The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)
“Massingbred is too cute to mind him,” said Magennis.
“Ah, Tom, there ‘s one appeal men of his stamp are never deaf to. You may say fifty things that won’t shock them in religion or morals or good taste; but only utter the one word ‘vulgar,’ and their indignation rises at once. That’s what Scanlan will do, take my word for it He ‘ll call us a low set of fellows, that have no position in society, – no acceptance anywhere.”
“But Massingbred is a gentleman born, and he won’t be led astray by such a consideration.”
“It is exactly for that very reason that he will,” said the priest, stoutly. “It’s a strange fact, but there ‘s no manner of man rates social advantages so high as he that has them by right, and without any struggle for them.”
“Well,” said old Hayes, slowly, “if I once thought that of him, the devil a vote of mine he ‘d get, no matter what his principles were.”
“And there you ‘re wrong, Peter,” said Nelligan. “Matters of good manners and breeding need never be discussed between us. Mr. Massingbred will have his station; we’ll have ours. There ‘s a long and weary road before us ere we come to think of our social condition. There ‘s many a cruel statute to be abolished, many a hard grievance to be redressed.”
“And besides that,” said Father Neal, with a shrewd twinkle in his eye, “while we ‘re doing the one we ‘ll be helping on the other. Political influence always did, and always will, include rank and station in the world. When English Ministers find their best ally in the Irish Priest, there will be no more sneers at his brogue nor his boots. Men of family and fortune won’t shrink from their contact, and maybe you ‘ll see the day yet when coaches and chariots will drive up to the chapel, and ladies in satin and velvet step out to hear Mass.”
A prophetic view of the Millennium itself could not have astonished old Peter Hayes more completely than did this marvellous suggestion of Father Neal; and he moved away muttering a “Heaven grant it!” between his teeth.
“Where’s the next meeting of the committee to be?” asked Nelligan.
“In the Chapel House, to-morrow, at eleven. And that reminds me I ‘ve not sent out the summonses.” And so saying, Father Neal hastily took leave of his friends and left the room.
Let us take a glance at Mr. Maurice Scanlan, as, with an extra box-coat ingeniously wrapped around his lower man, he discoursed pleasantly to his companion while he “tooled” along towards Cro’ Martin. Not a word of politics, not a syllable on the subject of party, escaped him as he talked. His conversation was entirely of sporting matters: the odds against Leander, the last bettings on “Firebrand,” whether Spicy Bill was really in bad training, as the knowing ones said, and if the course wouldn’t “puzzle the young ones” if the wet weather were to continue.
Massingbred was sufficiently well versed in these classic themes to be an amusing and even instructive companion, and communicated many a sly piece of intelligence that would have been deemed priceless in “Bell’s Life;” and Scanlan quickly conceived a high estimate for one who had graduated at Newmarket, and taken honors at Goodwood.
“After the kind of life you ‘ve led in England, I wonder how you endure this country at all,” said Maurice, with real sincerity of voice and manner.
“I like it,” said Jack; “the whole thing is new to me, and vastly amusing. I don’t mean to say I ‘d willingly pass a lifetime in this fashion, but for a few weeks – ”
“Just so; to give you a better relish for the real thing when you go back again,” said Maurice.
“What a neat stepper that leader is!” said Jack, to change the topic from himself and his own affairs. “She’s a well-bred one; that’s clear.”
“Nearly full-bred; the least bit of cocktail in the world. She’s out of Crescent, that ran a very good third for the Oaks.”
“A strong horse, and a very honest one,” said Jack.
“Well, I bought that little mare from young Mr. Martin – the Captain – when he was ordered out to India; I put her in training, and ran her at the Curragh in three weeks, and won, too, the St. Lawrence Handicap.”
“Is Captain Martin a sporting character?” asked Jack, carelessly.
“He is and he is not,” said Scanlan, half querulously. “He likes a safe thing, – do you understand?” and he gave a most significant wink as he spoke.
“Oh, then he’s close about money matters?” said Massingbred.
“Not exactly that. He ‘s wasteful and spendthrift, but he’d go to the world’s end to do a knowing thing; you ‘ve seen men of that kind?”
“Scores of them,” replied Jack; “and they were always the easiest fellows to be duped!”
“Exactly my own experience,” said Scanlan, delighted to find his opinions confirmed in such a quarter. “Now, young Martin would give five hundred pounds for a horse to win a fifty pound cup. Don’t you know what I mean?”
“Perfectly,” said Massingbred, with an approving smile.
“Nobody knows the sums he has drawn since he went away,” exclaimed Scanlan, who was momentarily growing more and more confidential.
“There ‘s a deal of high play in India; perhaps he gambles,” said Jack, carelessly.
A significant wink and nod gave the answer.
“Well, well,” added he, after a pause, “he ‘ll not mend matters by coming back again.”
“And is he about to visit England?” asked Massingbred, in the same easy tone.
“So they say,” replied Scanlan, with an effort at the easy indifference of the other.
“On leave, perhaps?” said Jack, indolently.
“That ‘s more than I know,” replied he, and relapsed into a thoughtful silence, during which Massingbred continued to scan his features with a sly, downcast glance peculiar to himself.
“You’ve never been in Leicestershire, Mr. Scanlan?” said he, when he had fully satisfied himself with his examination. “Well, then, come over there in the spring – say about March next – and pay me a visit. I ‘ve got a sort of hunting-box there, with a neat stable, and by that time I hope to raise funds for a couple of nags.”
“Trust me for the horseflesh, sir. I know where to mount you this very minute. You ‘re not much above eleven stone?”
“Eleven-eight, – at least, so I used to be. Is it a bargain? Will you come?”
“There’s my hand on’t,” said the attorney, overjoyed at the prospect.
“Mackworth, and Lord Harry Coverdale, and Sir Went-worth Danby, and a few more, are all my neighbors. Capital fellows, whom you ‘ll be delighted with. Just the sort of men to suit you, – up to everything that means sport.”
“Exactly what I like!” cried Maurice, in ecstasy.
“We’ll arrange it all this evening, then,” said Jack. “Just drop into my room after they ‘re all gone to bed, and we’ll have a talk over it. You don’t know my father, do you?”
“I haven’t that honor,” said Scanlan, with an accent of real deference in his voice.
“Another kind of person from these I’ve mentioned,” said Jack, slowly.
“So I should suppose, sir,” said Scanlan, a tone of respect involuntarily attaching itself to him as he addressed the son of a Secretary of State.
“Not that he doesn’t like field sports, and all the enjoyments of a country life. But, you know, he’s an old official – a Downing Street veteran – who really relishes public business, just as you and I would a coursing-match, or a heavy pool at Crocky’s.”
Scanlan nodded as if in perfect assent.
“While I say this, it’s only fair to add that he has most excellent qualities, and is a stanch friend when he takes any one up. I suspect you ‘d like him. I know he ‘d like your – ”
“I ‘m greatly flattered. I don’t deserve – ”
“You see,” said Jack, not heeding the interruption, and assuming the low accents of a confidential communication – “You see, he and I have not been on the very best of terms for some time back; I ‘ve done some silly things – spent a little more money than he liked – and, what was still worse in his eyes, refused a first-rate Government appointment – a really good thing, and such as one does n’t meet with every day – and now, the only road back to his favor will be for me to come out strongly in some shape, either as a college prizeman or in public life. I despise the former. It’s all very well for fellows like Nelligan – it’s their natural ‘beat,’ – but for a man like me, one who has seen the world, – the real world, – these are nothing more than schoolboy distinctions, – the silver medal he brings home of a Saturday, and makes him the wonder of his sisters for twenty-four hours. I’ll have to strike out a line of my own!”
“No fear of you, sir, – devil a bit!” said Maurice, with a sententious shake of the head. “Here we are now at Cro’ Martin, and then there’s the first dinner-bell ringing.”
“We shall be late, perhaps,” said Jack.
“You’ll be in good time. As for me, I haven’t been asked to dinner, so that when I drop you I ‘ll go down to the village.”
“Well, then, I ‘ll walk over and see you in the evening,” said Massingbred. “It seems to me – I don’t know whether you are of the same opinion, though – but it seems strongly to me that you and I ought to be allies.”
“If I thought I was worthy – ”
“Come, come, Scanlan, no modesty, old boy. You know you ‘re a devilish clever fellow, and you no more intend to pass your life cruising after petty-session practice in Galway, than I do to settle down here as under-gardener.”
“They ‘re all looking at us, sir, from the drawing-room window,” said Scanlan, in a cautious voice; “don’t let us appear too confidential.” And at the same instant he extended his whip as though to point attention to some distant object, and seem as if he were describing the scenery.
“Shrewd dog it is,” muttered Massingbred in soliloquy, but taking good care to be overheard. “I ‘ll beat up your quarters, Scanlan, in a couple of hours or so,” said Massingbred, as he descended from the lofty “drag.”
Somewhat, but not very much, later than the time appointed, Jack Massingbred appeared in the small chamber of the “Crueskeen,” – the humble hostel on the roadside adjoining the demesne of Cro’ Martin. Maurice Scanlan had made every preparation which the fluid resources of the house admitted to receive his guest, but they were not destined to be put in requisition.
“I have only come lest you should accuse me of forgetting you, Scanlan,” said Massingbred, as he stood in the doorway without removing his hat. “I ‘m off to Oughter-ard, having made my adieux at Cro’ Martin.”
“Left Cro’ Martin, and for good!” exclaimed Scanlan.
“If that means forever, I suspect you ‘re right,” replied Jack; “but you ‘ll have the whole story in the morning when you go up there, and doubtless more impartially than I should tell it. And now, good-bye for a brief space. We shall meet soon.” And, without waiting for an answer, he nodded familiarly, stepped briskly to the door, where a post-chaise awaited him, and was gone, before Scanlan had even half recovered from his astonishment and surprise.
CHAPTER XXI. AN AWKWARD VISITOR
It is a singularly impressive sensation, and one, too, of which even frequency will scarcely diminish the effect, to pass from the busy streets and moving population of Dublin, and enter the quiet courts of the University. The suddenness of the change is most striking, and you pass at once from all the bustling interests of life – its cares and ambitions, its pursuits of wealth and pleasure – into the stillness of a cloister. Scarcely within the massive gates, and the noise of the great capital is hushed and subdued, its sounds seem to come from afar, and in their place is an unbroken calm, or the more solemn echoes of its vaulted roofs.
In a corner of the Old Square, and in a building almost entirely occupied by the University authorities, and whose stairs had seldom echoed beneath less reverend footsteps than those of deans and bursars, were the chambers of Joe Nelligan. He had obtained them in this peculiar locality as a special favor from “the Board,” as eminently suited to his habits of study and seclusion; for his was indeed a life of labor, – labor, hard, unremitting, and unbroken! Dreary as was the aspect of the spot, it was one dear to the heart of him who occupied it. If it had been the cell wherein he had passed nights of severest toil and days of intense effort, so had it been the calm retreat into which he had retired as a sanctuary, and at times the scene of the hallowed joy he felt when success had crowned all his labors. Thither had he bent his steps at nightfall, as to a home; thence had he written the few lines which more than once announced his triumph to his father.
Within those halls had he experienced all that he had ever tasted of successful ambition, and in the depths of that old chair had he dreamed away all the visions of a glorious future. The room in which he sat was a large and lofty one, lighted by two windows deeply set in the wall. Its sides were lined with book-shelves, and books littered the tables and even the floor, – for it was one of his caprices to read as he lay at full length, either on the ground or a sofa, – and the paper and pens were scattered about in different quarters, as accident suggested. The only thing like ornament to be seen was a lithographic print of Cro’ Martin Castle over the fireplace, – a strange exception would it seem, but traceable, perhaps, to some remote scene of boyish admiration for what had first awakened in him a feeling of awe and admiration; and there it now remained, time-worn and discolored, perhaps unnoticed, or looked on with very different emotions. Ay! these pictures are terrible landmarks of our thoughts! I speak not of such as appeal to our hearts by the features we loved, the eyes into whose depths we have gazed, the lips on whose accents we have hung entranced, but even when they trace the outlines of some spot well known to us in boyhood, – some scene of long, long years ago. It is not alone that the “Then” and “Now” stand out in strongest contrast, that what we were and what we are are in juxtaposition, but that whole memories of what we once hoped to be come rushing over us, and all the spirit-stirring emotions of early ambitions mingle themselves with the stern realities of the present. And, after all, what success in life, however great and seemingly unexpected it may be, ever equals one of the glorious daydreams of our boyish ambition, in which there comes no alloy of broken health, wasted energies, and exhausted spirits? or, far worse again, the envious jealousy of those we once deemed friends, and who, had we lived obscurely, still might be such? Student life is essentially imaginative. The very division of time, the objects which have value to a student’s eyes, the seclusion in which he lives, the tranquil frame of mind coexistent with highly strained faculties, all tend to make his intervals of repose periods of day-dream and revery. It is not improbable that these periods are the fitting form of relaxation for overtaxed minds, and that the Imagination is the soothing influence that repairs the wear and tear of Reason.
The peculiar circumstances of young Nelligan’s position in life had almost totally estranged him from others. The constraint that attaches to a very bashful temperament had suggested to him a certain cold and reserved manner, that some took for pride, and many were repelled from his intimacy by this seeming haughtiness. The unhappy course of what had been his first friendship – for such was it with Massingbred – had rendered him more distrustful than ever of himself, and more firmly convinced that to men born as he had been the world imposes a barrier that only is passable by the highest and greatest success. It is true, his father’s letter of explanation assuaged the poignancy of his sorrow; he saw that Massingbred had proceeded under a misconception, and had believed himself the aggrieved individual; but all these considerations could not obliterate the fact that an insult to his social station was the vengeance adopted by him, and that Massingbred saw no more galling outrage in his power than to reflect upon his rank in life.
There are men who have a rugged pride in contrasting what they were with what they are. Their self-love finds an intense pleasure in contemplating difficulties overcome, obstacles surmounted, and a goal won, all by their own unaided efforts, and to such the very obscurity of their origin is a source of boastful exultation. Such men are, however, always found in the ranks of those whose success is wealth. Wherever the triumphs are those rewarded by station, or the distinctions conferred on intellectual superiority, this vainglorious sentiment is unknown. An inborn refinement rejects such coarse pleasure, just as their very habits of life derive no enjoyment from the display and splendor reflected by riches.
Joe Nelligan felt his lowly station most acutely, because he saw in it a disqualification for that assured and steady temperament which can make most of success. He would have given half of all he might possess in the world for even so much of birth as might exempt him from a sneer. The painful sensitiveness that never rested nor slept – that made him eternally on the watch lest some covert allusion might be made to him – was a severe suffering; and far from decreasing, it seemed to grow with him as he became older, and helped mainly to withdraw him further from the world.
No error is more common than for bashful men to believe that they are unpopular in society, and that the world “will none of them.” They interpret their own sense of difficulty as a feeling of dislike in others, and retire to their solitudes convinced that these are their fitting dwelling-places. To this unpalatable conviction was Joseph Nelligan now come; and as he entered his chambers, and closed the heavy door behind him, came the thought: “Here at least no mortifications can reach me. These old books are my truest and best of friends, and in their intercourse there is neither present pain nor future humiliation!”
It was on a dark and dreary day in winter, and in that cheerless hour before the closing in of night, that Joseph sat thus in his solitary home. The sound of carriage-wheels and the sharp tramp of horses’ feet – a rare event in these silent courts – slightly aroused him from a revery; but too indolent to go to the window, he merely raised his head to listen; and now a loud knock shook the outer door of his chambers. With a strange sense of perturbation at this unwonted summons, he arose and opened it.
“The Chief Secretary begs to know if Mr. Nelligan is at home?” said a well-powdered footman, in a plain but handsome livery.
“Yes; I am the person,” said Joseph, with a diffidence strongly in contrast with the composure of the other; and while he yet stood, door in hand, the steps of the carriage were let down, and a tall venerable-looking man, somewhat past the prime of life, descended and approached him.
“I must be my own introducer, Mr. Nelligan,” said he; “my name is Massingbred.”
With considerable confusion of manner, and in all that hurry in which bashful men seek to hide their awkwardness, Joseph ushered his visitor into his dimly lighted chamber.
Colonel Massingbred, with all the staid composure of a very quiet demeanor, had quite sufficient tact to see that he was in the company of one little versed in the world, and, as soon as he took his seat, proceeded to explain the reason of his visit.
“My son has told me of the great pleasure and profit he has derived from knowing you, sir,” said he; “he has also informed me that a slight and purely casual event interrupted the friendship that existed between you; and although unable himself to tender personally to you at this moment all his regrets on the subject, he has charged me to be his interpreter, and express his deep sorrow for what has occurred, and his hope that, after this avowal, it may never be again thought of by either of you.”
“There was a misunderstanding, – a fault on both sides. I was wrong in the first instance,” said Nelligan, faltering and stammering at every word.
“Mr. Nelligan is in a position to be generous,” said the Colonel, blandly, “and he cannot better show the quality than by accepting a frank and full apology for a mere mistake. May I trust,” continued he, – but with that slight change of tone that denoted a change of topic, – “that you have somewhat abated those habits of severe study you have hitherto pursued? Jack is really uneasy on that score, and wisely remarks that great talents should be spared the penalty of great labor.”
“I am not reading now. I have read very little of late,” said Joseph, diffidently.
“I can imagine what that means,” said the Colonel, smiling. “Mr. Nelligan’s relaxations would be the hard labor of less zealous students; but I will also say that upon other grounds this must be done with more consideration. The public interests, Mr. Nelligan, – the country, to whose service you will one day be called on to contribute those high abilities, – will not be satisfied to learn that their exercise should have been impaired by over-effort in youth.”
“You overrate me much, sir. I fear that you have been misled both as to my capacity and my objects.”
“Your capacity is matter of notoriety, Mr. Nelligan! your objects may be as high as any ambition can desire. But perhaps it is obtrusive in one so new to your acquaintance to venture on these topics; if so, pray forgive me, and set it down to the error I have fallen into of fancying that I know you as well personally as I do by reputation and character.”
Before Nelligan could summon words to reply to this complimentary speech, the door of his room was flung suddenly open, and a short, thickset figure, shrouded in a coarse shawl and a greatcoat, rushed towards him, exclaiming in a rich brogue, —
“Here I am, body and bones; just off the coach, and straight to your quarters.”
“What! Mr. Crow; is it possible?” cried Nelligan, in some confusion.
“Just himself, and no other,” replied the artist, disengaging himself from his extra coverings. “When you said to me, ‘Come and see me when you visit Dublin,’ I said to myself, ‘There ‘s a trump, and I ‘ll do it;’ and so here I am.”
“You left the country yesterday. Did you bring me any letters?” asked Nelligan; but in the uncertain tone of a man who talked merely to say something.
“Not a line, – not a word. Your father was over head and ears at work this week back about the election, and it was only the night before last it was over.”
“And is it over?” asked Nelligan, eagerly.
“To be sure it is. Young Massingbred is in, and a nice business it is.”
“Let me inform you, Mr. Crow, before you proceed further – ” broke in Nelligan; but as he got so far, Colonel Massingbred laid his hand on his arm, and said, in a bland but steady voice, “Pray allow the gentleman to continue; his account promises to be most interesting.”
“Indeed, then, that’s what it is not,” said Crow; “for I think it’s all bad from beginning to end.” Another effort to interrupt by Nelligan being repressed by the Colonel, Crow resumed: “Everybody trying to cheat somebody else; the Martins wanting to cheat the borough, the borough wanting to jockey the Martins, and then young Massingbred humbugging them both! And there he is now, Member for Oughterard; and much he cares for them both.”
“Was there a contest, sir?” asked the Colonel, while by a gesture he enforced silence on Nelligan.
“As bitter a one as ever you saw in your life,” continued Simmy, quite flattered at the attention vouchsafed him; “for though the Martins put young Massingbred forward at first, they quarrelled with him before the day for the nomination, – something or other about the franchise, or Maynooth, or the Church Establishment. Sorra one o’ me know much about these matters; but it was a serious difference, and they split about it! And after all their planning and conniving together, what do they do but propose Martin’s son, the man in the dragoons, for the borough! Massingbred bids them do their worst, packs up, sets out for the town, and makes a speech exposing them all! The next morning he comes to the poll, with Joe’s father there, and Peter Hayes, to propose and second him. Martin drives in with three elegant coaches and four, and tries to do the thing ‘grand.’ ‘It’s too late, sir; the people know their power,’ as Father Neal told them; and, upon my conscience, I believe it’s a most dangerous kind of knowledge. At all events, at it they go; and such fighting and murdering nobody ever saw before. There’s not a whole pane of glass in the town, and many a skull cracked as well! One of the wickedest of the set was young Massingbred himself; he ‘d assault the cars as they drove in, and tear out the chaps he thought were his own voters, in spite of themselves. He has the spirit of the devil in him! And then to hear how he harangued the people and abused the aristocracy. Maybe he did n’t lay it on well! To be sure, the Martins drove him to it very hard. They called him a ‘renegade’ and a ‘spy.’ They ransacked everything they could get against his character, and at last declared that he had no qualification, and wasn’t worth sixpence.”
