself be disgusted. The breach once made will grow wider and wider, and at last the demagogue will take the place of the landed proprietor. Estrangement at first, next distrust, and finally dislike, will separate the gentry from the peasantry, and then – I tremble to think of what then!”

As Repton had uttered these words, the sharp bang of a gun startled him, and at the same instant a young fellow sprang from the copse in front of him into the alley. His coarse fustian shooting-jacket, low-crowned oil-skin hat, and leather gaiters seemed to bespeak the professional poacher, and Repton dashed forward with his heavy riding-whip upraised towards him.

“Take care, old gentleman,” said the young man, facing about; “my second barrel is loaded, and if you dare – ”

“By Heaven! I’ll thrash you, you scoundrel!” said Repton, whose passion was now boiling over by a sudden bound of the cob, which had nearly thrown him from the saddle, – a mischance greeted by a hearty burst of laughter from the stranger.

“I fancy you have quite enough to do at this moment!” cried he, still laughing.

Half mad with anger, Repton pressed his spurs to the cob’s flanks, while he gave him a vigorous cut of the whip on the shoulder. The animal was little accustomed to such usage, and reared up wildly, and would inevitably have fallen back with his rider, had not the stranger, springing forward, seized the bridle, and pulled him down by main force. Whether indifferent to his own safety, or so blinded by passion as not to recognize to what he owed it, the old man struck the other a heavy blow with his whip over the head, cutting through his hat, and covering his face with blood.

The young man passing his arm through the bridle, so as to render the other’s escape impossible, coolly removed his hat and proceeded to stanch the bleeding with his handkerchief, – not the slightest sign of excitement being displayed by him, nor any evidence of feeling that the event was other than a more accident.

“Let loose my bridle-rein, – let it loose, sir,” said Repton, passionately, – more passionately, perhaps, from observing the measured calmness of the other.

“When I know who you are, I shall,” said the young man.

“My name is Valentine Repton; my address, if you want it, is Merrion Square North, Dublin; and can you now tell me where a magistrate’s warrant will reach you?”

“My present residence is a house you may have seen on the side of the mountain as you came along, called, I think, Barnagheela; my name is Massingbred.”

“You presume to be a gentleman, then?” said Repton.

“I have not heard the matter disputed before,” said Jack, with an easy smile, while he leisurely bound the handkerchief round his head.

“And of course, you look for satisfaction for this?”

“I trust that there can be no mistake upon that point, at least,” replied he.

“And you shall have it, too; though, hang me, if I well know whether you should not receive it at the next assizes, – but you shall have it. I ‘ll go into Oughterard this day; I ‘ll be there by nine o’clock, at the Martin Arms.”

“That will do,” said Massingbred, with a coolness almost like indifference; while he resumed his gun, which he had thrown down, and proceeded to load the second barrel.

“You are aware that you are poaching here?” said Repton, – “that this is part of the Martin estate, and strictly preserved?”

“Indeed! and I thought it belonged to Magennis,” said Jack, easily; “but a preserve without a gamekeeper, or even a notice, is a blockade without a blockading squadron.” And without a word more, or any notice of the other, Massingbred shouldered his gun and walked away.

It was some time before Repton could summon resolution to leave the spot, such was the conflict of thoughts that went on within him. Shame and sorrow were, indeed, uppermost in his mind, but still not unmingled with anger at the consummate ease and coolness of the other, who by this line of conduct seemed to assume a tone of superiority the most galling and insulting. In vain did he endeavor to justify his act to himself, – in vain seek to find a plausible pretext for his anger. He could not, by all his ingenuity, do so, and he only grew more passionate at his own failure. “Another would hand him over to the next justice of the peace, – would leave him to quarter sessions; but not so Val Repton. No, by Jove, he ‘ll find a man to his humor there, if he wants fighting,” said he, aloud, as he turned his horse about and rode slowly back.

It was already dusk when he joined Miss Martin, who, uneasy at his prolonged absence, had entered the wood in search of him. It required all the practised dissimulation of the old lawyer to conceal the signs of his late adventure; nor, indeed, were his replies to her questions quite free from a certain amount of inconsistency. Mary, however, willingly changed the subject, and led him back to speak of topics more agreeable and congenial to him. Still he was not the same sprightly companion who had ridden beside her in the morning. He conversed with a degree of effort, and, when suffered, would relapse into long intervals of silence.

“Who inhabits that bleak-looking house yonder?” said he, suddenly.

“A certain Mr. Magennis, a neighbor, but not an acquaintance, of ours.”

“And how comes it that he lives in the very middle, as it were, of the estate?”

“An old lease, obtained I can’t say how many centuries back, and which will expire in a year or two. He has already applied for a renewal of it.”

“And of course, unsuccessfully?”

“Up to this moment it is as you say, but I am endeavoring to persuade my uncle not to disturb him; nor would he, if Magennis would only be commonly prudent. You must know that this person is the leading Radical of our town of Oughterard, the man who sets himself most strenuously in opposition to our influence in the borough, and would uproot our power there, were he able.”

“So far, then, he is a courageous fellow.”

“Sometimes I take that view of his conduct, and at others I am disposed to regard him as one not unwilling to make terms with us.”

“How subtle all these dealings can make a young lady!” said Repton, slyly.

“Say, rather, what a strain upon one’s acuteness it is to ride out with a great lawyer, one so trained to see spots in the sun that he won’t acknowledge its brightness if there be a speck to search for.”

“And yet it’s a great mistake to suppose that we are always looking on the dark side of human nature,” said he, reflectively; “though,” added he, after a pause, “it’s very often our business to exaggerate baseness, and make the worst of a bad man.”

“Even that may be more pardonable than to vilify a good one,” said Mary.

“So it is, young lady; you are quite right there.” He was thoughtful for a while, and then said: “It is very singular, but nevertheless true, that, in my profession, one loses sight of the individual, as such, and only regards him as a mere element of the case, plaintiff or defendant as he may be. I remember once, in a southern circuit, a hale, fine-looking young fellow entering my room to present me with a hare. He had walked twelve miles to offer it to me. ‘Your honor doesn’t remember me,’ said he, sorrowfully, and evidently grieved at my forgetfulness. ‘To be sure I do,’ replied I, trying to recall his features; ‘you are – let me see – you are – I have it – you are Jemmy Ryan.’

“‘No, sir,’ rejoined he, quickly, ‘I’m the boy that murdered him.’

“Ay, Miss Martin, there’s a leaf out of a lawyer’s notebook, and yet I could tell you more good traits of men and women, more of patient martyrdom under wrong, more courageous suffering to do right, than if I were – what shall I say? – a chaplain in a nobleman’s family.”

Repton’s memory was well stored with instances in question, and he beguiled the way by relating several, till they reached Cro’ Martin.

“And there is another yet,” added he, at the close, “more strongly illustrating what I have said than all these, but I cannot tell it to you.”

“Why so?” asked she, eagerly.

“It is a family secret, Miss Martin, and one that in all likelihood you shall never know. Still, I cannot refrain from saying that you have in your own family as noble a specimen of self-sacrifice and denial as I ever heard of.”

They were already at the door as he said this, and a troop of servants had assembled to receive them. Mary, therefore, had no time for further inquiry, had such an attempt been of any avail.

“There goes the first dinner-bell, Miss Martin,” said Repton, gayly. “I’m resolved to be in the drawing-room before you!” And with this he hopped briskly upstairs, while Mary hastened to her room to dress.