The Rebels of Ireland (118 page)

And he was glad to help her. He admired her fortitude, and her grace under the circumstances. Each time he came to Dublin, he would come to see the Tidys and, at their request, spend a little time talking to her and telling her about what he was doing. Sometimes, she would politely ask about his own affairs—where he had been and what he had seen. She seemed to take an intelligent interest, though she would apologise for her ignorance.

“You have seen more of life, I dare say, than I,” he assured her once.

“Life in the conditions we suffered is not really life, I think,” she said.

The Tidys seemed rather proud of the talents they were encouraging in her. On one occasion, when he was offered a slice of rather fine cake, Mrs. Tidy announced: “This, I must tell you, Stephen, was made by Maureen. She has quite a talent in the kitchen. Indeed,” she added, “Maureen really runs the whole household better than I do.”

Naturally, he complimented her on the cake, which actually seemed excellent. But he was careful not to say too much in case she should blush again.

During the midwinter months, he was not in Dublin much, but at the start of March, the Tidys had a small gathering at their house which he attended, and during this, Mrs. Tidy and Maureen sang together at the piano. Mrs. Tidy had a sweet soprano voice, but Maureen, they had discovered, had a lovely contralto, and it had to
be said that, dressed in a long gown that Mrs. Tidy had given her, she showed to advantage. When he applauded warmly and told Maureen that he did not know that she could sing, she replied simply: “I had not sung, Mr. Smith, for a long time. But I assure you we have been practising since Christmas.”

Later, he had more conversation with her, and remarked that it must be a joy to use one's talent.

“I agree. You have so many talents, Mr. Smith, do you feel that you are able to use them all?”

“Not so many, I assure you.” He thought for a moment. It was true that the agent's job for Lord Mountwalsh called for the use of many talents he possessed. It was both testing and satisfying. He smiled at her. “I think I use most.” She was, he thought, a sensible woman.

“I think Maureen has a special kind of beauty, of the spirit as well as of the person,” Tidy remarked to him quietly, afterwards.

“Indeed,” Stephen said politely.

After he had left, Mr. Tidy remarked to his wife: “I think we made some progress.”

“Perhaps. It is hard to tell with him.”

“She let him see she liked him, I think.”

“I made her.”

“But I do not think he knows it. Perhaps she should do more.”

“No, Samuel, she cannot. It is up to him now. He must show his interest, or she can do nothing.”

In April, he came again. It was a fine day. There were spring flowers along the towpath, and Mrs. Tidy suggested he should take Maureen for a walk along it. As he had been debating whether and how to give her a piece of news he had received, Stephen readily assented. They walked, speaking a little, for about a mile westwards, then turned and slowly retraced their steps. The sun was pleasantly warm.

“You are rather silent today, Mr. Smith,” Maureen ventured.

“I am thoughtful. You are right.”

“Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

Was there? The report he had received was ambiguous. A young woman, thought to be named Nuala, and similar in description, had been found dead of a fever in a parish in County Cork, not far from the Wexford border. But should he tell her? The thing was so inconclusive. Would it help her to know, or distress her unduly? He had been trying to make up his mind all the way out. He stared at a willow tree.

“It is possible that Nuala may have died,” he said at last. “But I cannot be sure.”

“Oh.” She seemed a little stunned. “I see.” How pale she looked. How bitterly disappointed. He shouldn't have told her. “I must thank you for all the trouble you have gone to for me,” she said with quiet dignity. “Is there any further information you can give me?”

He told her all he knew.

After they had walked on in silence for a little way, she began to weep, and so, not knowing what to do, he put his arm around her.

“I am so sorry,” she said, “so sorry.”

Yet two days later, when he called again before returning to Wexford, she surprised him with her powers of recovery. Not only was she self-possessed, but he saw that she had been reading the newspaper, and upon making some enquiries as to her views on the political situation, found her to be surprisingly well-informed. Not only that, but she made some shrewd and quite cynical observations upon political events, which interested him, truth to tell, far more than her cake or even her singing had ever done. Her face, he reflected, might be somewhat plain, but it had an intelligence that was quite pleasing.

He did not see her for another month. But in May he returned, and this time, he had news.

“We have found your brother William,” he reported. There is no doubt about the matter. He is living in Boston. It seems that he had attempted to make contact with you, but had failed to find you and supposed you must be either dead or have moved away. I have his
address, and also that of your uncle. Their circumstances are not especially prosperous, but they are employed and in good health.” He smiled. “You are not alone in the world, then.”

She thanked him deeply, and that evening, he joined the whole family to eat, and rejoice at this happy turn of events.

For Samuel Tidy, the month of June was very difficult. For it was then that the Quaker community, having won the admiration of all parties for its dedication to the welfare of Famine-stricken Ireland, finally announced that it had had enough. The Quaker relief work was ending. Was it the right thing to do? Samuel himself wasn't sure.

“One thing is quite certain,” he told his family. “Neither the Quakers nor anyone else have the resources to feed the starving and help the sick. Only the government can do it. The problem is too huge for anything else.” And there was another factor to consider. “So long as the government can persuade itself that the problems are being solved by others, I fear it will continue to do nothing. The Quakers cannot continue forever as an excuse for government neglect.” While the argument was perfectly sound, he felt uncomfortable with it, and for several days his family found him to be quite short with them.

At the end of the month, his wife gave him a further piece of news.

“Maureen wants to go to America. She wants to be with her brother.”

“Will anything change her mind, do you think?”

“Who knows? You can hardly blame her. He's the only family she has. And there is no other reason for her to stay.”

“Has she written to her brother?”

“She means to go and seek him out instead.”

“When will she go?”

“When she has the money. She has saved every penny we have given her. She hasn't enough yet, but soon…”

“Perhaps the fact she is going will cause Stephen…” He left the sentence unfinished.

“Perhaps.”

He saw Stephen two weeks later, in Dublin, and informed him of this development.

“We shall miss her when she does go, I must say,” Tidy said.

Stephen looked thoughtful.

“Yes,” he replied. “Yes. I shall miss her, too.”

“You'll wish to see her, no doubt, before she leaves.”

“Oh, I will.” Stephen frowned. “Certainly.”

A week passed.

Then news came of a very different kind.

When Queen Victoria of England had come to the throne a dozen years ago, she had only been a girl of just eighteen. She was a young woman of thirty now, married to her German cousin, Prince Albert, and with a young family.

They were a charming young couple. Some, it was true, found Albert rather serious. He drank little, disliked bad language, and had a passionate belief in man's capacity to improve himself and the world. But he and his wife seemed to be utterly devoted to each other, and anxious to do right in every way. Nobody doubted their good intentions. All in all, therefore, they were well liked.

So it had seemed a good idea to the British cabinet, in the summer of 1849, that the royal couple should make a visit to Ireland.

“It will spread good feeling. Improve relations,” they judged. “It will show that this wretched Famine is—to all intents and purposes—over.”

Based upon this remarkable assertion, the visit was to take place in August.

Stephen had given the matter a great deal of thought. He was quite surprised himself by how much the thought of Maureen's leaving affected him. He supposed, because she was the one person he had been able to save from those terrible days in Ennis, when his own life, too, was in such a state of flux, that she had come to mean more in his imagination, and his heart, than she should. At a time when the continuing crisis in Ireland and the large volume of business he was transacting for the earl were keeping him as busy as he had ever been in his political life, her presence with the Tidy family had come to seem like a fact, a constant in his life. He wished she were not going. And he felt an urge to do something for her.

On a sunny morning in early July, therefore, he presented himself at the Tidy house and asked if he might have a private conference with her. She sat in the parlour.

“I could not let you contemplate leaving for America, Miss Madden,” his words, for some reason, sounded oddly stiff, “without some token of my respect and warm feeling towards you.” She was looking at him with an expression of uncertainty. “Indeed, I feel,” he continued, “after all we have seen together, and the time in Dublin which has followed, that we have become true friends. I hope I may say so.”

“I feel so, too, Mr. Smith,” she said quietly.

“And so I hope that you will accept this from me, as a dear friend, who wishes you well and who will ever keep you in his thoughts.” And he handed her an envelope. “You will find in there all that you will require for your voyage to America. For a cabin on a good ship. And something else besides, to ensure you have lodgings there. I beg you to accept this from one who would wish, most truly, to be your friend.” He smiled. “Even a brother.”

She was pale as a ghost. He supposed it was to be expected. She bowed her head.

“You have always been my benefactor,” she said softly.

“It is my honour, Miss Madden, to be of assistance.”

Still she could not look up.

“You saved my life, Mr. Smith. I shall remember it as long as I live. Forgive me if I express my feelings as they should properly be expressed, when I have collected myself.” She rose.

“Of course.”

She left the room.

He spoke to Mrs. Tidy before he left.

“She was moved, I think,” he said.

“You gave her the fare to America? So that she could leave?”

“I did.” He felt a glow of emotion at what he'd done, for it was no small sum of money, and he had given up a couple of months of his salary to do it.