There are certain persons who are born heralds and genealogists; there
are many more to whom these useful gifts have been denied. With
apologies to both classes, to the one for sins of omission, to the
other in the reverse sense, I find that an excerpt from the
Talbot-Lowry pedigree must be inflicted upon them.
With all brevity, let it be stated that Dick Talbot-Lowry possessed a
father, General John Richard, and General John Richard had an only
sister, Caroline. Caroline, fair and handsome, like all her family,
was "married off," as was the custom of her period, at the age of
seventeen, to elderly Anthony Coppinger, chiefly for the reason that
he was the owner of Coppinger's Court, with a very comfortable
rent-roll, and a large demesne, that marched, as to its eastern
boundaries, with that of Mount Music, and was, as it happened, divided
from it by no more than the Ownashee, that mountain river of which
mention has been made. It was, therefore, exceedingly advisable that
the existing friendly relations should be cemented, as far as was
practicable, and the fair and handsome Caroline was an obvious and
suitable adhesive. To Anthony and Caroline, two children were born;
Frederica, of whom more hereafter, and Thomas. By those who lay claim
to genealogic skill, it will now be apparent that these were the first
cousins of Dick Talbot-Lowry. Thomas went into the Indian Army, and in
India met and married a very charming young lady, Theresa Quinton, a
member of an ancient Catholic family in the North of England, and an
ardent daughter of her Church. In India, a son was born to them, and
Colonel Tom, who adored his wife, remarking that these things were out
of his line, made no objection to her bringing up the son, St.
Lawrence Anthony, in her own religion, and hoped that the matter would
end there. Mrs. Coppinger, however, remembering St. Paul's injunctions
to believing wives and unbelieving husbands, neither stopped nor
stayed her prayers and exhortations, until, just before the birth of a
second child, she had succeeded in inducing Tom Coppinger--(just "to
please her, and for the sake of a quiet life," as he wrote,
apologetically, to his relations and friends, far away in Ireland) to
join her Communion. She then died, and her baby followed her. Colonel
Tom, a very sad and lonely man, came to England and visited St.
Lawrence Anthony at the school selected for him by his mother; then he
returned to his regiment in India, and was killed, within a year of
his wife's death, in a Frontier expedition. He left Larry in the joint
guardianship of his sister, Frederica, and his first cousin, Dick
Talbot-Lowry, with the request that the former would live with the boy
at Coppinger's Court, and that the latter would look after the
property until the boy came of age and could do so himself; he also
mentioned that he wished his son's education to continue on the lines
laid down by his "beloved wife, Theresa."
It must, with regret, be stated, that the relatives and friends in
far-away Ireland, instead of admiring "poor Tom's" fidelity to his
wife's wishes, murmured together that it was very unfortunate that
"poor Theresa" had not died when Larry was born, as, in that case,
this "disastrous change of religion" would not have taken place.
Taking into consideration the fact that Larry was to live among his
Irish cousins, it is possible that from the point of view of
expediency, the relations and friends were in some degree justified.
Ireland, it is almost superfluous to observe, has long since decided
to call herself The Island of Saints, an assertion akin to the
national challenge of trailing the coat-tails, and believers in
hereditary might, perhaps, be justified in assuming a strictly
celibate sainthood. Be that as it may, Irish people have ever been
prone to extremes, and, in spite of the proverb, there are some
extremes that never touch, and chief among them are those that concern
religion. Religion, or rather, difference of religion, is a factor in
every-day Irish life of infinitely more potency than it is, perhaps,
in any other Christian country. The profundity of disagreement is such
that in most books treating of Ireland, that are not deliberately
sectarian, a system of water-tight compartments in such matters is
carefully established. It is, no doubt, possible to write of human
beings who live in Ireland, without mentioning their religious views,
but to do so means a drastic censoring of an integral feature of
nearly all mundane affairs. This it is to live in the Island of
Saints.
In this humble account of the late Plesiosauridæ and their
contemporaries, it is improbable that any saint of any sect will be
introduced; one assurance, at least, may be offered without
reservation. Those differing Paths, that alike have led many wayfarers
to the rest that is promised to the saints, will be treated with an
equal reverence and respect. But no rash undertakings can be given as
touching the wayfarers, or even their leaders, who may chance to
wander through these pages. Neither is any personal responsibility
accepted for the views that any of them may express. One does not
blame the gramophone if the song is flat, or if the reciter drops his
h's.
After this exhaustive exordium it is tranquillising to return to the
comparative simplicities of the existence of the young Talbot-Lowrys.
Those summer holidays of the year 1894 were made ever memorable for
them by the re-inhabiting of Coppinger's Court. Mount Music was a
lonely place; it lay on the river, about midway between the towns of
Cluhir and Riverstown, either of which meant a five or six mile drive,
and to meet such friends and acquaintances as the neighbourhood
afforded, was, in winter, a matter confined to the hunting-field, and
in summer was restricted, practically, to the incidence of lawn-tennis
parties. Possibly the children of Mount Music, thus thrown upon their
own resources, developed a habit of amusing themselves that was as
advantageous to their caretakers as to their characters. It certainly
enhanced very considerably their interest in the advent of Master St.
Lawrence Coppinger. He became the subject of frequent and often heated
discussions, the opinion most generally held, and stated with a fine
simplicity, being that he would prove to be "a rotter."
"India," John said, "had the effect of making people effemeral."
"Effeminate, ass!" corrected Richard, shortly.
"Anyhow," said a Twin, charitably, "we can knock that out of him!"
"Anyhow," said Judith, next to Richard in age and authority, "if he
_is_ a rotter, he can go into the Brats' band. You want someone
decent," she added, addressing the Twin, whose remark she felt to have
savoured of presumption.
This family had, for purposes of combat and of general entertainment,
divided itself into two factions, that fought endlessly among the
woods and shrubberies. A method had been recently introduced by
Richard of utilising the harmless, necessary pocket-handkerchief as a
sling for the projection of gravel, and its instant popularity had
resulted in the denuding of the avenues of ammunition, and in arousing
a great and just fury in the bosom of the laundress. "God knows it
isn't me has all the hankershiffs holed this way!" she pointed out.
"Thim children is the divil outlawed. Thim'd gallop the woods all the
night, like the deer!"
The assortment of the family had been decided rather on the basis of
dignity, than on that of a desire to equalise the sides, and thus it
befel that Richard, Judith, and John, with the style and title of The
Elder Statesmen, were accustomed to drive before them the junior
faction of The Brats, consisting of the Twins, Christian, and the
dogs, Rinka and Tashpy, with a monotony of triumph that might have
been expected to pall, had not variety been imparted by the invention
of the punishments that were inflicted upon prisoners. There had been
a long and hot July day of notable warfare. The Twins, if small,
were swift and wily; even Christian had justified her adoption by
a stealthy and successful raid upon the opposition gravel heap. A
long and savage series of engagements had ensued, that alternated
between flights, and what Christian, blending recollections of
nursery doctoring with methods of Indian warfare, designated
"stomach-attacks." It was while engaged in one of the latter forms
of assault that Christian was captured, and, being abandoned by her
comrades, was haled by the captors before Richard, the Eldest
Statesmen. A packed Court-martial of enemies speedily found the
prisoner guilty, and the delicious determining of the punishment
absorbed the attention of the Court. John, with a poet's fancy,
suggested that the criminal should be compelled to lick a worm.
Judith, more practical, advocated her being sent to the house to
steal some jam. "I forgot to," she said.
The Court was held in the Council Chamber, a space between the birches
and hazels on the bank of the Ownashee; a fair and green room, ceiled
with tremulous leaves, encircled and made secret by high bracken, out
of which rose the tarnished-silver stems of the birch trees and the
multitudinous hazel-boughs, and furnished with boulders of limestone,
planted deep in a green fleece of mingled moss and grass. On one side
only was it open to the world, yet on that same side it was most
effectively divided from it, by the swift brown stream, speeding down
to the big river, singing its shallow summer song as it sped.
Richard, Eldest Statesman, gazed in dark reflection upon the prisoner,
meditating her sentence; the prisoner, young enough to tremble in the
suspense, old enough to enjoy the nerve-tension and the moment of
drama, gazed back at him. Her hair lay in damp rings, and hung in
rats'-tails about her forehead. Her small face, with the silver-clear
skin, stippled here and there with tiny freckles, was faintly flushed,
and moist with the effort of her last great but unavailing run for
freedom; her wide eyes were like brown pools scooped from the brown
flow of the Ownashee.
"I adjudge," said Richard, in an awful voice, "that the prisoner shall
amass three buckets of the best gravel. The same to be taken from the
shallow by the seventh stepping-stone."
The prisoner's little brown arm, with a hand thin and brown as a
monkey's, went up; the recognised protest.
"Not the seventh, most noble Samurai," she said, anxiously; "Won't it
do from the strand?"
"I have spoken," replied the Eldest Statesman, inflexibly.
"Then I won't!" exclaimed Christian; "I--I couldn't! The river giddys
me so awfully when I stand still on the stones--"
"Prisoner!" returned Richard, "once the law is uttered, it can't be
unuttered! Off you go!"
"Well then, and I _will_ go!" said Christian, with a wriggle so
fierce and sudden that it loosed the grip of her guards. It is even
possible that the ensuing lightning dart for freedom might have
succeeded, but for the unfortunate fidelity of her allies, Rinka and
Tashpy. The one sprang at her brief skirt and caught it, the other got
between her legs. She fell, and was delivered again into the hands of
the enemy.
Richard was not a bully, but Mrs. Sarah Battle was not more scrupulous
than he in observing the rigour of the game. Christian was manacled
with the belt of her own overall, and was hauled along the golden, but
despised, gravel of the river strand, to the spot whence the
stepping-stones started.
"I'll do this much for you," said the Eldest Statesman, relaxing a
little, "I'll go first and carry the bucket."
He dragged Christian on to the first of the big, flat, old
stepping-stones, Judith assisting from the rear, and, with increasing
difficulty, two more stones were achieved. Then they paused for
breath, and a sudden whirlwind of passion came upon the captive. She
began to struggle and dance upon the flat stone, madly endeavouring to
free her hands, while she shrieked to the dastard Twins to come to her
rescue.
"Cowards! Cowards! I hate you all--"
"Better let her go," whispered Judith, who knew better than her Chief
what Christian's storms meant.
Richard hesitated, and, as in a mediaeval romance, at this moment a
champion materialised.
Not the Twins, lying like leopards along the higher boughs of a
neighbouring alder, deeply enjoying the spectacle, but a boy, smaller
than Richard, who came crashing through the bushes on the Coppinger's
Court side of the Ownashee. Arrived, at the ford, he stayed neither
his pace nor his stride, and before the Eldest Statesman, much
hampered by his prisoner and the bucket, could put up any sort of
defence, the unknown rescuer had sprung across the stepping-stones,
and, catching him by the shoulders, had, by sheer force of speed and
surprise, hurled him into the river.
Thus did Larry Coppinger, informally but effectively, introduce
himself to his second-cousins, the Talbot-Lowrys.