MR. O'MAHONY'S APOLOGY.
Time went on and Parliament met. Mr. O'Mahony went before the
Speaker's table and was sworn in. He was introduced by two brother
Landleaguers, and really did take his place with some enthusiasm. He
wanted to speak on the first day, but was judiciously kept silent by
his colleagues. He expressed an idea that, until Ireland's wrongs had
been redressed, there ought not to be a moment devoted to any other
subject, and became very violent in his expressions of this opinion.
But he was not long kept dumb. Great things were expected from
his powers of speech, and, though he had to be brought to silence
ignominiously on three or four occasions, still, at last some power
of speech was permitted to him. There were those among his own
special brethren who greatly admired him and praised him; but with
others of the same class there was a shaking of the head and many
doubts. With the House generally, I fear, laughter prevailed rather
than true admiration. Mr. O'Mahony, no doubt, could speak well in a
debating society or a music hall. Words came from his tongue sweeter
than honey. But just at the beginning of the session, the Speaker
was bound to put a limit even to Irish eloquence, and in this case
was able to do so. As Mr. O'Mahony contrived to get upon his feet
very frequently, either in asking a question or in endeavouring to
animadvert on the answer given, there was something of a tussle
between him and the authority in the chair. It did not take much
above a week to make the Speaker thoroughly tired of this new member,
and threats were used towards him of a nature which his joint
Milesian and American nature could not stand. He was told of dreadful
things which could be done to him. Though as yet he could not be
turned out of the House, for the state of the young session had not
as yet admitted of that new mode of torture, still, he could be
named. "Let him name me. My name is Mr. O'Mahony." And Mr. O'Mahony
was not a man who could be happy when he was quarrelling with all
around him. He was soon worked into a violent passion, in which he
made himself ridiculous, but when he had subsided, and the storm
was past, he knew he had misbehaved, and was unhappy. And, as he
was thoroughly honest, he could not be got to obey his leaders in
everything. He wanted to abolish the Irish landlords, but he was
desirous of abolishing them after some special plan of his own, and
could hardly be got to work efficiently in harness together with
others.
"Don't you think your father is making an ass of himself,--just a
little, you know?"
This was said by Lord Castlewell to Rachel when the session was not
yet a fortnight old, and made Rachel very unhappy. She did think that
her father was making an ass of himself, but she did not like to be
told of it. And much as she liked music herself, dear as was her own
profession to her, still she felt that, to be a Member of Parliament,
and to have achieved the power of making speeches there, was better
than to run after opera singers. She loved the man who was going to
marry her very well,--or rather, she intended to do so.
He was not to her "Love's young dream." But she intended that his
lordship should become love's old reality. She felt that this would
not become the case, if love's old reality were to tell her often
that her father was an ass. Lord Castlewell's father was, she
thought, making an ass of himself. She heard on different sides that
he was a foolish, pompous old peer, who could hardly say bo to a
goose; but it would not, she thought, become her to tell her future
husband her own opinion on that matter. She saw no reason why he
should be less reticent in his opinion as to her father. Of course he
was older, and perhaps she did not think of that as much as she ought
to have done. She ought also to have remembered that he was an earl,
and she but a singing girl, and that something was due to him for the
honour he was doing her. But of this she would take no account. She
was to be his wife, and a wife ought to be equal to the husband. Such
at least was her American view of the matter. In fact, her ideas on
the matter ran as follows: My future husband is not entitled to call
my father an ass because he is a lord, seeing that my father is a
Member of Parliament. Nor is he entitled to call him so because he is
an ass, because the same thing is true of his own father. And thus
there came to be discord in her mind.
"I suppose all Parliament people make asses of themselves sometimes,
Lords as well as Commons. I don't see how a man is to go on talking
for ever about laws and landleagues, and those sort of things without
doing so. It is all bosh to me. And so I should think it must be to
you, as you don't do it. But I do not think that father is worse than
anybody else; and I think that his words are sometimes very
beautiful."
"Why, my dear, there is not a man about London who is not laughing at
him."
"I saw in _The Times_ the other day that he is considered a very true
and a very honest man. Of course, they said that he talked nonsense
sometimes; but if you put the honesty against the nonsense, he will
be as good as anybody else."
"I don't think you understand, my dear. Honesty is not what they
want."
"Oh!"
"But what they don't want especially is nonsense."
"Poor papa! But he doesn't mean to consult them as to what they want.
His idea is that if everybody can be got to be honest this question
may be settled among them. But it must be talked about, and he, at
any rate, is eloquent. I have heard it said that there was not a more
eloquent man in New York. I think he has got as many good gifts as
anyone else."
In this way there rose some bad feeling. Lord Castlewell did think
that there was something wanting in the manner in which he was
treated by his bride. He was sure that he loved her, but he was sure
also that when a lord marries a singing girl he ought to expect some
special observance. And the fact that the singing girl's father was
a Member of Parliament was much less to him than to her. He, indeed,
would have been glad to have the father abolished altogether. But she
had become very proud of her father since he had become a Member of
Parliament. Her ideas of the British constitution were rather vague;
but she thought that a Member of Parliament was at least as good as a
lord who was not a peer. He had his wealth; but she was sure that he
was too proud to think of that.
Just at this period, when the session was beginning, Rachel began to
doubt the wisdom of what she was doing. The lord was, in truth, good
enough for her. He was nearly double her age, but she had determined
to disregard that. He was plain, but that was of no moment. He had
run after twenty different women, but she could condone all that,
because he had come at last to run after her. For his wealth she
cared nothing,--or less than nothing, because by remaining single
she could command wealth of her own;--wealth which she could control
herself, and keep at her own banker's, which she suspected would
not be the case with Lord Castlewell's money. But she had found the
necessity of someone to lean upon when Frank Jones had told her that
he would not marry her, and she had feared Mr. Moss so much that she
had begun to think that he would, in truth, frighten her into doing
some horrible thing. As Frank had deserted her, it would be better
that she should marry somebody. Lord Castlewell had come, and she had
felt that the fates were very good to her. She learned from the words
of everybody around,--from her new friends at Covent Garden, and from
her old enemies at "The Embankment," and from her father himself,
that she was the luckiest singing girl at this moment known in
Europe. "By G----, she'll get him!" such had been the exclamation
made with horror by Mr. Moss, and the echo of it had found its way to
her ears. The more Mr. Moss was annoyed, the greater ought to have
been her delight. But,--but was she in truth delighted? As she came
to think of the reality she asked herself what were the pleasures
which were promised to her. Did she not feel that a week spent with
Frank Jones in some little cottage would be worth a twelvemonth of
golden splendour in the "Marble Halls" which Lord Castlewell was
supposed to own? And why had Frank deserted her? Simply because he
would not come with her and share her money. Frank, she told herself,
was, in truth, a gallant fellow. She did love Frank. She acknowledged
so much to herself again and again. And yet she was about to marry
Lord Castlewell, simply because her doing so would be the severest
possible blow to her old enemy, Mr. Moss.
Then she asked herself what would be best for her. She had made for
herself a great reputation, and she did not scruple to tell herself
that this had come from her singing. She thought very much of her
singing, but very little of her beauty. A sort of prettiness did
belong to her; a tiny prettiness which had sufficed to catch Frank
Jones. She had laughed about her prettiness and her littleness a
score of times with Ada and Edith, and also with Frank himself. There
had been the three girls who had called themselves "Beauty and the
Beast" and the "Small young woman." The reader will understand that
it had not been Ada who had chosen those names; but then Ada was not
given to be witty. Her prettiness, such as it was, had sufficed, and
Frank had loved her dearly. Then had come her great triumph, and she
knew not only that she could sing, but that the world had recognised
her singing. "I am a great woman, as women go," she had said to
herself. But her singing was to come to an end for ever and ever on
the 1st of May next. She would be the Countess of Castlewell, and in
process of time would be the Marchioness of Beaulieu. But she never
again would be a great woman. She was selling all that for the marble
halls.
Was she wise in what she was doing? She had lain awake one long
morning striving to answer the question for herself. "If nobody else
should come, of course I should be an ugly old maid," she said to
herself; "but then Frank might perhaps come again,--Frank might come
again,--if Mr. Moss did not intervene in the meantime." But at last
she acknowledged to herself that she had given the lord a promise.
She would keep her promise, but she could not bring herself to exult
at the prospect. She must take care, however, that the lord should
not triumph over her. The lord had called her father an ass. She
certainly would say a rough word or two if he abused her father
again.
This was the time of the "suspects." Mr. O'Mahony had already taken
an opportunity of expressing an opinion in the House of Commons that
every honest man, every patriotic man, every generous man, every
man in fact who was worth his salt, was in Ireland locked up as a
"suspect," and in saying so managed to utter very bitter words indeed
respecting him who had the locking up of these gentlemen. Poor Mr.
O'Mahony had no idea that he might have used with propriety as to
this gentleman all the epithets of which he believed the "suspects"
to be worthy; but instead of doing so he called him a "disreputable
jailer." It is not pleasant to be called a disreputable jailer in the
presence of all the best of one's fellow citizens, but the man so
called in this instance only smiled. Mr. O'Mahony had certainly made
himself ridiculous, and the whole House were loud in their clamours
at the words used. But that did not suffice. The Speaker reprimanded
Mr. O'Mahony and desired him to recall the language and apologise
for it. Then there arose a loud debate, during which the member of
the Government who had been assailed declared that Mr. O'Mahony had
not as yet been quite long enough in the House to learn the little
details of Parliamentary language; Mr. O'Mahony would no doubt soften
down his eloquence in course of time. But the Speaker would not be
content with this, and was about to order the sinner to be carried
away by the Sergeant-at-Arms, when a friend on his right and a friend
on his left, and a friend behind him, all whispered into his ear
how easy it is to apologise in the House of Commons. "You needn't
say he isn't a disreputable jailer, but only call him a distasteful
warder;--anything will do." This came from the gentleman at Mr.
O'Mahony's back, and the order for his immediate expulsion was
ringing in his ears. He had been told that he was ridiculous, and
could feel that it would be absurd to be carried somewhere into the
dungeons. And the man whom he certainly detested at the present
moment worse than any other scoundrel on the earth, had made a
good-natured apology on his behalf. If he were carried away now, he
could never come back again without a more serious apology. Then,
farewell to all power of attacking the jailer. He did as the man
whispered into his ear, and begged to substitute "distasteful warder"
for the words which had wounded so cruelly the feelings of the right
honourable gentleman. Then he looked round the House, showing that
he thought that he had misbehaved himself. After that, during Mr.
O'Mahony's career as a Member of Parliament, which lasted only for
the session, he lost his self-respect altogether. He had been driven
to withdraw the true wrath of his eloquence from him "at whose brow,"
as he told Rachel the next morning, "he had hurled his words with a
force that had been found to be intolerable."
Mr. O'Mahony had undoubtedly made himself an ass again on this
second, third, and perhaps tenth occasion. This was not the ass
he had made himself on the occasion to which Lord Castlewell had
referred. But yet he was a thoroughly honest, patriotic man, desirous
only of the good of his country, and wishing for nothing for himself.
Is it not possible that as much may be said for others, who from
day to day so violently excite our spleen, as to make us feel that
special Irishmen selected for special constituencies are not worthy
to be ranked with men? You shall take the whole House of Commons,
indifferent as to the side on which they sit,--some six hundred and
thirty out of the number,--and will find in conversation that the
nature of the animal, the absurdity, the selfishness, the absence
of all good qualifies, are taken for granted as matters admitting
of no dispute. But here was Mr. O'Mahony, as hot a Home-Ruler and
Landleaguer as any of them, who was undoubtedly a gentleman,--though
an American gentleman. Can it be possible that we are wrong in our
opinions respecting the others of the set?
Rachel heard it all the next day, and, living as she did among
Italians and French, and theatrical Americans, and English swells,
could not endeavour to make the apology which I have just made for
the Irish Brigade generally. She knew that her father had made an ass
of himself. All the asinine proportions of the affair had been so
explained to her as to leave no doubt on her mind as to the matter.
But the more she was sure of it, the more resolved she became that
Lord Castlewell should not call her father an ass. She might do
so,--and undoubtedly would after her own fashion,--but no such
privilege should be allowed to him.
"Oh! father, father," she said to him the next morning, "don't you
think you've made a goose of yourself?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then, don't do it any more."
"Yes, I shall. It isn't so very easy for a man not to make a goose of
himself in that place. You've got to sit by and do nothing for a year
or two. It is very difficult. A man cannot afford to waste his time
in that manner. There is all Ireland to be regenerated, and I have to
learn the exact words which the prudery of the House of Commons will
admit. Of course I have made a goose of myself; but the question is
whether I did not make a knave of myself in apologising for language
which was undoubtedly true. Only think that a man so brutal, so
entirely without feelings, without generosity, without any touch
of sentiment, should be empowered by the Queen of England to lock
up, not only every Irishman, but every American also, and to keep
them there just as long as he pleases! And he revels in it. I do
believe that he never eats a good breakfast unless half-a-dozen new
'suspects' are reported by the early police in the morning; and I
am not to call such a man a 'disreputable jailer.' I may call him a
'distasteful warder.' It's a disgrace to a man to sit in such a House
and in such company. Of course I was a goose, but I was only a goose
according to the practices of that special duck-pond." Mr. O'Mahony,
as he said this, walked about angrily, with his hands in his
breeches' pockets, and told himself that no honest man could draw the
breath of life comfortably except in New York.
"I don't know much about it, father," said Rachel, "but I think you'd
better cut and run. Your twenty men will never do any good here.
Everybody hates them who has got any money, and their only friends
are just men as Mr. Pat Carroll, of Ballintubber."
Then, later in the day, Lord Castlewell called to drive his bride
in the Park. He had so far overcome family objections as to have
induced his sister, Lady Augusta Montmorency, to accompany him. Lady
Augusta had been already introduced to Rachel, but had not been
much prepossessed. Lady Augusta was very proud of her family, was a
religious woman, and was anything but contented with her brother's
manner of life. But it was no doubt better that he should marry
Rachel than not be married at all; and therefore Lady Augusta had
allowed herself to be brought to accompany the singing girl upon this
occasion. She was, in truth, an uncommonly good young woman; not
beautiful, not clever, but most truly anxious for the welfare of her
brother. It had been represented to her that her brother was over
head and ears in love with the young lady, and looking at the matter
all round, she had thought it best to move a little from her dignity
so as to take her sister-in-law coldly by the hand. It need hardly
be said that Rachel did not like being taken coldly by the hand, and,
with her general hot mode of expression, would have declared that she
hated Augusta Montmorency. Now, the two entered the room together,
and Rachel kissed Lady Augusta, while she gave only her hand to Lord
Castlewell. But there was something in her manner on such occasions
which was intended to show affection,--and did show it very plainly.
In old days she could decline to kiss Frank in a manner that would
set Frank all on fire. It was as much as to say--of course you've a
right to it, but on this occasion I don't mean to give it to you. But
Lord Castlewell was not imaginative, and did not think of all this.
Rachel had intended him to think of it.
"Oh, my goodness!" began the lord, "what a mess your father did make
of it last night." And he frowned as he spoke.
Rachel, as an intended bride--about to be a bride in two or three
months--did not like to be frowned at by the man who was to marry
her. "That's as people may think, my lord," she said.
"You don't mean to say that you don't think he did make a mess of
it?"
"Of course he abused that horrid man. Everybody is abusing him."
"As for that, I'm not going to defend the man." For Lord Castlewell,
though by no means a strong politician, was a Tory, and unfortunately
found himself agreeing with Rachel in abusing the members of the
Government.
"Then why do you say that father made a mess of it?"
"Everybody is talking about it. He has made himself ridiculous before
the whole town."
"What! Lord Castlewell," exclaimed Rachel.
"I do believe your father is the best fellow going; but he ought not
to touch politics. He made a great mistake in getting into the House.
It is a source of misery to everyone connected with him."
"Or about to be connected with him," said Lady Augusta, who had not
been appeased by the flavour of Rachel's kiss.
"There's time enough to think about it yet," said Rachel.
"No, there's not," said Lord Castlewell, who intended to express in
rather a gallant manner his intention of going on with the marriage.
"But I can assure you there is," said Rachel, "ample time. There
shall be no time for going on with it, if my father is to be abused.
As it happens, you don't agree with my father in politics. I, as a
woman, should have to call myself as belonging to your party, if we
be ever married. I do not know what that party is, and care very
little, as I am not a politician myself. And I suppose if we were
married, you would take upon yourself to abuse my father for his
politics, as he might abuse you. But while he is my father, and you
are not my husband, I will not bear it. No, thank you, Lady Augusta,
I will not drive out to-day. 'Them's my sentiments,' as people say;
and perhaps your brother had better think them over while there's
time enough." So saying, she did pertinaciously refuse to be driven
by the noble lord on that occasion.