The Martins Of Cro' Martin Volume II Part 44

Kate followed her into the little drawing-room, and at a sign from the old woman, took a seat.

"Miss Mary is quite well, I'm glad to hear," said Kate, endeavoring to introduce some conversation.

"Will they ever come back?" asked the old woman, in a stern, harsh voice, while she paid no attention whatever to Kate's remark.

"It is very unlikely," said Kate. "Your poor master had not long to live when I came away. He was sinking rapidly."

"So I heard," muttered the other, dryly; "the last letter from Mr.

Repton said 'he was n't expected.'"

"I fear it will be a great shock to Miss Mary," said Kate.

The old woman nodded her head slowly several times without speaking.

"And, perhaps, cause great changes here?" continued Kate.

"There's changes enough, and too many already," muttered Catty. "I remember the place upwards of eighty years. I was born in the little house to the right of the road as you come up from Kelly's mills. There was no mill there then, nor a school-house, no, nor a dispensary either!

Musha, but the people was better off, and happier, when they had none of them."

Kate smiled at the energy with which these words were uttered, surmising, rightfully, that Catty's condemnation of progress had a direct application to herself.

"Now it's all readin' and writin', teachin' honest people to be rogues, and givin' them new contrivances to cheat their masters. When I knew Cro' Martin first," added she, almost fiercely, "there was n't a Scotch steward on the estate; but there was n.o.body turned out of his houldin', and there was n't a cabin unroofed to make the people seek shelter under a ditch."

"The world would then seem growing worse every day," remarked Kate, quietly.

"To be sure it is. Why would n't it? Money is in every one's heart.

n.o.body cares for his own flesh and blood. 'T is all money! What will I get if I take that farm over another man's head, or marry that girl that likes somebody better than me? 'Tis to be rich they're all strivin', and the devil never made people his own children so completely as by teachin' them to love goold!"

"Your young mistress has but little of this spirit in her heart?" said Kate.

"Signs on it! look at the life she leads: up before daybreak, and away many times before I 'm awake. She makes a cup of coffee herself, and saddles the pony, too, if Patsey is n't there to do it; and she 's off to Glentocher, or Knock-mullen, twelve, fourteen miles down the coast, with barley for one, and a bottle of wine for the other. Sometimes she has a basket with her, just a load to carry, with tay and shugar; ay, and--for she forgets nothing--toys for the children, too, and clothes, and even books. And then to see herself, she 's not as well dressed as her own maid used to be. There 's not a night she does n't sit up patchin' and piecin' her clothes. 'T is Billy at the cross-roads made her shoes last time for her, just because he was starvin' with nothing'

to do. She ordered them, and she wears them, too; it makes him so proud, she says, to see them. And this is the niece of the Martins of Cro' Martin! without one of her kith or kin to welcome her home at nightfall,--without father or mother, brother or sister,--without a kind voice to say 'G.o.d bless her,' as she falls off to sleep many a time in that big chair there; and I take off her shoes without her knowin' it, she does be so weary and tired; and in her dhrames it 's always talking to the people, givin' them courage, and cheerin' them up, tellin' them there 's good times for every one; and once, the other evenin', she sang a bit of a song, thinkin' she was in Mat Leahy's cabin amusin' the children, and she woke up laughin', and said, 'Catty, I 've had such a pleasant dhrame. I thought I had little Nora, my G.o.dchild, on my knee, and was teachin' her "Why are the daisies in the gra.s.s?" I can't tell you how happy I felt!' There it was: the only thing like company to her poor heart was a dhrame!"

"I do not wonder that you love her, Catty," said Kate; and the words fell tremulously from her lips.

"Love her! what's the use of such as me lovin' her?" cried the old woman, querulously. "Sure, it's not one of my kind knows how good she is! If you only seen her comin' in here, after dark, maybe, wet and weary and footsore, half famished with cold and hunger,--out the whole livelong day, over the mountains, where there was fever and shakin'

ague, and starvin' people, ravin' mad between disease and dest.i.tution; and the first word out of her mouth will be, 'Oh, Catty, how grateful you and I ought to be with our warm roof over us, and our snug fire to sit at,' never thinkin' of who she is and what she has the right to, but just makin' herself the same as _me_. And then she 'd tell me where she was, and what she seen, and how well the people was bearin' up under their trials,--all the things they said to her, for they 'd tell her things they would n't tell the priest. 'Catty,' said she, t' other night, 'it looks like heartlessness in me to be in such high spirits in the midst of all this misery here; but I feel as if my courage was a well that others were drinking out of; and when I go into a cabin, the sick man, as he turns his head round, looks happier, and I feel as if it was my spirit that was warmin' and cheerin' him; and when a poor sick sufferin' child looks up at me and smiles, I 'm ready to drop on my knees and thank G.o.d in grat.i.tude.'"

Kate covered her face with her hands, and never spoke; and now the old woman, warming with the theme she loved best, went on to tell various incidents and events of Mary's life,--the perilous accidents which befell her, the dangers she braved, the fatigues she encountered. Even recounted by _her_, there was a strange adventurous character that ran through these recitals, showing that Mary Martin, in all she thought and said and acted, was buoyed and sustained by a sort of native chivalry that made her actually court the incidents where she incurred the greatest hazard. It was plain to see what charm such traits possessed for her who recorded them, and how in her old Celtic blood ran the strong current of delight in all that pertained to the adventurous and the wild.

"'Tis her own father's nature is strong in her," said Catty, with enthusiasm. "Show him the horse that n.o.body could back, tell him of a storm where no fisherman would launch his boat, point out a cliff that no man could climb, and let me see who 'd hould him! She 's so like him, that when there 's anything daring to be done you would n't know her voice from his own. There, now, I hear her without," cried the old woman, as, rising suddenly, she approached the window. "Don't you hear something?"

"Nothing but the wind through the trees," said Kate.

"Ay, but _I_ did, and my ears are older than yours. She's riding through the river now; I hear the water splas.h.i.+n'."

Kate tried to catch the sounds, but could not; she walked out upon the lawn to listen, but except the brawling of the stream among the rocks, there was nothing to be heard.

"D' ye see her comin'?" asked Catty, eagerly.

"No. Your ears must have deceived you. There is no one coming."

"I heard her voice, as I hear yours now. I heard her spake to the mare, as she always does when she 's plungin' into the river. There, now, don't you hear that?"

"I hear nothing, I a.s.sure you, my dear Mrs. Broon. It is your own anxiety that is misleading you; but if you like, I 'll go down towards the river and see." And without waiting for a reply Kate hastened down the slope. As she went, she could not help reflecting over the superst.i.tion which attaches so much importance to these delusions, giving them the character of actual warnings. It was doubtless from the mind dwelling so forcibly on Miss Martin's perilous life that the old woman's apprehensions had a.s.sumed this palpable form, and thus invented the very images which should react upon her with terror.

"Just as I thought," cried Kate, as she stood on the bank of the stream; "all silent and deserted, no one within sight." And slowly she retraced her steps towards the cottage. The old woman stood at the door, pale and trembling; an attempt to smile was on her features, but her heart denied the courage of the effort.

"Where is she now?" cried Catty, wildly. "She rang the bell this minute, and I heerd the mare trottin' round to the stable by herself, as she always does. But where 's Miss Mary?"

"My dear Mrs. Broon," said Kate, in her kindest accents, "it is just as I told you. Your mind is anxious and uneasy about Miss Martin; you are unhappy at her absence, and you think at every stir you hear her coming; but I have been to the river-side, and there is no one there. I 'll go round to the stables, if you wish it."

"There 's no tracks of a hoof on the gravel," muttered the old woman, in a broken voice; "there was n.o.body here!"

"So I said," replied Kate. "It was a mere delusion,--a fancy."

"A delusion,--a fancy!" cried Catty, scornfully; "that's the way they always spake of whatever they don't understand. It's easier to say that than confess you don't see how to explain a thing; but I heerd the same sounds before you came to-day; ay, and I went down to see why she was n't comin', and at the pool there was bubbles and froth on the water, just as if a baste had pa.s.sed through, but no livin' thing to be seen.

Was n't that a delusion, too?"

"An accident, perchance. Only think, what lives of misery we should lead were we ever tracing our own fears, and connecting them with all the changes that go on around us!"

"It's two days she's away, now," muttered the old woman, who only heeded her own thoughts; "she was to be back last night, or early this mornin'."

"Where had she gone to?" asked Kate, who now saw that the other had lapsed into confidence.

"She's gone to the islands!--to Innishmore, and maybe, on to Brannock!"

"That's a long way out to sea," said Kate, thoughtfully; "but still, the weather is fine, and the day favorable. Had she any other object than pleasure in this excursion?"

"Pleasure is it?" croaked Catty. "'Tis much pleasure she does be given herself! Her pleasure is to be where there 's fever and want,--in the lonely cabin, where the sick is lyin'! It 's to find a poor crayture that run away from home she 's gone now,--one Joan Landy. She's missin'

this two months, and n.o.body knows where she 's gone to! and Miss Mary got so uneasy at last that she could n't sleep by night nor rest by day,--always talkin' about her, and say in' as much as it was all her fault; as if _she_ could know why she went, or where?"

"Did she go alone on this errand, then?"

"To be sure she did. Who could she have with her? She towld Loony she 'd want the boat with four men in it, and maybe to stay out three days, for she 'd go to all the islands before she came back."

"Loony 's the best sailor on the coast, I 've heard; and with such weather as this there is no cause for alarm."

Catty did not seem to heed the remark; she felt that within her against which the words of consolation availed but little, and she sat brooding sorrowfully and in silence.

"The night will soon be fallin' now," said she, at last. "I hope she's not at sea!"

In spite of herself, Kate Henderson caught the contagion of the old woman's terrors, and felt a dreamy, undefined dread of coming evil. As she looked out, however, at the calm and fair landscape, which, as day declined, grew each moment more still, she rallied from the gloomy thoughts, and said,--"I wish I knew how to be of any service to you, Mrs. Broon. If you could think of anything I could do--anywhere I could go--" She stopped suddenly at a gesture from the old woman, who, lifting her hand to impress silence, stood a perfect picture of eager anxiety to hear. Bending down her head, old Catty stood for several seconds motionless.

"Don't ye hear it now?" broke she in. "Listen! I thought I heerd something like a wailin' sound far off, but it is the wind. See how the tree-tops are bendin'!--That's three times I heerd it now," said Catty.

"If ye live to be as old as me, you 'll not think light of a warnin'.

You think your hearin' better because you're younger; but I tell you that there 's sounds that only reach ears that are goin' to where the voices came from. When eyes grow dim to sights of this world, they are strainin' to catch a glimpse of them that's beyond it." Although no tears rose to her eyes, the withered face trembled in her agony, and her clasped hands shook in the suffering of her sorrow.