The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)

It is a strange fact, and one of which we are satisfied merely to make mention, without attempting in the least to explain, but no sooner was Magennis in the presence of his young guest, than not only he seemed to forget all possible cause of irritation towards him, but to behave with a manner of, for him, the most courteous civility. He aided him to remove his shot-belt and his bag; took his hat from his hands, and carefully wiped it; placed a chair for him close to the fire; and then, as he turned to address him, remarked for the first time the blood-stained handkerchief which still bound his forehead.

“Did you fall, – had you an accident?” asked he, eagerly.

“No,” said the other, laughing; “a bit of an adventure only, which I ‘ll tell you after dinner.”

“Was it any of the people? Had you a fight – ”

“Come, Magennis, you must exercise a little patience. Not a word, not a syllable, till I have eaten something, for I am actually famishing.”

A stout knock of the poker on the chimney summoned the dinner, and almost in the same instant the woman entered with a smoking dish of Irish stew.

“Mrs. Joan, you’re an angel,” said Massingbred; “if there was a dish I was longing for on this cold, raw day, it was one of your glorious messes. They seem made for the climate, and by Jove, the climate for them. I say, Mac, does it always rain in this fashion here?”

“No; it sleets now and then, and sometimes blows.”

“I should think it does,” said Jack, seating himself at the table. “The pleasant little slabs of marble one sees on the cabin-roofs to keep down the thatch are signs of your western zephyrs. Mrs. Joan has outdone herself today. This is first-rate.”

“There’s too strong a flavor of hare in it,” said Magen-nis, critically.

“That’s exactly its perfection; the wild savor lifts it out of the vulgar category of Irish stews, and assimilates it, but not too closely, to the ragout. I tell you, Mac, there’s genius in the composition of that gravy.”

The partial pedantry of this speech was more than compensated for by the racy enjoyment of the speaker, and Magennis was really gratified at the zest with which his young friend relished his meal.

“It has one perfection, at least,” said he, modestly, – “it ‘s very unlike what you get at home.”

“We have a goodish sort of a cook,” said Jack, languidly, – “a fellow my father picked up after the Congress of Verona. Truffles and treaties seem to have some strong sympathetic attraction, and when diplomacy had finished its work, a chef was to be had cheap! The worst of the class is, they ‘ll only functionate for your grand dinners and they leave your every-day meal to some inferior in the department.”

It was strange that Magennis could listen with interest always whenever Massingbred spoke of habits, people, and places with which he had never been conversant. It was not so much for the topics themselves he cared, – they were, in reality, valueless in his eyes, – it was some singular pleasure he felt in thinking that the man who could so discuss them was his own guest, seated at his own table, thus connecting himself by some invisible link with the great ones of this world!

Massingbred’s very name – the son of the celebrated Moore Massingbred – a Treasury Lord – Heaven knows what else besides – certainly a Right Honorable – was what first fascinated him in his young acquaintance, and induced him to invite him to his house. Jack would probably have declined the invitation, but it just came at the moment when he was deeply mortified at Nelligan’s absence, – an absence which old Dan was totally unable to explain or account for. Indeed, he had forgotten that, in his note to his son, he had not mentioned Massingbred by name, and thus was he left to all the embarrassment of an apology without the slightest clew as to the nature of the excuse.

No sooner, then, was it apparent to Massingbred that young Nelligan did not intend to return home, than he decided on taking his own departure. At first he determined on going back to Dublin; but suddenly a malicious thought sprung up of all, the mortification it might occasion Joe to learn that he was still in the neighborhood; and with the amiable anticipation of this vengeance, he at once accepted Magennis’s offer to “accompany him to his place in the mountains, and have some shooting.”

It would not have been easy to find two men so essentially unlike in every respect as these two, who now sat discussing their punch after dinner. In birth, bringing-up, habits, instincts, they were widely dissimilar, and yet, somehow, they formed a sort of companionship palatable to each. Each had something to tell the other which he had either not heard before, or not heard in the same way. We have already adverted to the strong fascination Magen-nis experienced in dwelling on the rank and social position of his young guest. Massingbred experienced no less delight in the indulgence of his favorite pastime, – adventure hunting. Now, here was really something like adventure, – this wild, rude mountain home, this strange compound of gloom and passion, this poor simple country girl, more than servant, less than wife, – all separated from the remainder of the world by a gulf wider than mere space. These were all ingredients more than enough to suggest matter for imagination, and food for after-thought in many a day to come.

They had thus passed part of a week in company, when the incident occurred of which our last chapter makes mention, and an account of which, now, Massingbred proceeded to give his host, neither exaggerating nor diminishing in the slightest particular any portion of the event. He even repressed his habitual tendency to sarcasm, and spoke of his antagonist seriously and respectfully. “It was quite clear,” said he, in conclusion, “that he did n’t know I was a gentleman, and consequently never anticipated the consequence of a blow.”

“And he struck you?” broke in Magennis, violently.

“You shall see for yourself,” said Jack, smiling, as, untying the handkerchief, he exhibited a deep cut on his forehead, from which the blood still continued to ooze.

“Let Joan doctor you; she’s wonderful at a cut. She has something they call Beggarman’s Balsam. I ‘ll fetch her.” And without waiting for a reply he left the room. The young woman speedily after appeared with some lint and a small pot of ointment, proceeding to her office with all the quiet assiduity of a practised hand, and a gentleness that few “regulars” could vie with. Her skill was more than recompensed by the few muttered words of praise Magennis bestowed, as he grumbled out, half to himself: “Old Cahill himself could n’t do it better. I ‘d back her for a bandage against the College of Surgeons. Ain’t ye easier now? – to be sure you are. She ‘s good for that if she is for nothing else!” And even this much of eulogy made her bosom heave proudly, and brought a flush of joy over her cheek that was ecstasy itself.

The world is not deficient in acts of kindness, benevolence, and good-will. There is a large fountain of these running in ten thousand rills. But how many more might there not be, – how much of this wealth might there not be dispensed, and nobody living one jot the poorer! How many are there toiling away in obscurity and narrow fortune, to whom one single word of praise – one chance syllable of encouragement – would be life’s blood! What sunken cheeks and lacklustre eyes would glow and gladden again by even a look of sympathy, withheld from no lack of kindliness, but mere want of thought! Oh ye who have station and fame, genius or greatness, bethink ye that these gifts are never higher than when they elevate the humble and cheer the lowly, and there is no physician like him who animates the drooping heart, and gives new vigor to wearied faculties and failing energy. Joan was made happy by the two or three words of grateful thanks Massingbred addressed to her, and stole quietly away, leaving the two companions once more alone.

If there was any incident in life participation in which could convey intense gratification to Magennis, it was that sort of difference or misunderstanding that might lead to a duel. Whenever the affair offered no other alternative, his delight was unbounded. There were, it was rumored events in his own early life which would imply that the taste for mortal combat extended only to cases where his friends were concerned, and had no selfish application whatever. Of these we know nothing; nor, indeed, have we any information to convey regarding him, save by chance and stray words dropped by himself in the unguarded hours of after-dinner converse. There are, however, many who like the subordinate parts in this world’s comedy, – who would rather be best man than bridegroom, and infinitely prefer performing second to principal.

We are not, however, going into the inquiry as to the cause; enough when we repeat that this was Magennis’s great passion, and these were the kind of events for whose conduct and management he believed himself to possess the most consummate tact and ability.

“You ‘re in luck, Massingbred,” cried he, as the other concluded his recital, – “you’re in luck, sir, to have for your friend one that, though I say it myself, has n’t his equal for a case like this in the three kingdoms. It was I, sir, took out Cahill when he shot Major Harris, of the Fusiliers. I handled him that morning in a way that made the English officers confess there was no chance against us! A duel seems an easy thing to arrange. You ‘d say that any fool could put up two men, twelve or even ten paces asunder, and tell them to blaze away; and if that was all there was in it, it would be simple enough. But consider for a minute the real case, and just remember how much the nature of the ground, whether level or uneven, has to do with it; what’s behind, – if a wall, or trees, or only sky; the state of the light; how the sun stands; whether there ‘s wind, and what way it’s coming. These are not all. There’s the pistols, – how they ‘throw,’ and with what charge; and then there ‘s the size of your man. Ay, Massingbred, and let me tell you, you now see before you the man that invented the ‘invulnerable position.’”

“By Jove! that’s a most valuable fact to me just now,” said Jack, helping himself to a fresh tumbler. “I ‘m glad you have not been retained by the other side.”

“The ‘invulnerable position’!” continued Magennis, perfectly heedless of the other’s remark; while, taking up the poker, he stalked out to the middle of the room, drawing himself up to his full height, and presenting, as though with a pistol, – “Do you see what I mean?” cried he.

“I can’t say I do,” said Jack, hesitatingly.

“I thought not,” rejoined the other, proudly; “nobody ever did that was n’t ‘out’ often. Pay attention now, and I ‘ll explain it. My head, you perceive, is carried far behind my right shoulder, so as to be completely protected by my pistol-hand and the pistol. I say the pistol, because it has been proved scientifically that the steadiest eye that ever fired never could aim at the antagonist’s pistol. Morris Crofton practised it for eight years in his own garden; and though he did succeed, he told me that for practical purposes it was no use. Now we come to the neck, and you may observe the bend of my elbow. Ay, that little angle that nobody would remark masks the jugular arteries, and all the other vital nerves in that part. John Toler used to say that the head and neck was like the metropolis, and that a shot elsewhere was only like a ‘row’ in the provinces; and a very true and wise remark it was. Not that I neglect the trunk,” added he, proudly; “for you see how I stand, – three-quarters of the back towards the enemy so as not to expose the soft parts. As for the legs,” cried he, contemptuously, “let them crack at them as long as they like.”

“And that ‘s the ‘invulnerable position,’” said Massing-bred; with less enthusiasm, however, than the discovery might seem to warrant.

“It is, sir; and if it was n’t for it there ‘s many a strapping fellow walking about this day-that would be lying with a marble counterpane over him. Billy Welsh, that fought Brian of Deanstown, was the first man I ever ‘put up’ in it. Billy had a slight crick of the neck, and could n’t get the head far enough round to the right, and the ball took him in the bridge of the nose, and carried that feature clean off, but never damaged him in any other respect whatever!”

“I must say that the loss was quite sufficient for a man who had the benefit of the ‘invulnerable position,’” said Massingbred, quietly.

“He thinks nothing of it. A chap in the Crow Street Theatre made him a better nose than ever he had, out of wax, I believe; and he has a winter one, with a blush of red on it, to make believe it was cold; and they tell me you ‘d never discover it was n’t his own.”

Magennis had now resumed his place at table, and seemed bent on making up for lost time by giving double measure of whiskey to his punch.

“You say that he’s to be in Oughterard to-night; well, with the blessing of the Virgin,” – an invocation he invariably applied to every act of dubious morality, – “we ‘ll be with him before he’s out of bed to-morrow!”

“I wish he had not given me a blow,” said Jack, musingly. “He seemed such a stout-hearted, spirited old fellow, I’m really grieved to quarrel with him.”

“I’m glad that there’s nobody to hear them words but myself, Mr. Massingbred,” said the other, with all the slowness and deliberation of incipient drunkenness; “I’m rejoiced, sir, that it’s in the confidential intercourse of friendly – friendly – communication – that the son of my old and valued friend – Moore Massingbred – used expressions like that.”

Jack started with amazement at this speech; he had not the slightest suspicion till that moment that Magennis and his father had ever known each other, or even met. A very little patience, however, on his part served to solve the difficulty; for he discovered that one of the peculiarities of this stage of his friend’s ebriety was to fancy himself the intimate and associate of any one whose name he had ever heard mentioned.

“Ay, sir, them’s words your father would never have uttered. I was with him in his first blaze. ‘Moore,’ says I, ‘have n’t you a pair of black breeches?’ – he wore a pair of web ‘tights’ of a light pattern – What are you laughing at, sir?” cried he, sternly, and striking the table with his clenched knuckles, till the glasses all rang on it.

“I was laughing at my father’s costume,” said Jack, who really told the truth; such a portrait of his parent’s appearance being manifestly unlike anything he had ever imagined.

“And the worse manners yours, sir,” rejoined Magennis, rudely. “I’ ll not suffer any man to laugh at an old friend – and – and – schoolfellow!”

It was with the very greatest difficulty that Jack could restrain himself at this peroration, which indignation – the same, probably, that creates poets – had suggested. He had, however, tact enough to preserve his gravity, whilst he assured his companion that no unfilial sentiment had any share in his thoughts.

“So far, so well,” said Magennis, who now helped himself to the whiskey, unadulterated by any water; “otherwise, sir, it’s not Lieutenant Magennis, of the – 9th Foot, would handle you on the ground to-morrow!”

“So, then, you’ve served, Mac? Why, you never broke that to me before!”

“Broke!” cried the other, with a voice shrill from passion, while he made an effort to rise from his chair, and sunk back again, – “broke; who dares to say I was broke? I left the scoundrels myself. I shook the dust off my feet after them. There never was a court-martial about it. Never – never!” To the deep crimson that suffused his face before, there now succeeded an almost death-like pallor, and Massingbred really felt terrified at the change. Some heart-rending recollection seemed suddenly to have cleared his brain, routing in an instant all the effects of intoxication, and restoring him to sobriety and sorrow together.

“Ay,” said he, in a low, broken voice, and still speaking to himself, “that finished me! I never held my head up again! Who could, after such a business? I came here, Mr. Massingbred,” continued he, but addressing his guest in a tone of deep respect, – “I came back here a ruined man, and not eight-and-twenty! You see me now, a dirty, drunken sot, not better dressed nor better mannered than the commonest fellow on the road, and yet I’m a gentleman born and bred, well nurtured, and well educated. I took a college degree and went into the army.” He paused, as if trying to gather courage to go on; the effort was more than he could accomplish, and, as the heavy tears stole slowly down his cheeks, the agony of the struggle might be detected. Half mechanically he seized the decanter of whiskey and poured the tumbler nearly full; but Jack good-humoredly stretched out his hand towards the glass, and said, “Don’t drink, Mac; there’s no head could stand it.”

“You think so, boy,” cried he, with a saucy smile. “Little you know the way we live in the West, here;” and he tossed off the liquor before the other could stop him. The empty glass had scarcely been replaced on the table, when all the former signs of drunkenness had come back again, and in his bloodshot eyes and swollen veins might be seen the very type of passionate debauch.

“Not ask me to their houses!” cried he, hoarse with passion. “Who wants them? Not invite me! Did I ever seek them? The dirty, mean spalpeens, don’t I know the history of every one of them? Could n’t I expose them from one end of the county to the other? Who ‘s Blake of Harris-town? He ‘s the son of Lucky Magarry, the pedler. You don’t believe me. I had it from Father Cole himself. Lucky was hanged at Ennis. ‘Ye want a confession!’ says Lucky, when he came out on the drop; ‘ye want a confession! Well, I suppose there’s no use in keeping anything back now, for ye ‘ll hang me at any rate, and so here it’s for you. It was I murdered Mr. Shea, and there was nobody helping me at all. I did it all myself with a flail; and be the same token, it ‘s under Mark Bindon’s tombstone this minute. There now, the jury may be azy in their minds, and the judge, and the hangman, too, if he cares about it. As for his honor the high sheriff,’ said he, raising his voice, ‘he ‘s a fine man, God bless him, and the county may be proud of him; for it was he ferreted out all about this business! And faix, notwithstanding all, I ‘m proud of him myself, for he ‘s my own son!’ And as he said that he dropped on his knees and cried out that he might never see glory if there was a word of lie in anything he said then! So that’s what Blake got for his zeal for justice!”

And as Magennis finished, he burst into a wild, fiendish laugh, and said, —

“There ‘s the country gentry – there ‘s the people won’t know Magennis and his wife! – ay, sir, his lawful, married wife! Let me see that you or any other man will deny it, or refuse to treat her as becomes her station. – Joan! Joan!” shouted he, striking the poker violently against the chimney; and with hot haste and intense anxiety the poor girl rushed into the room the moment after. “Sit down here, ma’am,” said Magennis, rising, and placing a chair for her beside his own, with an affectation of courtesy that savored of mockery, – “sit down, I say,” cried he, stamping his foot passionately. “That’s my wife, sir! No man that sits at my board shall behave to her as anything else.”

“I have ever treated her with respect,” said Massingbred, “and shall always continue to do so.”

“And it’s better for you to do so,” said the other, fiercely, the bullying spirit rising on what he deemed the craven submission of his guest.

Meanwhile the girl sat trembling with terror, not knowing what the scene portended, or how it was to end.

“The herd’s daughter, indeed! No, sir, Mrs. Magennis, of Barnagheela, that’s her name and title!”

At these words the poor girl, overcome with joy and gratitude, fell down upon her knees before him, and, clasping his hand, covered it with kisses.

“Is n’t that pretty breeding!” cried Magennis, violently. “Get up, ma’am, and sit on your chair like a lady. The devil a use in it, do what you will, say what you will, – the bad ‘drop’ is in them; and whatever becomes of you in life, Massingbred, let me give you this advice, – never marry beneath you!”

Jack contrived at this juncture to signal to the girl to step away; and by appearing to attend with eagerness to Magennis, he prevented his remarking her exit.

“A man ‘s never really ruined till then,” continued he, slowly, and evidently sobering again as he went on. “Friends fall away from you, and your companions are sure to be fellows with something against them! You begin by thinking you ‘re doing a grand and a courageous thing! You string up your resolution to despise the world, and, take my word for it, the world pays you off at last. Ay,” said he, after a long pause, in which his features settled down into an expression of deep sorrow, and his voice quivered with emotion, – “ay, and I ‘ll tell you something worse than all, – you revenge all your disappointment on the poor girl that trusted you! and you break her heart to try and heal your own!”

With these last words he buried his head between his hands and sobbed fearfully.

“Leave me now, – leave me alone,” said he, without lifting his head. “Good-night – good-night to you!”

Massingbred arose without a word, and, taking a candle, ascended to his chamber, his last thoughts about his host being very unlike those with which he had first regarded him. From these considerations he turned to others more immediately concerning himself; nor could he conquer his misgivings that Magennis was a most unhappy selection for a friend in such an emergency.

“But then I really am without a choice,” said he to himself. “Joe Nelligan, perhaps, might – but no, he would have been infinitely more unfit than the other. At all events, Nelligan has himself severed the friendship that once existed between us.” And so he wandered on to thoughts of his former companionship with him. Regretful and gloomy enough were they, as are all memories of those in whose hearts we once believed we had a share, and from which we cannot reconcile ourselves to the exclusion.

“He had not the manliness to meet me when I had become aware of his real station! What a poor-spirited fellow! Just as if I cared what or who his father was! My theory is, Jack Massingbred can afford to know any man he pleases! Witness the roof that now shelters me, and the character of him who is my host!”

It was a philosophy he built much upon, for it was a form of self-love that simulated a good quality, many of his acquaintances saying, “At all events, there ‘s no snobbery about Massingbred; he ‘ll know, and even be intimate with, anybody.” Nor did the deception only extend to others. Jack himself fancied he was an excellent fellow, – frank, generous, and open-hearted.

It is a very strange fact – and fact it certainly is – that the men who reason most upon their own natures, look inwardly at their own minds, and scrutinize most their own motives, are frequently the least natural of all mankind! This self-inquiry is such thorough self-deception that he who indulges in it often becomes an actor. As for Massingbred, there was nothing real about him save his egotism! Gifted with very good abilities, aided by a strong “vitality,” he had great versatility; but of all powers, this same plastic habit tends most to render a man artificial.

Now, his present difficulty was by no means to his taste. He did not like his “quarrel;” he liked less the age and station of his adversary; and least of all was he pleased with the character of his “friend.” It was said of Sheridan, that when consulted about the music of his operas, he only asked, “Will it grind?” – that is, would it be popular enough for a street organ, and become familiar to every ear? So Jack Massingbred regarded each event in life by the test of how it would “tell,” in what wise could a newspaper report it, and how would it read in the Clubs? He fancied himself discussing the adventure at “White’s,” and asking, “Can any one say what Massingbred’s row was about? Was he poaching? – or how came he there? Was there a woman in it? And who is his friend Magennis?” In thoughts like these he passed hour after hour, walking his room from end to end, and waiting for morning.

At length he bethought him how little likely it was that Magennis would remember anything whatever of the transaction, and that his late debauch might obliterate all memory of the affair. “What if this were to be the case, and that we were to arrive too late at Oughterard? A pretty version would the papers then publish to the world!” Of all possible casualties this was the very worst; and the more he reflected on it, the more probable did it seem. “He is the very fellow to wake up late in the afternoon, rub his eyes, and declare he had forgotten the whole thing.”