Luttrell Of Arran
“I want to show I am worthy to be a Lnttrell, Sir. It was their boast that they never deserted their wounded.”
“They never linked their fortunes to felons and murderers, young woman. I will hear no more of this.”
“I hope to be back here by to-morrow night, uncle,” said she, softly, and she bent down her head over him till the long silky curls of her golden hair grazed his temple.
He brushed them rudely back, and in a stern tone said:
“To such as leave this against my consent there is no road back. Do you hear me?”
“I do,” said she, faintly.
“Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Enough, then. Leave me now, and let me have peace.”
“Uncle – dear uncle,” she began; but he stopped her at once.
“None of this – none of this with me, young woman. You are free to make your choice: you are my adopted daughter, or, you are the grandchild of a man whose claim to be notorious will soon dispute with ours. It is an easy thing to make up your mind upon.”
“I have done so already, Sir.”
“Very well, so much the better. Leave me now. I wish to be alone.”
“Let me say good-by, Sir; let me kiss your hand, and say, for the last time, how grateful I am for all your past kindness.”
He never spoke, but continued to stare at her with an expression of wonderment and surprise.
“Would you leave me, then? – would you leave me, Kate?” muttered he, at last.
“No, Sir, if the door be not closed against me – never!”
“None but yourself can close that door against you.”
“Dear, kind uncle, only hear me. It may be, that I have failed in the scheme I planned; it may be, that some other road must be found to help this poor, forlorn, friendless old man. Let me at least see him; let me give him what comfort a few kind words can give; let him know that he has sympathy in his hour of sadness.”
“Sympathy with the felon – sympathy with the murderer! I have none. I feel shame – bitter, bitter shame, that I cannot disclaim him – disavow him! My own miserable rashness and folly brought me to this! but when I descended to their poverty, I did not descend to their crimes.”
“Well,” said she, haughtily, “I have no such excuses to shelter me. I am of them by blood, as I am in heart. I’ll not desert him.”
“May your choice be fortunate,” said he, with mockery; “but remember, young woman, that when once you pass under the lintel of the gaol, you forfeit every right to enter here again. It is but fair that you know it.”
“I know it, Sir; good-by.” She stooped to take his hand, but he drew it rudely from her, and she raised the skirt of his coat to her lips and kissed it.
“Remember, young woman, if the time comes that you shall tell of this desertion of me – this cold, unfeeling desertion – take care you tell the truth. No harping on Luttrell pride, or Luttrell sternness – no pretending that it was the man of birth could not accept companionship of misery with the plebeian; but the simple fact, than when the hour of a decided allegiance came, you stood by the criminal and abandoned the gentleman. There is the simple fact; deny it if you dare!”
“There is not one will dare to question me, Sir, and your caution is unneeded.”
“Your present conduct is no guarantee for future prudence!”
“Dear uncle – ” she began; but he stopped her hastily, and said:
“It is useless to recal our relationship when you have dissolved its ties.”
“Oh, Sir, do not cast me off because I am unhappy.”
“Here is your home, Kate,” said he, coldly. “Whenever you leave it, it is of your own free will, not of mine. Go now, if you wish, but remember, you go at your peril.”
She darted a fierce look at him as he uttered the last word, as though it had pierced her like a dart, and for a moment she seemed as if her temper could no longer be kept under; but with an effort she conquered, and simply saying, “I accept the peril, Sir,” she turned and left the room.
She gave her orders to the crew of the launch to get ready at once, and sent down to the boat her little basket; and then, while Molly Ryan was absent, she packed her trunk with whatever she possessed, and prepared to leave Arran, if it might be, for ever. Her tears ran fast as she bent over her task, and they relieved her overwrought mind, for she was racked and torn by a conflict – a hard conflict – in which different hopes, and fears, and ambitions warred, and struggled for the mastery.
“Here is the hour of destitution – the long dreaded hour come at last, and it finds me less prepared to brave it than I thought for. By this time to-morrow the sun will not shine on one more friendless than myself. I used to fancy with what courage I could meet this fall, and even dare it. Where is all my bravery now?”
“‘Tis blowin’ harder, Miss Kate; and Tim Hennesy says it’s only the beginnin’ of it, and that he’s not easy at all about taking you out in such weather.”
“Tell Tim Hennesy, that if I hear any more of his fears I’ll not take him. Let them carry that trunk down, Molly; I shall be away some days, and those things there are for you.”
“Sure, ain’t you coming back, Miss?” cried the woman, whose cheeks became ashy pale with terror.
“I have told you I am going for a few days; and, Molly, till I do come, be more attentive than ever to my uncle; he may miss me, and he is not well just now, and be sure you look to him. Keep the key, too, of this room of mine, unless my uncle asks for it.”
“Oh, you’re not coming back to us – you’ll never come back!” cried the poor creature, in an agony of sorrow. And she fell at Kate’s feet and grasped her dress, as though to detain her.
“There, there, this is all childishness, Molly. You will displease me if you go on so. Was that thunder I heard?”
As she asked, a knock came to the door, and the captain of the boat’s crew, Tim Hennesy, put in his head. “If you are bent on goin’, Miss, the tide is on the turn, and there’s no time to lose.”
“You’re a hard man to ask her, Tim Hennesy,” said the woman, rising, and speaking with a fiery vehemence: “You’re a hard man, after losing your own brother at sea, to take her out in weather like this.”
Kate gave a hurried look over the room, and then, as if not trusting her control over her feelings, she went quietly out, and hastened down to the shore.
There was, indeed, no lime to be lost, and all the efforts of the sailors were barely enough to save the small boat that lay next the pier from being crushed against the rocks with each breaking wave.
“Get on board, Miss; now’s the moment!” cried one of the men. And, just as he spoke, she made a bold spring and lighted safely in the stern.
The strong arms strained to the oars, and in a few seconds they were on board the yawl. The last few turns of the capstan were needed to raise the anchor, and now the jib was set to “pay her head round,” and amidst a perfect shower of spray as the craft swung “about,” the mainsail was hoisted, and they were away.
“What’s the signal flying from the tower for?” said one of the sailors. And he pointed to a strip of dark-coloured bunting that now floated from the flagstaff.
“That’s his honour’s way of bidding us good-by,” said Hennesy. “I’ve never seen it these twelve years.”
“How can we answer it, Tim?” said Kate, eagerly.
“We’ll show him his own colours, Miss,” said the man. And, knotting the Luttrell flag on the halyard, he hoisted it in a moment. “Ay, he sees it now! Down comes his own ensign now to tell us that we’re answered!”
“Was it to say good-by, or was it to recal her? – was it a last greeting of love and affection, or was it a word of scorn?” Such were Kate’s musings as the craft heaved and worked in the strong sea, while the waves broke on the bow, and scattered great sheets of water over them.
“I wish there was a dry spot to shelter you, Miss,” said Tim, as he saw the poor girl shivering and dripping from head to foot. “But it’s worse now than farther out; the squalls are stronger here under the land.”
“Ay; but we’ll have a heavier sea outside,” said another, who would willingly have seen her change her mind even now, and return to the island.
“It’s a fine wind for America, if that was where we were going,” said a third, laughingly.
Kate smiled; she had almost said, “It matters little to me where;” but she caught herself, and was silent. Hour after hour went over, and they seemed – to her, at least – to have made no way whatever, for there rose the great mountain-peaks; the well-known cliffs of Arran frowned down dark and sullen, just as when they had left the harbour. She could count one by one the lights along the bay, and knew each cabin they belonged to; and there, high tap, shone out a lonely star from the tower of St. Finbar, bringing back of her mind the solitary watcher who sat to sorrow over her desertion! The night at last fell, but the wind increased, and so rough was the sea that she was forced to take shelter in the bottom of the boat, where they made shift to cover her with & coarse canopy of tarpaulin.
Like some dreadful dream drawn out to the length of years, the hours of that night went over. The howling storm, the thundering crash of the sea, and at times a quivering motion in the craft, as though her timbers were about to part, and more even than these, the wild voices of the men, obliged to shout that they might be heard amongst the din, made up a mass of horrors that appalled her. Sometimes the danger seemed imminent, for to the loud words and cries of the men a sudden silence would succeed, while floods of water would pour over the sides, and threaten them with instant drowning. The agony she pictured to herself of a last struggle for life was more terrible far than her fear of death; and yet, through all these, came the thought: “Might it not be better thus? Should I not have left to the few who knew me dearer, fonder memories, than my life, if I am yet to live, will bequeath?” Worn out by these anxieties, and exhausted too, she fell into a deep sleep – so deep, that all the warring noises of the storm never awoke her; nor was she conscious that a new morning had dawned, and a bright noon followed it, as the launch entered the bay of Westport, and beat up for the harbour.
When Hennesy awoke her, to say that they were close in to shore, she neither could collect herself nor answer him; benumbed with cold, and wet, she could barely muster strength to arise, and sit down in the stern-sheets.
“That’s the spire of the town, Miss, under the hill there.”
“It was a wild night, Tim?” said she, inquiringly.
“I have seen as rough a sea, but I never was out in a stronger gale.”
“Mind that you tell my uncle so when you get back; and be sure to say that I bore it well.”
“Why wouldn’t I? The sorrow a word ever crossed your lips. No man ever was braver!” “That’s true,” muttered the others.
“Get me a piece of bread out of that basket, Tim; and don’t forget to tell my uncle how I ate, and ate heartily.”
CHAPTER LIII. THE GAOL PARLOUR
At the time of which our story treats, the old gaols of Ireland were very unlike those edifices which modern humanity has erected to be the safeguards of prisoners. They were small, confined, generally ruinous in condition, and always ill ventilated and dirty. So limited was the space, that all classification of crime was impossible, and, worse still, the untried prisoners were confined indiscriminately along with those whom the law had already sentenced, and who only awaited the hour of execution.
The extent of favour shown to those who were waiting for trial consisted in the privilege of seeing their legal advisers, or their friends, in a small cell used for such colloquies, and to which they succeeded by rotation, and for half an hour at a time. They whose means were unequal to the cost of a legal defence, or whose friends took little trouble in their behalf, were occasionally not unwilling to sell this privilege to their luckier companions, and a gill of whisky, or a few ounces of tobacco, were gladly accepted in lieu of a right that would have been profitless to claim.
As the day for trial grew nearer, the price of this privilege rose considerably. There were so many things the prisoner wanted to hear, or to tell, secrets he had kept for weeks long locked close in his breast, would now find vent; details that he had determined should go with him to the grave, he could no longer abstain from communicating. The agonies of feverish expectation, the sleepless nights – or worse, far worse, those dreamful ones – would have begun to tell upon the strongest and boldest; and spirits that a few weeks back would have seemed to defy every terror, now became fidgety and fretful, eager to hear what men said without, and how the newspapers talked of them.
While the assizes were distant, the prisoners gave themselves up, so far as their position permitted, to the habits and ways of their ordinary lives. Some brooded, some bullied, some looked steeped in a sort of stupid indifference, not caring for anything, or minding anything; others gave way to a jollity which, whether real or feigned, affected those around, and disposed them to scenes of riot and uproar. When, however, the time for trial drew nigh, all these signs merged into one pervading sentiment of intense anxiety, and nothing was said, nothing heard, but questions as to who were to be the judges – a point to which immense importance was attached – some supposed tendency to mercy or severity being ascribed to each in turn, and the characters of the Crown lawyers were discussed with a shrewdness that indicated how far less the debaters thought of the law itself than of the traits and tempers of those who were to administer it.
From the day that old Malone entered the gaol, his ascendancy was at once acknowledged. It was not merely that in the old man’s character there were those features of steadfast determination and unswerving courage which the Irish of every class place at the top of all virtues, but he was, so to say, a sort of patriarchal law-breaker; he had twice stood in the dock under charge for the greatest of crimes, and five times had he braved the risk of transportation. If ever there seemed a charmed life, it was his. And though the Crown prosecutors were wont to regard him as one whose successive escapes were a sort of reflection on their skill, the juries who tried him could not divest themselves of a sympathy for the hardy old fellow, who, never daunted by danger, no sooner issued from one scrape than he was ready to involve himself in another.
Dan Malone was not only the hero of the gaol, he was the law adviser. Around him they gathered to tell their several cases, and consult him as to their likely issue. It was not merely that he was quick in detecting where a flaw or break-down of evidence might be looked for, but he knew – and it was wonderful how well – the sort of testimony that would tell well with a jury, and the class of witness which it would be advisable to produce, or to withhold, according to the character of the judge that presided. It would have doubtless been very damaging to this ascendancy of his if it got abroad that he himself, while distributing his counsels to this man, and his warnings to that, should be unprotected and undefended, and so the brave old fellow, locking up his sorrows in his own heart, never betrayed his friendlessness. On the contrary, he scrupulously maintained his privilege to “the Parlour,” as it was called, and would, when his turn came, stalk away to the little cell, to sit down in his solitude, and think, with a swelling heart, over his comfortless fortune.
The turnkey alone knew his secret, and kept it loyally. Malone had been in his hands many times, and always conducted himself well, so that whenever the time came round for old Dan’s visit to the Parlour, Mr. Meekins would call out from the door in an audible and imposing voice, “Here’s Counsellor Fitzgibbon,” or “Serjeant Taate,” or some other equally well-known leader at the bar, “wants to speak to Dan Malone,” and poor old Dan would get up from his seat, and smoothe his hair, and adjust his neckcloth, and walk proudly away to hide his misery in the half-darkened cell, and rock himself to and fro in all the sorrow of his friendless and deserted fortune.
Terrible as the mockery was, it sustained him, for though the straw will not support the drowning man, it will feed his hope even in death, and smoothe the last agony of the heart, whose sharpest pang is desertion!
When, therefore, Mr. Meekins, instead of the usual pompons announcement, simply called out, “Dan Malone, to the Parlour,” without any intimation of a learned visitor awaiting him, the old man heard the words in amazement, and not without fear. Had his friend betrayed him? Had he divulged the little fraud, and exposed him to his fellows? Or had he – and this most probable – had he, as the real day of reckoning drew nigh, revolted at a deception which a few hours must unveil, and which, even to the heart that encouraged it, bore its own cruel punishment. “He knows that I’m only giving myself false hopes,” muttered the old fellow, as with sunken head and downcast eyes he moved slowly away.
As the door of the little cell clanked behind him, the turnkey with scrupulous tenacity bolting the small portal on the outside as rigorously as though it were the last protection of the criminal, Dan sat down on a small stool, and buried his face between his hands. Never before had his fate seemed sodark and gloomy. The little fiction he loved to main-tarn withdrawn, all the intensity of his loneliness stood before him at once. “I may as well say it at once,” muttered he, “when I go back, that Dan Malone has no friend in the wide world, not a man to speak a word for him, but must stand up in the dock and say, ‘No counsel, my lord.’” As if the bitter moment of the humiliation had arrived, the old fellow rocked to and fro in his agony, and groaned bitterly.
What was that which broke the stillness? Was it a sigh, and then a sob? Was his mind wandering? Was the misery too much for his reason? He rubbed his eyes and looked up.
“Merciful Mother! Blessed Virgin! is it yourself is come to comfort me?” cried he, as he dropped on his knees, while the tears streamed down his hard and wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, Holy Mother! Tower of Ivory! do I see you there, or is my ould eyes deceivin’ me?”
The heart-wrung prayer was addressed to a figure on which the solitary pane of a small window high up in the wall threw a ray of sunlight, so that the braided hair glowed like burnished gold, and the pale cheeks caught a slightly warm tint, less like life than like a beautiful picture.
“Don’t you know me, grandfather? Don’t you know your own dear Katey?” said she, moving slowly forward; and then, kneeling down in front of him, clasped him in her arms.
It was more than he could bear, and he heaved a heavy sigh, and rolled back against the wall.
It was long before he rallied; old age stands so near the last threshold, there is but little space to recover breath in; and when he did rally, he could not be sure that his mind was not astray, or that his sight was not deceiving him.
“Tell me something of long ago, darlin’; tell me something, that I’ll know you are my own.”
“Shall I tell you of the day I found the penny in the well, and you told me it was for good luck, and never to lose it? Do you remember, grandfather, how you bored a hole in it, and I used to wear it around my neck with a string?”
“I do, I do,” cried he, as the tears came fast and faster; “and you lost it after all; didn’t you lose it?”
“Yes; but, grandfather, I shall find others, and golden ones too.”
“Tell me more about them times, or I won’t believe you,” cried he, half peevishly.
“I’ll talk to you all the evening about them; I remember them all, dear old grandady.”
“That’s the word I wanted; that’s it, my darlin’! the light of my ould eyes!” And he fell on her neck and sobbed aloud.
In his ecstasy and delight to weave the long past into the present, he forgot to ask her how she came there, and by what fortune she had remembered him. It was the old life in the mountains that filled his whole being. The wild cliffs and solitary lakes, dear to him by the thought of her who never left him, trotting beside him as he went, or cowering at his knee as he sat over the turf fire. So immersed was he in these memories, that though she talked on he heard nothing; he would look at her, and smile, and say, “God bless her,” and then go back again to his own dreamy thoughts.
“I’m thinking we’ll have to cut the oats, green as it is, Kitty,” said he, after a long pause. “It’s late in the year now, and there’ll be no fine days.”
She could not speak, but her lips trembled, and her heart felt as if it would burst.
“There’s a lamb astray these two days,” muttered he. “I hope the eagles hasn’t got it; but I heard one screeching last night. Light the fire, anyway, darlin’, for it’s cowld here.”
With what art and patience and gentle forbearance did she labour to bring those erring faculties back, and fix them on the great reality that portended! It was long, indeed, before she succeeded. The old man loved to revel in the bygone life, wherein, with all its hardships, his fierce nature enjoyed such independence; and every now and then, after she had, as she hoped, centred his thoughts upon the approaching trial, he would break out into some wild triumph over an act of lawless daring, some insolent defiance he had hurled at the minions who were afraid to come and look for him in his mountain home.
At last she did manage to get him to speak of his present condition, and to give a narrative – it was none of the clearest – of his encounter with the sheriff’s people. He made no attempt to screen himself, nor did he even pretend that he had not been the aggressor, but he insisted, and he believed too, that he was perfectly justified in all he had done. His notion was, that he was simply defending what was his own. The scrupulous regard the Law observes towards him who is in possession, is not unfrequently translated by the impetuous intelligence of the Irish peasant into a bona fide and undeniable right. Malone reasoned in this way, and with this addition: “It’s just as good for me to die in a fair fight as be starved and ruined.”
How hard was Kate’s task, to eke out means for a defence from such materials as this! Indeed, no indictment that ever was drawn could be more condemnatory than the man’s own admissions. Still, she persisted in sifting the whole story over and over, till she had at least such a knowledge of the details as would enable her to confer with a lawyer and obtain his opinion.
“And who is to defind me, darlin’?” asked he, in the cheerful tone of a heart perfectly at ease.
“We have not fixed upon that yet. We are not quite sure,” murmured she, as her racked brain beat and throbbed with intense thinking.
“I’d like to have Mr. O’Connell, Kate,” said he, proudly. “It would warm my ould heart to hear how he’d give it to them, the scoundrels! that would turn a poor man out of his own, and send him to sleep under a ditch. There’s not his like in all Ireland to lash a landlord. It’s there he’s at home!”
“I must be going now, grandady.”
“Going, acushla! And will you leave me?”
“I most, there’s no help for it; they wouldn’t let me stay here.”
“Begorra!” cried he, wildly, – “I forgot I was in gaol! May I never! if I didn’t think I was at home again, and that we were only waiting for the boys to have our supper!”
“My poor old grandady,” said she, stooping and kissing his forehead, “I’ll come back to-morrow, and stay a long time with you. I have a great deal to say to you that I can’t think of to-day. Here’s a little basket, with something to eat, and some tobacco, too; the gaoler gave me leave to bring it in. And you’ll drink my health to-night, grandady, won’t you?”
“My darlin’ – my own darlin’, that I will! And where did you come from now – was it from England?”
“No, grandady. It was a long way off, but not from England.”
“And who are you living with? Is it with that ould man in Wales?”
“No, not with him. I’ll tell you all to-morrow.”
“They tell me he’s mighty rich.”
She evidently had not heard his words, for she stood pressing her temples with both hands, and as if endeavouring to repress some severe pain.
“It’s your head’s aching you, darlin’!” said he, compassionately.
