Kitabı oku: «The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. II (of II)», sayfa 11

These, and many other indications of the festivity then going on within, Mary rapidly noticed; but it was evident, from the increasing eagerness of her gaze, that the object which she sought had not yet met her eye. Suddenly, however, the door of the kitchen opened and a figure entered, on which the young girl bent all her attention. It was Joan Landy, but how different from the half-timid, half-reckless peasant girl that last we saw her! Dressed in a heavy gown of white satin, looped up on either side with wreaths of flowers, and wearing a rich lace cap on her head, she rushed hurriedly in, her face deeply flushed, and her eyes sparkling with excitement. Hastily snatching up a check apron that lay on a chair, she fastened it about her, and drew near the fire. It was plain from her gesture, as she took the ladle from the old woman’s hand, that she was angry, and by her manner seemed as if rebuking her. The old crone, however, only crouched lower, and spreading out her wasted fingers towards the blaze, appeared insensible to everything addressed to her. Meanwhile Joan busied herself about the fire with all the zealous activity of one accustomed to the task. Mary watched her intently; she scrutinized with piercing keenness every lineament of that face, now moved by its passing emotions, and she muttered to herself, “Alas, I have come in vain!” Nor was this depressing sentiment less felt as Joan, turning from the fire, approached a fragment of a broken looking-glass that stood against the wall. Drawing herself up to her full height, she stood gazing proudly, delightedly, at her own figure. The humble apron, too, was speedily discarded, and as she trampled it beneath her feet she seemed to spurn the mean condition of which it was the symbol. Mary Martin sighed deeply as she looked, and muttered once more, “In vain!”

Then suddenly starting, with one of those bursts of energy which so often had steeled her heart against peril, she walked to the kitchen-door, raised the latch, and entered. She had made but one step within the door when Joan turned and beheld her; and there they both stood, silently, each surveying the other. Mary felt too intensely the difficulty of the task before her to utter a word without well weighing the consequences. She knew how the merest accident might frustrate all she had in view, and stood hesitating and uncertain, when Joan, who now recognized her, vacillated between her instinctive sense of respect and a feeling of defiance in the consciousness of where she was. Happily for Mary the former sentiment prevailed, and in a tone of kindly anxiety Joan drew near her and said, – “Has anything happened? I trust in God no accident has befell you.”

“Thank God, nothing worse than a wetting,” said Mary, – “some little fatigue; and I’ll think but little of either if they have brought me here to a good end. May I speak with you alone, – quite alone?”

“Come in here,” said Joan, pushing open the door of a small room off the kitchen which served for a species of larder, – “come in here.”

“I have come on a sad errand,” said Mary, taking her hand between both her own, “and I would that it had fallen to any other than myself. It is for you to decide that! have not come in vain.”

“What is it? tell me what it is?” cried Joan, as a sudden paleness spread over her features.

“These are days of sorrow and mourning everywhere,” said Mary, gloomily. “Can you not guess what my tidings may be? No, no,” cried she, as a sudden gesture of Joan interrupted her, – “no, not yet; he is still alive, and entreats to see you.”

“To curse me again, is it?” cried the other, wildly; “to turn me from the door, and pray down curses on me, – is it for that he wants to see me?”

“Not for that, indeed,” said Mary; “it is to see you – to give you his last kiss – his last blessing – to forgive you and be forgiven. Remember that he is alone, deserted by all that once were his. Your father and mother and sisters are all gone to America, and poor old Mat lingers on, – nay, the journey is nigh ended. Oh, do not delay, lest it be too late. Come now – now.”

“And if I see him once, can I ever come back to this?” cried Joan, in bitter agony. “Will I ever be able to hear his words and live as I do now?”

“Let your own good heart guide you for that,” cried Mary; “all I ask is that you should see him and be with him. I have pledged myself for your coming, and you will not dishonor my words to one on his death-bed.”

“And I ‘ll be an outcast for it. Tom will drive me from the door and never see me again. I know it, – I know him!”

“You are wrong, Joan Landy.”

“Joan! – who dares to call me Joan Landy when I’m Mrs. Magennis of Barnagheela? and if I’m not your equal, I ‘m as good as any other in the barony. Was it to insult me you came here to-night, to bring up to me who I am and where I came from? That ‘s the errand that brought you through the storm! Ay,” cried she, lashed to a wilder passion by her own words, – “ay! ay! and if you and yours had their will we ‘d not have the roof to shelter us this night. It ‘s only to-day that we won the trial against you.”

“Whatever my errand here this night,” said Mary, with a calm dignity, “it was meant to serve and not insult you. I know, as well as your bitterest words can tell me, that this is not my place; but I know, too, if from yielding to my selfish pride I had refused your old grandfather this last request, it had been many a year of bitter reproach to me.”

“Oh, you ‘ll break my heart, you will, you will!” cried Joan, bitterly. “You ‘ll turn the only one that’s left against me, and I ‘ll be alone in the world.”

“Come with me this night, and whatever happen I ‘ll befriend you,” said Mary.

“And not desert me because I ‘m what I am?”

“Never, Joan, never!”

“Oh, my blessings on you, – if the blessing of one like me is any good,” cried she, kissing Mary’s hand fervently. “Oh, they that praised you said the truth; you have goodness enough in your heart to make up for us all! I ‘ll go with you to the world’s end.”

“We’ll pass Cro’ Martin, and you shall have my horse – ”

“No, no, Miss Mary, I ‘ll go on my feet; it best becomes me. I ‘ll go by Burnane – by the Gap – I know it well – too well!” added she, as the tears rushed to her eyes. As she was speaking, she took off the cap she wore and threw it from her; and then removing her dress, put on the coarse woollen gown of her daily wear. “Oh, God forgive me!” cried she, “if I curse the day that I ever wore better than this.”

Mary assisted her with her dress, fastening the hood of her cloak over her head, and preparing her, as best she might, for the severe storm she was to encounter; and it was plain to see that Joan accepted these little services without a thought of by whom they were rendered, so intensely occupied was her mind by the enterprise before her. A feverish haste to be away marked all she did. It was partly terror lest her escape might be prevented; partly a sense of distrust in herself, and that she might abandon her own resolution.

“Oh, tell me,” she cried, as the tears streamed from her eyes, and her lips quivered with agony, – “oh, tell me I’m doing right; tell me that God’s blessing is going with me this night, or I can’t do it.”

“And so it is, dear Joan,” said Mary; “be of good heart, and Heaven will support you. I ‘m sure the trial is a sore one.”

“Oh, is it not to leave this – to leave him – maybe forever? To be sure, it’s forever,” cried she, bitterly. “He ‘ll never forgive me!”

A wild burst of revelry now resounded from the parlor, and the discordant sounds of half-drunken voices burst upon their ears.

Joan started, and gazed wildly around her. The agonized look of her features bespoke her dread of detection; and then with a bound she sprung madly from the spot, and was away. Mary followed quickly; but before she had secured her horse and mounted, the other was already half-way down the mountain. Now catching, now losing sight of her again, Mary at last came up with her.

“Remember, dear Joan,” said Mary, “there are nine weary miles of mountain before you.”

“I know it well,” was the brief reply.

“And if you go by Burnane the rocks are slippy with the rain, and the path to the shore is full of danger.”

“If I was afeard of danger, would I be here?” cried she. “Oh, Miss Mary,” added she, stopping and grasping her hand in both her own, “leave me to myself; don’t come with me, – it’s not one like you ought to keep me company.”

“But Joan, – dear Joan, – I have promised to be your friend, and I am not one who forgets a pledge.”

“My heart will break; it will break in two if you talk to me. Leave me, for the love of Heaven, and let me go my road all alone. There, at the two trees there, is the way to Cro’ Martin; take it, and may the Saints guide you safe home!”

“And if I do, Joan, will you promise me to come straight back to Cro’ Martin after you ‘ve seen him? Will you do this?”

“I will, – I will,” cried she, bathing Mary’s hand with her tears as she kissed it.

“Then God bless and protect you, poor girl!” said Mary. “It is not for me to dictate to your own full heart. Goodbye, – good-bye.”

Before Mary had dried the warm tears that rose to her eyes, Joan was gone.

CHAPTER XIV. THE END OF A BAR MESS

There are few things more puzzling to the uninitiated than the total separation lawyers are able to exercise between their private sentiments and the emotions they display in the wear and tear of their profession. So widely apart are these two characters, that it is actually difficult to understand how they ever can unite in one man. But so it is. He can pass his morning in the most virulent assaults upon his learned brother, ridiculing his law, laughing at his logic, arraigning his motives, – nay, sometimes ascribing to him some actually base and wicked. Altercations, heightened by all that passion stimulated by wit can produce, ensue. Nothing that can taunt, provoke, or irritate, is omitted. Personalities even are introduced to swell the acrimony of the contest; and yet, when the jury have given in their verdict and the court breaks up, the gladiators, who seemed only thirsting for each other’s blood, are seen laughingly going homeward arm-in-arm, mayhap discoursing over the very cause which, but an hour back, seemed to have stamped them enemies for the rest of life.

Doubtless there is a great deal to be pleased at in all this, and, we ought to rejoice in the admirable temper by which men can discriminate between the faithful performance of a duty and the natural course of their affections. Still, small-minded folk – of which wide category we own ourselves to be a part – may have their misgivings that the excellence of this system is not without its alloy, and that even the least ingenious of men will ultimately discover how much principle is sapped, and how much truthfulness of character is sacrificed in this continual struggle between fiction and reality.

The Bar is the nursery of the Senate, and it would not be a very fanciful speculation were we to ascribe the laxity of purpose, the deficient earnestness, and the insincerity of principle we often deplore in our public men, to this same legal training.

The old lawyer, however, finds no difficulty in the double character. With his wig and gown he puts on his sarcasm, his insolence, and his incredulity. His brief bag opens to him a Pandora’s box of noxious influences; and as he passes the precincts of the court, he leaves behind him all the amenities of life and all the charities of his nature. The young barrister does not find the transmutation so easy. He gives himself unreservedly to his client, and does not measure his ardor by the instructions in his brief. Let us ask pardon of our reader for what may seem a mal à propos digression; but we have been led to these remarks by the interests of our story.

It was in the large dining-room of the “Martin Arms” at Oughterard, that a party of lawyers spent the evening, some of whose events, elsewhere, our last chapter has recorded. It was the Bar mess of the Western Circuit, and the chair was filled by no less a person than “Father Repton.” This able “leader” had determined not to visit the West of Ireland so long as his friend Martin remained abroad; but a very urgent entreaty from Scanlan, and a pressing request for his presence, had induced him to waive that resolve, and come down special to Oughterard for the Magennis case.

A simple case of ejectment could scarcely have called for that imposing array of learned counsel who had repaired to this unfrequented spot; so small a skirmish could never have called for the horse, foot, and dragoons of law, – the wily conveyancer, the clap-trap orator, the browbeater of witnesses, and the light sharpshooter at technicalities; and yet there they were all met, and – with all reverence be it spoken – very jolly companions they were.

An admirable rule precluded the introduction of, or even an allusion to, professional subjects, save when the burden of a joke, whose success might excuse the transgression; and thus these crafty, keen intelligences argued, disputed, jested, and disported together, in a vein which less practised talkers would find it hard to rival. To the practice of these social amenities is doubtless ascribable the absence of any rancor from the rough contests and collisions of public life, and thus men of every shade of politics and party, differing even in class and condition, formed admirable social elements, and cohered together to perfection.

As the evening wore on, the company insensibly thinned off. Some of the hard-workers retired early; a few, whose affectation it was to pretend engagements, followed. The “juniors” repaired in different groups to the chambers of their friends, where loo and brandy-and-water awaited them; and at last Repton was left, with only two others, sole occupants of that spacious apartment. His companions were, like himself, soldiers of the “Vieille Garde” veterans who remembered Curran and Lawrence Parsons, John Toler and Saurin, and a host of others, who only needed that the sphere should have been greater to be themselves among the great of the nation.

Rawlins was Repton’s schoolfellow, and had been his rival at the Bar for nigh fifty years. Niel, a few years younger than either, was the greatest orator of his time. Both had been opposed to Repton in the present suit, and had held heavy retainers for their services.

“Well, Repton,” said Rawlins, as soon as they were left thus to themselves, “are you pondering over it still? I see that you can’t get it out of your head.”

“It is quite true, I cannot,” said Repton. “To summon us all down here, – to bring us some fifty miles away from our accustomed beat, for a trumpery affair like this, is totally beyond me. Had it been an election time, I should probably have understood it.”

“How so?” cried Niel, in the shrill piercing voice peculiar to him, and which imparted to him, even in society, an air of querulous irritability.

“On the principle that Bob Mahon always puts a thoroughbred horse in his gig when he drives over to a country race. He’s always ready for a match with what he jocularly calls ‘the old screw I ‘m driving this minute;’ so, Niel, I thought that the retainer for the ejectment might have turned out to be a special fee for the election.”

“And he ‘d have given them a speech, and a rare good one, too, I promise you,” said Rawlins; “and even if he had not time to speak it, the county paper would have had it all printed and corrected from his own hand, with all the appropriate interruption of ‘vociferous cheering,’ and the places where the orator was obliged to pause, from the wild tumult of acclamation that surrounded him.”

“Which all resolves itself into this,” screamed Niel, – “that some men’s after-grass is better than other men’s meadows.”

“Mine has fallen to the scythe many a day ago,” said Rawlins, plaintively; “but I remember glorious times and glorious fellows. It was, indeed, worth something to say, ‘Vixissi cum illis.’”

“There ‘s another still better, Rawlins,” cried Repton, joyously, “which is to have survived them!”

“Very true,” cried Niel. “I ‘d always plead a demurrer to any notice to quit; for, take it all in all, this life has many enjoyments.”

“Such as Attorney-Generalships, Masters of the Rolls, and such like,” said Repton.

“By the way,” said Rawlins, “who put that squib in the papers about your having refused the rolls, – eh, Niel?”

“Who but Niel himself?” chimed in Repton. “It was filing a bill of discovery. He wanted to know the intentions of the Government.”

“I could have had but little doubt of them,” broke in Niel. “It was my advice, man, cancelled your appointment as Crown Counsel, Repton. I told Massingbred, ‘If you do keep a watch-dog, let it be, at least, one who ‘ll bite some one beside the family.’”

“He has muzzled you there, Repton,” said Rawlins, laughing. “Eh, that was a bitter draught!”

“So it was,” said Repton. “It was Curran wine run to the lees! and very unlike the racy flavor of the true liquor. And to speak in all seriousness, what has come over us all to be thus degenerate and fallen? It is not alone that we have not the equals of the first-rate men, but we really have nothing to compare with O’Grady, and Parsons, and a score of others.”

“I ‘ll tell you why,” cried Niel, – “the commodity is n’t marketable. The stupid men, who will always be the majority everywhere, have got up the cry, that to be agreeable is to be vulgar. We know how large cravats came into fashion; tiresome people came in with high neckcloths.”

“I wish they ‘d go out with hempen ones, then,” muttered Repton.

“I ‘d not refuse them the benefit of the clergy,” said Niel, with a malicious twinkle of the eye, that showed how gladly, when occasion offered, he flung a pebble at the Church.

“They were very brilliant, – they were very splendid, I own,” said Rawlins; “but I have certain misgivings that they gave themselves too much to society.”

“Expended too much of their powder in fireworks,” cried Niel, sharply, – “so they did; but their rockets showed how high they could rise to.”

“Ay, Niel, and we only burn our fingers with ours,” said Repton, sarcastically.

“Depend upon it,” resumed Rawlins, “as the world grows more practical, you will have less of great convivial display. Agreeability will cease to be the prerogative of first-rate men, but be left to the smart people of society, who earn their soup by their sayings.”

“He’s right,” cried Niel, in his shrillest tone. “The age of alchemists is gone; the sleight-of-hand man and the juggler have succeeded him.”

“And were they not alchemists?” exclaimed old Repton, enthusiastically. “Did they not transmute the veriest dross of the earth, and pour it forth from the crucible of their minds a stream of liquid gold? – glorious fellows, who, in the rich abundance of their minds, brought the learning of their early days to illustrate the wisdom of their age, and gave the fresh-heartedness of the schoolboy to the ripe intelligence of manhood.”

“And yet how little have they bequeathed to us!” said Niel.

“Would it were even less,” broke in Repton. “We read the witticism of brilliant conversera in some diary or journal, often ill recorded, imperfectly given, always unaccompanied by the accessories of the scene wherein they occurred. We have not the crash, the tumult, the headlong flow of social intercourse, where the impromptu fell like a thunderbolt, and the bon mots rattled like a fire of musketry. To attempt to convey an impression of these great talkers by a memoir, is like to picture a battle by reading out a list of the killed and wounded.”

“Repton is right!” exclaimed Niel. “The recorded bon mot is the words of a song without the music.”

“And often where it was the melody that inspired the verses,” added Repton, always glad to follow up an illustration.

“After all,” said Rawlins, “the fashion of the day is changed in other respects as well as in conversational excellence. Nothing is like what we remember it! – literature, dress, social habits, oratory. There, for instance, was that young fellow to-day; his speech to the jury, – a very good and sensible one, no doubt, – but how unlike what it would have been some five-and-thirty or forty years ago.”

“It was first-rate,” said Repton, with enthusiasm. “I say it frankly, and ‘fas est ab hoste,’ for he tripped me up in a point of law, and I have, therefore, a right to applaud him. To tell you the truth,” he added slyly, “I knew I was making a revoke, but I thought none of the players were shrewd enough to detect me.”

“Niel and I are doubtless much complimented by the remark,” said Rawlins.

“Pooh, pooh!” cried Repton, “what did great guns like you and Niel care for such ‘small deer.’ You were only brought down here as a great corps de réserve. It was young Nelligan who fought the battle, and admirably he did it. While I was listening to him to-day, I could not help saying to myself, ‘It’s well for us that there were no fellows of this stamp in our day.’ Ay, Rawlins, you know it well. We were speech-makers; these fellows are lawyers.”

“Why didn’t he dine with us to-day?” asked Niel, sharply.

“Heaven knows. I believe his father lives in the town here; perhaps, too, he had no fancy for a dress-parade before such drill-sergeants as you and Rawlins there.”

“You are acquainted with him, I think?” asked Rawlins.

“Yes, slightly; we met strangely enough, at Cro’ Martin last year. He was then on a visit there, a quiet, timid youth, who actually seemed to feel as though his college successes were embarrassing recollections in a society who knew nothing of deans or proctors. There was another young fellow also there at the time, – young Massingbred, – with about a tenth of this man’s knowledge, and a fiftieth of his capacity, who took the lead of him on every subject, and by the bare force of an admirable manner and a most unabashed impudence, threw poor Nelligan completely into the background. It was the same kind of thing I ‘ve often seen Niel there perform at the Four Courts, where he has actually picked up his law from a worsted opponent, as a highwayman arms himself with the pistols of the man he has robbed.”

“I never pillaged you, Repton,” said Niel, with a sarcastic smile. “You had always the privilege the poet ascribes to him who laughs ‘before a robber.’”

“Vacuus sed non Inanis,” replied Repton, laughing good-humoredly.

“But tell us more of this man, Nelligan,” said Rawlins. “I ‘m curious to hear about him.”

“And so you are sure to do some of these days, Rawlins. That fellow is the man to attain high eminence.”

“His religion will stop him!” cried Niel, sharply; for, being himself a Romanist, he was not sorry to have an opportunity of alluding to the disqualifying element.

“Say, rather, it will promote him,” chimed in Repton. “Take my word for it, Niel, there is a spirit of mawkish reparation abroad which affects to feel that all your coreligionists have a long arrear due to them, and that all the places and emoluments so long withheld from their ancestors should be showered down upon the present generation; – pretty much upon the same principle that you ‘d pension a man now because his grandfather had been hanged for rebellion!”

“And very justly, too, if you discovered that what you once called rebellion had been very good loyalty!” cried Niel.

“We have not, however, made the discovery you speak of,” said Rep ton; “we have only commuted a sentence, in the sincere hope that you are wiser than your forefathers. But to come back. You may trust me when I say that a day is coming when you ‘ll not only bless yourself because you’re a Papist, but that you are one! Ay, sir, it is in ‘Liffey Street Chapel’ we ‘ll seek for an attorney-general, and out of the Church of the Conception, if that be the name of it, we ‘ll cull our law advisers of the Crown. For the next five-and-twenty years, at least,” said he, solemnly, “the fourth-rate Catholic will be preferred to the first-rate Protestant.”

“I only hope you may be better at Prophecy than you are in Logic,” cried Niel, as he tossed off his glass; “and so, I ‘m sure, does Nelligan!”

“And Nelligan is exactly the man who will never need the preference, sir. His abilities will raise him, even if there were obstacles to be surmounted. It is men of a different stamp that the system will favor, – fellows without industry for the toils of a laborious profession, or talents for the subtleties of a difficult career; men who cherish ambition and are yet devoid of capacity, and will plead the old disabilities of their faith, – pretty much as a man might claim his right to be thought a good dancer because his father had a club foot.”

“A most lame conclusion!” cried Niel. “Ah, Rawlins,” added he, with much compassion, “our poor friend here is breaking terribly. Sad signs there are of decay about him. Even his utterance begins to fail him.”

“No, no,” said Repton, gayly. “I know what you allude to. It is an old imperfection of mine not to be able to enunciate the letter r correctly, and that was the reason today in court that I called you my ingenious Bother; but I meant Brother, I assure you.”

They all laughed good-humoredly at the old man’s sally; in good truth, so trained were they to these sort of combats, that they cared little for the wounds such warfare inflicted. And although the tilt was ever understood as with “reversed lances,” none ever cherished an evil memory if an unlucky stroke smote too heavily.

“I have asked young Nelligan to breakfast with me tomorrow,” said Repton; “will you both come and meet him?”

“We ‘re off at cock-crow!” cried Kiel. “Tell him, however, from me that I am delighted with his débuts and that all the best wishes of my friends and myself are with him.”

And so they parted.

Repton, however, did not retire to bed at once; his mind was still intent upon the subject which had engaged him during the day, and as he walked to and fro in his room, he still dwelt upon it. Scanlan’s instructions had led him to believe that the Martins were in this case to have been “put upon their title;” and the formidable array of counsel employed by Magennis seemed to favor the impression. Now it was true that a trifling informality in the service of the writ had quashed the proceedings for the present; but the question remained, “Was the great struggle only reserved for a future day?”

It was clear that a man embarrassed as was Magennis could never have retained that strong bar of eminent lawyers. From what fund, then, came these resources? Was there a combination at work? And if so, to what end, and with what object?

The crafty old lawyer pondered long and patiently over these things. His feelings might not inaptly be compared to those of a commandant of a garrison, who sees his stronghold menaced by an enemy he had never suspected. Confident as he is in the resources of his position, he yet cannot resist the impression that the very threat of attack has been prompted by some weakness of which he is unaware.

“To put us on our title,” said he, “implies a great war. Let us try and find out who and what are they who presume to declare it!”