In the small and not over-neat parlor of the Martin Arms at Oughterard, a young man sat at his breakfast, at times casting his eyes over the columns of the “Vindicator,” and anon strolling to the window to watch the gathering of the country people at the weekly market. The scene was one of that mingled bustle and languor so characteristically Irish. Cart-loads of turf, vegetables, fruit, or turkeys blocked up the narrow passage between booths of fancy wares, gilt jewelry, crockery, and cutlery; the vendors all eagerly vociferating commendations of their stores, in chorus with still more clamorous beggars, or the discordant notes of vagrant minstrelsy. Some animal monstrosity, announced by a cracked-voiced herald and two clarionets, added to a din to which loud laughter contributed its share of uproar.
The assemblage was entirely formed of the country people, many of whom made the pretext of having a pig or a lamb to sell the reason of their coming; but, in reality, led thither by the native love of a gathering,—that fondness to be where their neighbors were,—without any definite aim or object. There was, then, in strong contrast to the anxious solicitation of all who had aught to sell, the dreary, languid, almost apathetic look of the mere lounger, come to while away his weary hour and kill time just like any very bored fine gentleman who airs his listlessness along St James's Street, or lazily canters his ennui down Rotten Row.
Jack Massingbred—for he was the traveller whose straw hat and knapsack stood upon a table near—was amused at a scene so full of its native characteristics. The physiognomy, the dress, the bearing of the people, their greetings as they met, their conduct of a bargain, all bespoke a nation widely differing from the sister country, and set him a-dreaming as to how it was that equality of laws might very possibly establish anything but equality of condition amongst people so dissimilar.
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While thus musing, his eye chanced to rest upon the half-effaced inscription over a shop door in front, and where the name of Daniel Nelligan figured as “licensed for all kinds of groceries and spirits.” “Nelligan,” repeated he to himself, “I shall certainly quiz my friend Joe, when we meet, about his namesake in Oughterard. How good it would be to pick up some details of our friend opposite to torment him with! What rare fun to affect to have discovered a near relative in this man of hides, glue, sugar, and Jamaica rum! Eh, gad, I'll try it.” And with this resolve he crossed the street at once, and soon found himself in the compact crowd which thronged the doorway of this popular shop.
It was, indeed, a busy scene, since many who were there came as much sellers as buyers, giving all the complexity of barter to their several transactions. Here was a staid country-woman exchanging her spunyarn, or her “cloth,” as it is called, for various commodities in tea, candles, and such like; here a farmer, with a sample of seed-oats in his pocket-handkerchief, of which he wanted the value in certain farm utensils; here was another, with a stout roll of home-made frieze to dispose of; some were even fain to offer a goose or a hen as the medium for a little tobacco, or some equally tempting luxury of cottier life. But there was another class of customers, who, brushing their way through the throng, made for a small, dingy-looking chamber behind the shop, in which Mr. Nelligan performed the functions of banker and money-lender, discounting small bills, advancing loans, and transacting all the various duties of a petty capitalist,—means by which, it was alleged, he had already amassed a very ample fortune.
An announcement in writing on the glass door of this sanctum informed Massingbred that “bank-notes” were exchanged, and “small loans advanced on good security,” suggesting to him at once the means of opening an acquaintance with the interior. Without any very definite purpose, however, he now found himself one of a very closely packed crowd within the chamber. At a small desk, around which ran a railing of about a foot in height, serving, as it were, to “filter the stream” of solicitation that poured in upon him, sat a dark-eyed, bilious-looking man of about fifty; a black wig, cut in two deep arches over the temples, showed a strongly formed, massive head, very favorably in contrast to the features beneath it, which were only indicative of intense shrewdness and cunning. The eyes, in particular, were restless and furtive-looking, distrust and suspicion giving their entire expression,—qualities, it was to be owned, in very active employment in the intercourse of his daily life.
The anxious looks around him—careworn, eager, tremulous with anxiety as they were—seemed the very opposite to his own, full of the security that a strong purse bestows, and stern in the conscious strength of his affluence.
“It won't do, Hagan,” said he, with a half-smile, as he pushed back through the grating a very dirty, discolored piece of paper. “You 'll be off to America before it comes due. I would n't take the Lord-Lieutenant's note at six months, as times go.”
“See, now, Mr. Nelligan,” replied the other, pressing his face close to the cage, and talking with intense eagerness. “May I never see Christmas, but I 'll pay it 'T was marryin' the daughter left me low in cash; but with the blessing of God and your help—”
“I hope you 're more certain of the blessing than the help. What's this with the string round it?” continued Nelligan, addressing another applicant.
“'T is a roll of notes I wanted to ax your honor about. Molly never 'let on' she had them till Friday last; and now that James is going away, and wants a trifle to fit him out—”
“Why, they're French's Bank, man, that broke years ago,—they 're not worth a farthing!”
“Arrah, don't say so, and God reward you,” cried the poor fellow, while his eyes filled up and his lip trembled convulsively; “don't take the hope out of my heart all at onst. Look at them again, your honor, and maybe you 'll think different.”
“If I did, I 'd be as great a fool as yourself, Patsy. The bank is closed, and the banker dead this many a day; and I would n't give you sixpence for sixty thousand of them. Take him out in the fresh air,—give him a mouthful of water,” added he, hastily, as the wretched countryman staggered back, sick, and almost fainting with the sad tidings.
“Mrs. Mooney,” said he, addressing a pale, mild-featured woman in a widow's cap and black gown, “you can't expect to hear from Dublin for a week or ten days to come. It takes some time to administer; but if you are in want of a few pounds—”
“No, sir, thank you,” said she, in a low voice; “but as I can't go back to the place again,—as I 'll never be able to live there now—”
“Don't be in a hurry, Mrs. Mooney, do nothing rash. None of us know what we can do till we 're tried. There's Miles Dogherty never thought he 'd be paying me that eight pound fifteen he owes me, and see now if he is n't come with it to-day.”
“Faix, and I am not,” sturdily responded a very powerfully built man in the comfortable dress of a substantial farmer. “I don't owe it, and I 'll never pay it; and what's more, if you get a decree against me to-morrow, I'd sell every stick and stone in the place and go to 'Quay bec'.”
“Indeed you would n't, Miles, not a bit more than I'd go and take the law of an old friend and neighbor.”
“Faix, I never thought you would,” said the stout man, wiping his forehead, and appearing as if he had forgotten his wrath.
“And now, Miles, what about that water-course?” said Nelligan, good-humoredly; “are you content to leave it to any two fair men—”
As he got thus far, his eye for the first time fell upon Massingbred, who, with folded arms, was leaning against a wall, an attentive spectator of the whole scene.
“That is a stranger yonder! what can he want here?” said Nelligan, who watched the attentive look of Massingbred's face with considerable distrust. He whispered a few words into the ear of a man beside him, who, making his way through the crowd, addressed the young man with—
“It's the master, sir, wants to know if he could do anything for your honor?”
“For me? oh, you spoke to me?” said Massingbred, suddenly recalled to himself. “Yes, to be sure; I wanted to know—that is, I was thinking—” And he stopped to try and remember by what device he had purposed making Mr. Nelligan's acquaintance.
While he thus stood doubting and confused, his eyes suddenly met the black, searching, deep-set orbs that peered at him behind the grating; and without knowing how or why, he slowly approached him.
“In what way can I be of any use to you, sir?” said Nelligan, in a tone which very palpably demanded the reason of his presence there.
Jack Massingbred was eminently “cool,”—that is, he was possessed of that peculiar assurance which rarely suffers itself to be ruffled by a difficulty. In the intercourse of society, and with men of the world, he could have submitted to any test unabashed; and yet now, in presence of this shrewd-looking and very commonplace personage, he, somehow, felt marvellously ill at ease, and from the simple reason that the man before whom he stood was not of his “world,” but one of a set of whose habits and thoughts and ways he was in utter ignorance.
Nelligan's question was a second time addressed to him, and in the same words, before he thought of framing a reply to it. For a second or two it occurred to him to say that he had strolled in, half inadvertently, and apologizing for the intrusion, to withdraw; but his pride was offended at the notion of defeat this conduct implied, and with an assumption of that conventional impudence far more natural to him, he said,—
“It was your name, sir, attracted me—the name 'Nelligan' which I read over your door—being that of a very dear and valued friend of mine, suggested to me to inquire whether you might not be relatives.”
The cool indifference which accompanied these words, uttered as they were in a certain languid drawl, were very far from predisposing Nelligan in favor of the speaker; while the pretence of attaching any singularity to a name so common as his own, struck him at once as indicative of covert impertinence.
“Nelligan is not a very remarkable name down here, sir,” dryly responded he.
“Very possibly,” replied Jack, with all his accustomed ease. “I know little or nothing of Ireland. Your namesake, or your relative, perhaps, was a college friend of mine, but to what part of the country he belonged, I never knew.”
The words, “a college friend,” roused the other's anxiety, and leaning forward eagerly, and dropping his voice to a whisper, he said,—
“Where? In what college, may I ask, sir?”
“In Trinity, Dublin.”
“The Medallist of this year, you mean?” said the other, almost breathless in his anxiety.
“Just so. The same fellow who has been sweeping away all the honors of his day. You have heard of him, it would seem?”
“He is my son, sir. I 'm Joe Nelligan's father!”
Massingbred's astonishment did not betray itself by any change of feature; not a word escaped him; but his eye ranged over the scene around him, and came back to rest upon old Nelligan's face with an expression of the calmest meaning.
“What a fortunate accident—for me, I mean,” continued he. “Joe and I are very dear friends, and it is a great happiness for me to make his father's acquaintance. Is he with you now?” “No, sir; he's at the sea,—a place called Kilkieran, about twenty miles away; but we 'll have him back by tomorrow if you 'll stay with us, and I 'm sure you 'll not refuse me that pleasure. The young gentleman who is my son's friend, is mine also, if he 'll permit me to call him so; and now just tell me what name shall I say?—who is it that I 'm to tell Joe has arrived here?”
“Say that Jack Massingbred is come, and I 'll lay my life on't you'll see him here as fast as may be.”
“And now, Mr. Massingbred, just take up your quarters with us. Where are you stopping? I 'll send over the boy for your trunks, for I need n't say that this must be your home while you stay at Oughterard.” The genial tone of warm hospitality in which he now spoke made him seem a very different man from the hard-featured old money-lender he had appeared when Jack first beheld him, and Massingbred returned his cordial shake hands with a pressure equal to his own, while he said,—
“Be assured that I accept your offer most heartily. My whole baggage is a knapsack and a fishing-rod, so that if you admit me as your guest you must dispense with all beyond the very humblest requirements. I have no coat, except this on me; and, when I brush my hair, I have dressed for dinner.”
“You are amongst very humble people, Mr. Massingbred,—a country shopkeeper, and his wife, and son,—and they 'll be only too happy to feel that you don't despise their company. Come, and I 'll show you your room.” And so saying, Nelligan led him up a narrow stair, and at the end of a corridor opened a door into a neatly furnished chamber, which looked out into a spacious garden. The whole interior was scrupulously clean and comfortable; and as Jack surveyed his new dominions, he inwardly blessed his good fortune that had piloted him into such a haven.
“I 'll just step down and write to Joe. Meanwhile you 'll have your things brought over to you. Make yourself at home here—at least, as much as you can in such a place—and when you want anything, just ask for it.” And with these words old Nelligan left him to his own thoughts.
Whatever savored of an adventure was the delight of Jack Massingbred. He was one of those men whose egotism takes the shape of playing hero to themselves,—a tolerably large category amongst the spoiled children of this world. To be thrown into any strange or novel position, with associates he was unused to, and amidst circumstances totally unlike all he had ever met before, was his great happiness; and although here there was nothing like actual peril to heighten the zest of the enjoyment, there was a certain dash of embarrassment in the situation that increased its piquancy. This embarrassment lay in his approaching meeting with young Nelligan.
All the reserve his young college friend had maintained with regard to his family was at once explained; and Jack began to think over how often it must have occurred to him to say the most galling and offensive things in his ignorance of Nelligan's real station. “If he had been frank and open with me,” said he to himself, “this would never have happened.” But therein Jack made two errors, since Nelligan was in no wise bound to make such revelations, nor was Massingbred the man to distinguish himself amongst his associates by a close friendship with the son of a country shopkeeper. He had been trained in a very different school, and taught to estimate his own station by the standard of his companionship. Indeed, he had witnessed the lenity which met his transgressions when they occurred in high company, and saw his father pay the debts he had contracted amongst titled associates with a far more generous forgiveness than had they taken their origin with more plebeian friends. “What could have induced the man to become a Fellow-Commoner,” said he, over and over; “it is such a palpable piece of presumption?” The truth was, Jack felt excessively irritated at never having even suspected his friend's pretensions, and was eager to throw the blame of a deception where none had ever been practised.
“They told me I should find everything very different here from in England, but they never hinted at anything like this.” There came then another phase over his reflections, as he asked himself, “But what affair is it of mine? Nelligan never thrust himself on me, it was I that sought him. He never proposed introducing me to his family, it was I that made them out,—I, in fact, who have imposed myself upon them. If I deemed the old grocer infra dig., I need never have known him; but I have not felt this to be the case. He may be—indeed, Joe Nelligan's father ought to be—a very superior fellow, and at all events the whole situation is new, and must be amusing.”
Such was the course of his thoughts as he arranged his clothes in the little chest of drawers, put out his few books and papers on the table, and proceeded to make himself perfectly at home and comfortable in his new quarters.
The embarrassments of selfish men are always lighter than those of other people, their egotism filling, as it does, such a very large space in the sea of their troubles. Thus was it that Massingbred suffered little discomfort at the thought of his friend Nelligan's probable shame and awkwardness, his thoughts being occupied by how he, clever fellow that he was, had traced out his home and origin,—won, by a few words, the old father's esteem, and established himself, by his own sharp wits, a guest of his house.
“It is a downright adventure,” said he; he even thought how the thing would tell afterwards at some convivial meeting, and set about dramatizing to himself his own part in the incident, to heighten the piquancy of the narrative. He resolved to conform in everything to the habits of the household,—to accommodate himself in all respects to old Nelligan's tastes, so that Joe should actually be amazed at the versatile resources of his nature, and struck with astonishment at this new evidence of his powers.
Nor was Mr. Nelligan idle during all this time; the thought of a fellow collegian of his son Joe being a guest under his roof was a very proud and inspiring reflection. It was such a recognition of Joe's social claims,—so flat a contradiction to all the surmises of those who deprecated his college life, and said “that old Dan was wrong to put his boy into Trinity”—that he already regarded the incident as the full earnest of success.
“What would have brought him here, if it wasn't for Joe? How would he ever have been under my roof, if he wasn't Joe's friend?” There was a palpable triumph here that nothing could gainsay, and with a proud heart he locked up his desk, resolving to do no more business that day, but make it one of enjoyment.
“Who will I get to dine with us,” thought he, “since Joe can't have the letter before this evening, and do his best he won't be here before morning?” The question of those who should fill the places around his board was a difficulty he had never experienced before, for Mr. Nelligan was the first man in Oughterard, and never had any trouble about his dinner company. His politics—very decided as they were—drew the line amongst his acquaintances, and the Liberal party well knew that they alone were the partakers of his hospitalities. There now, however, came the thought that the most respectable residents of the town—Dr. Dasy, of the Infirmary; Mr. Scanlan, the Attorney; and Morris Croft, the Adjutant of the Galway———were Conservatives. These were the fit company to meet young Massingbred, at least for the first day; afterwards, he might be introduced to their own set. And yet, Father Neal Rafferty would be outraged at all this. Peter Hayes, of the Priory, would never enter his doors again; and Peter Hayes had made a will in favor of Joe Nelligan, and left him every sixpence he had in the world. “What if we mixed them all together?” said Dan, fairly puzzled by all the conflicting interests. “A good dinner, some excellent port wine, and 'lashings' of whiskey-punch, might mould the ingredients together—at least, when under the restraint of a stranger's presence—sufficiently to pass muster!”
From his doubts as to how the experiment would succeed, came others as to whether the guests would condescend to meet; and thus his embarrassments went on increasing around him without his finding a way through them.
“That's an elegant salmon I saw Catty bringing home to you, Nelligan?” said a red-faced man, with large white whiskers, and a most watery look in his eyes.
“Yes, Brierley, there's a young gentleman just come down here—a friend of Joe's in college, to stop a day or two with us.”
“A nob?” said the other, with a wink.
Nelligan nodded assent and went on,—
“And I 'm just bothered how to get two or three to make company for him.”
“If it's grandeur you want, why don't you go over to the barracks there, and ask Captain Downie and the two others? Faix! it's a hearty welcome you 'd get, for they 've never seen the inside of Cro' Martin since the detachment came here.”
“It 's my own acquaintances I 'd like to ask to my house, Mat Brierley,” said Nelligan, proudly; “and the time was when they were n't shy of coming there.”
“What do you say to Peter Hayes, then?” said the other. “If you mean to do the civil thing, you'll ask him before he buys that old highwayman of a goose he's cheapening yonder; and there's Father Rafferty in the snuff-shop, and Tom Magennis, and myself-, and that makes six, just the right number for the little round table.”
Nelligan paused, and seemed to reflect over the proposition.
“You 'll be quizzing the Englishman,—'taking a rise' out of the Saxon, Brierley?” said Nelligan, distrustfully.
“Devil a bit; I know better manners than that!”
“Tom Magennis would have at him about politics; I know he could n't refrain. And I need n't tell you that English notions are not ours upon these topics.”
“Give Tom a hint, and he 'll never touch the subject.”
“And Father Neal, will you vouch for him that he won't attack the Established Church, and abuse the Protestants?”
“That I will, if he's not provoked to it.”
“Can you answer for yourself, Mat Brierley, that you won't try to borrow a five-pound note of him before the evening's over?” said Nelligan, laughingly.
“I' ve a friend here,” said Brierley, tapping the other on the breast, “that would never see me in want of such a trifle as that.”
Nelligan made no other reply to this speech than a somewhat awkward grimace, and walked hurriedly on to overtake a tall and very fat man that was just turning the corner of the street. This was Father Neal Rafferty. A very flourishing wave of his reverence's hand, and an urbane bend of his body, betokened the gracious acceptance he gave to the other's invitation; and Brierley walked away, muttering to himself: “They may thank me for this dinner, then; for old Dan was going to feed the 'swells,' if I had n't stopped him.”
People who live much together in small and secluded districts, grow at length to feel a very great distrust for all strangers. Their own ways and their own topics have become such a perfect world to them, that to feel ignorant of these themes appears like affectation or contempt; and the luckless man who drops down into such a “coterie,” is invariably deemed impertinent or a fool. Jack Massing-bred fully appreciated this difficulty; but it imparted such a piquancy to his “adventure,” as he persisted in calling it to himself, that he would n't have dispensed with it, had he been able. It was in this temper he entered the room where the guests were now assembled, and, rather impatiently, awaiting his arrival.
It is a very cold, calculating sort of interval, that ten minutes before dinner; and men regard the stranger presented to them with feelings far more critical than kindly. Massingbred did not go through the ordeal unscathed; and it was easy to see in the constraint and reserve of all present, how little his appearance contributed to the promise of future conviviality. He made no effort to dispel this impression, for, after saluting each in turn, he walked to the window, and amused himself with what was passing in the street.
The dinner was announced at last, and passed off drearily enough; none liked to adventure on any topic of local interest, and they knew of little others. Brierley was stiffly polite; the priest blandly tranquil; the host himself uneasy and anxious; and poor old Peter Hayes, of the Priory, downright melancholy.
Massingbred saw the effect he was producing, and saw it with pleasure. His calculation was this: “Had I started 'at speed' with these fellows, they would have blown me at once. All my efforts to assimilate myself to their tastes, to join in their habits and adopt their notions, would have been detected in a trice. They must be brought to believe that they have made a convert of me themselves; the wider the space between us at first, the greater will be their merit in making me forget it in the end.”
As the whiskey-punch made its appearance, and the bottle of port was passed up beside the stranger, Massingbred thought the time was come when he might change his tactics, and open the campaign in force. “No,” said he, as the host pushed the wine towards him, “I 've come over here to try and learn something about Ireland, and I must give myself every advantage of judging from a native point of view. This excellent old port may strengthen a man to stand by many an old prejudice, but my object is to lay in a new stock of ideas, and I 'd rather try a new regimen.”
“That 's your bottle, then, sir. Try that,” said Brierley, pushing towards him a small square decanter of a faint greenish fluid.
“That is 'poteen,' Mr. Massingbred,” said the host. “It's the small still that never paid the King a farthing.”
“I like it all the better, for that reason,” said Jack. “There's something independent in the very thought of a liquor that never submitted to the indignity of a gauger.”
“That's not a very English sentiment, sir,” said the priest, slyly.
“I don't know whether it be or not,” rejoined Massingbred; “but I can neither perceive common-sense or justice in a law that will not allow a man to do what he likes with his own. Why, if Parliament declared to-morrow you should n't boil your potatoes in Ireland, but eat them fried—or that you should n't make bread of your corn, but eat it with milk as the Neapolitans do—”
“I wish we could do the same here, with all my heart,” said the priest. “It's little wheat or even barley-meal one of our poor people ever sees.”
“A wet potato and water is their diet,” said old Hayes, as he sipped his punch.
“I can believe it well,” said Massingbred, with great semblance of feeling. “I witnessed dreadful poverty and destitution as I came along, and I couldn't help asking myself: What are the gentry about in this country? Do they or do they not see these things? If they do, are they indifferent to them?”
“They are indifferent to them; or even worse, they rejoice in them,” broke in a deep-voiced, energetic-looking man, who sat at the foot of the table, and had, although silent, taken a deep interest in the conversation. “They see, sir, in the destitution of Ireland another rivet in the chains of her bondage. As my 'august leader' remarked, it's the rust on the fetters, though—and if it proclaims the length of the captivity, it suggests the hope of freedom.”
“Mr. Magennis is the dearest friend and trusty agent of Mr. O'Connell,” said Nelligan, in a whisper to Massingbred.
“Here's his health, whoever said that!” cried Jack, enthusiastically, and as if not hearing the host's observation.
“That's a toast; we'll all drink—and standing, too,” exclaimed Magennis. “'Daniel O'Connell, gentlemen, hip, hip, hurra! '” And the room rang again with the hearty acclamations of the company.
“By Jove! there was something very fine—it was chivalrous—in the way he brought the Catholic question to issue at last. The bold expedient of testing the event by an individual experience was as clever as it was daring,” exclaimed Massingbred.
“You were in favor of the measure then, sir?” said Father Neal, with a bland smile that might mean satisfaction or suspicion.
“I was always an Emancipationist; but I am little satisfied with the terms on which the bill has been passed. I 'd have had no restrictions,—no reservations. It should, according to me, have been unconditional or nothing.”
“You've heard the old proverb about half a loaf, sir?” said Hayes, with a dry laugh.
“And a poor adage it is, in its ordinary acceptation,” said Jack, quickly. “It 's the prompting spirit to many a shabby compromise! What disabilities should apply to any of us here, in regard to any post or position in our country's service, by reason of opinions which are between ourselves and our own hearts—I say any of us, because some here—one I perceive is”—and he bowed to Father Rafferty—“a Catholic; and I for myself avow that, if for no other reason than this proscription, I'd be on this side.”
“You're not in Parliament, sir, are you?” asked old Peter, with a seriousness that sorely tested the gravity of those at either side of him.
“No,” said Jack, frankly. “My father and I don't agree on these subjects; and, consequently, though there is a seat in my family, I have not the honor to occupy it.”
“Are you any relation to Colonel Moore Massingbred, sir?” asked Magennis. “His son, sir.”
The questioner bowed, and a brief silence ensued; short as it was, it enabled Jack to decide upon his next move, and take it.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I 'm fully aware that my name is not a favorite in Ireland; and shall I own to you, till I came to this country myself, I half believed that this same humble opinion of us was to our credit! I used to hear such narratives of Irish barbarism, Irish brutality, priestcraft, superstition, and Heaven knows what besides, that I fully persuaded myself that our small repute was very nigh to an eulogium on us. Well, I came over to Trinity College strongly impressed with the notion that, because I had gained successes at Oxford, here I should be triumphant. It is in no boastfulness I say that I had acquitted myself well at home; I had attained to rather a reputation. Well, as I said, I came over to Trinity and pitted myself against the best man going, and a very pretty beating he gave me. Yes, gentlemen, he beat me in everything, even in those which we Oxford men fancy our specialties. I soon learned that I had not the shadow of a pretension to stand against him, and I learned, also, that it was no disgrace to me to be thus vanquished, since he was not alone the foremost man of his time, but the best scholar the University had seen for a full century; and shall I add, as unpretending and as modest in the midst of all his triumphs as he was unapproachable by all competitors. And now; gentlemen, I will ask your leave to drink his health; doubtless it has been many a time toasted before over the same table, but none ever more ardently followed the sentiment with his whole heart than do I in proposing to you, 'Three cheers for Joe Nelligan.'”
The rambling opening of this brief speech was quite forgotten in the enthusiasm that greeted its close. In every respect it was a happy diversion. It relieved the company from a discussion that promised but gloomily. It brought back their minds to a pleasant theme, and enabled them, so to say, to pay off in grateful cheers to their host his own hospitable reception of them. As for Nelligan himself, he was sincerely, deeply affected; and though he twice essayed to speak, he could get no further than “My son Joe”—“my boy”—and sat down murmuring—“Thank you—God bless you for it”—and covered his face with his hands.
Awkward as was the moment, it was relieved by the company filling their glasses and nodding in most friendly fashion to Massingbred as they drank his health; while a low murmur of approbation went round the table, of which he was most unmistakably the object.
“Are you fond of shooting, sir?” asked Brierley. “Well, then, I hope you'll not leave the country without giving me a day or two up at my little place in the mountains: There's some snipe left; and, upon my conscience, I'll be proud to see you at Kilmaccud.”
“And there's worse quarters, too!” broke in Magennis. “My 'august leader' spent a day and a half there.”
“I'll drive you over there myself,” whispered Father Neal, “if you'll finish the week at the 'Rookery,'—that's what they call the priest's house.”
Massingbred accepted everything, and shook hands across the table in ratification of half a dozen engagements.
“You don't think I'll let you cheat me out of my guest so easily,” said Nelligan. “No, gentlemen. This must be Mr. Massingbred's head-quarters as long as he stays here, for, faith, I 'd not give him up to Mr. Martin himself.”
“And who may he be?” asked Jack.
“Martin of Cro' Martin.”
“The owner of half the county.”
“Of the town you 're in, this minute.”
“The richest proprietor in the West.”
Such were the pattering replies that poured in upon him, while words of intense astonishment at his ignorance were exchanged on all sides.
“I believe I have given you a fair guarantee for my ignorance, gentlemen,” said Jack, “in confessing that I never so much as heard of Martin of Cro' Martin. Does he reside on his estate here?”
“Yes, sir,” said Nelligan, “he lives at Cro' Martin Castle, about sixteen miles from this; and certainly, while in this part of the country, you ought to pay the place a visit. I have never been there myself, but I hear the most astonishing accounts of the splendor of the furniture and the magnificence of the whole establishment.”
“There's pictures there,” said the priest, “that cost the grandfather of the present man a quarter of a million sterling.”
“Why, the three statues in the hall, they say, are worth ten thousand pounds,” said Brierley.
“Be gorra! when a man would give four hundred for a bull, there 's no saying what he 'd stop at,” broke in Peter Hayes. “I went up to see him myself, and indeed he's a beauty, there 's no denying it,—but four hundred pound! Think of four hundred pound!”
“The stable is the best thing in the place,” said Father Neal; “they 're mighty nice cattle, there, for every kind of work.”
“Thanks to his niece for that,” cried Magennis; “she knows a horse with any man in the West of Ireland.”
“And can break him, too,” chimed in Brierley; “I don't care what his temper is. Let Miss Mary get her hand on him, and he 'll turn out well.”
“I 'm driving an old chestnut mare this minute that she trained,” said the priest; “and though she has n't a good leg amongst the four, and is touched in the wind, she 's as neat a stepper, and as easy in the mouth as a five-year-old.”
“She 's a fine young woman!” said old Hayes, drinking off his glass as though toasting her to himself, “and not like any Martin ever I seen before.”
“No pride about her!” said Brierley.
“I wouldn't exactly say that, Matthew,” interposed Father Neal. “But her pride isn't the common kind.”
“She's as proud as Lucifer!” broke in Nelligan, almost angrily. “Did you ever see her drive up to a shop-door in this town, and make the people come out to serve her, pointing with her whip to this, that, and t'other, and maybe giving a touch of the lash to the boy if he would n't be lively enough?”
“Well, I 'd never call her proud,” rejoined old Hayes, “after seeing her sitting in Catty Honan's cabin, and turning the bread on the griddle for her, when Catty was ill.”
“Is she handsome?” asked Massingbred, who was rather interested by the very discrepancy in the estimate of the young lady.
“We can agree upon that, I believe, sir,” said the priest; “there 's no disputing about her beauty.”
“I never saw her in a room,” said Magennis; “but my 'august leader' thought her masculine.”
“No, no,” said Nelligan; “she 's not. She has the Martin manner,—overbearing and tyrannical,—if you like; but she can be gentle enough with women and children.”
“You have certainly given me a strong curiosity to see her,” said Massingbred. “Does she always live here?”
“Always. I don't believe she was ever beyond the bounds of the county in her life!”
“And how does she pass her time?” asked he, with some astonishment.
“She manages the whole estate,” said Nelligan; “her uncle 's a conceited old fool, incapable of anything, and lets her do what she likes; and so she drains, and plants, and encloses; makes roads, bridges, and even harbors; has all the new-fangled inventions about farming, and, if what I hear be true, is spending more money on the property than the fee-simple is worth.”
“Yes, sir,” chimed in Magennis; “and she 's trying hard to bring back the old feudal devotion to the Chief, which was the bane of Ireland. She wants the tenants to have no will of their own, but just to vote whatever the landlord tells them. She had the impudence to tell my 'august leader' that they had no need of him down there,—that the county was too poor to waste its energies in factious squabbles.”
“If she 'd let the people alone about their religion, I 'd think better of her,” said Father Neal. “What does she know about controversial points and disputed dogmas?”
“Maybe you 're wrong about that,” broke in Peter Hayes. “She came to me the other day for ten shillings for a school, and she said, 'Come over, Mr. Hayes; come and tell me if there 's anything you are dissatisfied with.'”
“And did you go?” asked the priest.
“Faix! I did not,” said Peter, with a dry look. “I thought the visit might cost me ten shillings, and so I stayed at home.”
The manner in which he uttered these words produced a hearty laugh, in which he himself most good-humoredly took part.
“Well, she's good to the poor, anyhow,” said Brierley; “and it's a new thing for one of her name to be so!”
“All policy, all scheming!” said Magennis. “She sees how the family influence has declined, and is fast becoming obliterated in this country, by reason of their worthlessness, insolence, and neglect of the people; and she 's just shrewd enough to see how far a little cajolery goes with poor Paddy; but, as my 'august leader' observed, it is not a frieze coat, nor a pair of brogues, that can compensate for the loss of that freedom that is every man's birthright; and it is not by an ounce of tea, or a dose of physic, we 'll ever see Ireland great, glorious, and free.”
“'First gem of the earth, and first flower of the sea!'” exclaimed Hayes, with enthusiasm.
Nor in the moment was the blunder of his quotation noticed by any but Massingbred. “You are an admirer of Tommy Moore, I see, sir?” said he, to the old man.
“I am fond of 'The Meeting of the Waters,' sir,” said Hayes, meekly, and like a man who was confessing to a weakness.
“And here 's the man to sing it!” cried Brierley, clapping the priest familiarly on the shoulder; a proposal that was at once hailed with acclamation.
“'T is many a long day I have n't sung a note,” said Father Neal, modestly.
“Come, come, Father Neal; we'll not let you off that way. It's not under this roof that you can make such an excuse!”
“He 'd rather give us something more to his own taste,” said Brierley. “'To Ladies' eyes around, boys,'—eh, Father Rafferty?”
“That's my favorite of all the songs he sings,” broke in Magennis.
“Let it be, 'To Ladies' eyes!'” cried Massingbred; “and we 'll drink 'Miss Martin's.' 'I 'll warrant she 'll prove an excuse for the glass.'” And he sang the line with such a mellow cadence that the whole table cheered him.
To the priest's song, given with considerable taste and no mean musical skill, there followed, in due course, others, not exactly so successful, by Brierley and Magennis, and, at last, by old Peter himself, who warbled out a wonderful ditty, in a tone so doleful that two of the company fell fast asleep under it, and Brierley's nerves were so affected that, to support himself, he got most completely drunk, and in a very peremptory tone told the singer to desist!
“Don't you perceive,” cried he, “that there 's a stranger present,—a young English cub,—come down to laugh at us? Have you no discretion,—have you no decency, Peter Hayes, but you must go on with your stupid old 'croniawn' about dimples and the devil knows what?”
“Another tumbler, Mr. Massingbred,—one more?” said the host, with the air, however, of one who did not exact compliance.
“Not for the world,” said Jack, rising from table. “Have I your permission to light a cigar?”
“To do just whatever you please,” said Nelligan, rather astonished at the formal preparations for smoking he now perceived brought forth, and which at the time we tell of were not so popular as in our own day.
The priest alone accepted Massingbred's offer of a “weed;” and Nelligan, opening a door into an adjoining room where tea was laid, threw also wide a little sash-door that led into the garden, whose cool and fragrant air was perfectly delicious at the moment. Jack strolled down the steps and soon lost himself in the dark alleys, not sorry to be left alone with his own thoughts, after a scene in which his convivial powers had been taxed to no mean extent.
“A clever young fellow! There's stuff in him,” said the priest, in a whisper to Nelligan.
“And no impudence about him,” said Brierley; “he's just like one of ourselves.”
“He has a wonderful opinion of Joe!” said Nelligan.
“He's the very man for my 'august leader,'” said Magennis. “I 'd like to bring them together!”
“His father 's a Treasury Lord,” said Nelligan, swelling at the thought of his being the host of such company!
“And I 'll tell you what, Dan Nelligan,” said the priest, confidentially, “talents won't do everything, nowadays, without high connections; mark my words, and see if that young man does n't stand high yet. He has just got every requirement of success. He has good family, good looks, good abilities, and”—here he dropped his voice still lower—“plenty of brass. Ay, Dan, if Joe could borrow a little of his friend's impudence, it would be telling him something.”
Nelligan nodded assentingly; it was about the only quality in the world which he could have believed Joe stood in any need of getting a loan of.
“Joe beat him out of the field,” said Dan, proudly. “He told me so himself, this morning.”
“No doubt; and he would again, where the contest was a college one; but 'Life,' my dear friend,—life demands other gifts beside genius.”
“Ganius!” broke in old Hayes, with an accent of the profoundest contempt,—“Ganius! I never knew a 'Ganius' yet that was n't the ruin of all belonging to him! And whenever I see a young fellow that knows no trade, nor has any livelihood, who's always borrowing here and begging there, a torment to his family and a burden to his friends, I set him down at once for a 'Ganius.'”
“It's not that I was alluding to, Mr. Hayes,” said the priest, in some irritation. “I spoke of real ability, sterling powers of mind and thought, and I hope that they are not to be despised.”
“Like my 'august leader's'!” said Magennis, proudly.
“Ay, or like that young gentleman's there,” said Father Neal, with the tone of a man pronouncing upon what he understood. “I watched him to-day at dinner, and I saw that every remark he made was shrewd and acute, and that whenever the subject was new to him, he fell into it as he went on talking, picking up his facts while he seemed to be discussing them! Take my word for it, gentlemen, he 'll do!”
“He does n't know much about flax, anyhow,” muttered old Hayes.
“He took his punch like a man,” said Brierley, bearing testimony on a point where his evidence was sure to have weight.
“He'll do!” said Father Neal once more, and still more authoritatively than before.
“Joe carried away every premium from him,” said old Nelligan, with a degree of irritation that proclaimed how little he enjoyed the priest's eulogy of his guest.
“I know he did, sir; and no man has a higher respect for your son's great abilities than myself; but here 's how it is, Mr. Nelligan,”—and he drew himself up like a man about to deliver a profound opinion,—“here 's how it is. The mind that can master abstract science is one thing; the faculties that can deal with fellow-mortals is another. This world is not a University!”
“The Lord be praised for that same!” cried old Hayes, “or I 'm afraid I 'd fare badly in it.”
“To unite both descriptions of talent,” resumed the priest, oratorically, “is the gift of but few.”
“My 'august leader' has them,” broke in Magennis.
“Show me the man that can deal with men!” said Father Neal, dictatorially.
“Women is twice as hard to deal with!” cried old Hayes. “I 'll back Nancy Drake against any man in the barony.”
“Faith, and I remember her a pretty woman,” said Brierley, who would gladly have enticed the conversation out of its graver character. “A prettier girl than Mary Martin herself!” continued the inexorable Brierley, for the company did not appear to approve of his diversion.
“We are now discussing politics,—grave questions of state, sir,” said Father Neal,—“for we have come to times when even the most indifferent and insignificant amongst us cannot refrain feeling an interest in the progress of our country. And when I see a fine young man like that there, as one may say going a-begging for a party, I tell you that we are fools—worse than fools—if we don't secure him.”
“Do you mean for the borough?” asked Nelligan.
“I do, sir,—I mean for the borough!”
“Not till we have consulted my 'august leader,' I hope,” broke in Magennis.
“I'm for managing our own affairs ourselves,” said the priest. “What we want is a man of our own; and if that young gentleman there will take the pledges we should propose, I don't know that we'd readily get the like of him.”
The silence that now fell upon the party was ominous; it was plain that either the priest's proposition was not fully acquiesced in, or that the mode of announcing it was too abrupt. Perhaps this latter appeared the case to his own eyes, for he was the first to speak.
“Of course what I have said now is strictly among ourselves, and not to be mentioned outside of this room; for until my friend Dan Nelligan here consents to take the field against the Martin interest, there is no chance of opening the borough. Let him once agree to that, and the member for Oughterard will be his own nominee.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Nelligan, eagerly.
“I know it, sir; and every gentleman at this table knows it.”
A strong chorus in assent murmured around the board.
“It would be a great struggle,” muttered Nelligan.
“And a great victory!” said the priest.
“What a deal of money, too, it would cost!”
“You have the money, Dan Nelligan; and let me tell you one thing,”—here he leaned over his chair and whispered some words in the other's ear.
Old Nelligan's face flushed as he listened, and his eyes sparkled with intense excitement.
“If I thought that—if I only thought that, Father Rafferty—I 'd spend half my fortune on it to-morrow.”
“It's as true as I'm a living man,” said the priest, solemnly; and then with a motion of his hand gestured caution, for Massingbred was slowly ascending the steps, and about to enter the room.
With an instinctive readiness all his own, he saw in the embarrassed and conscious looks around that he had himself been the object of their discussion, and with the same shrewdness he detected their favorable feeling towards him.
“I have made them my own!” muttered he to himself.
“He 'll do our work well!” said the priest in his heart.