We have no right, as little have we the inclination, to inflict our
reader with the details by which Barry Martin asserted and obtained his
own. A suit in which young Martin assumed to be the defendant developed
the whole history to the world, and proclaimed his title to the estate.
It was a memorable case in many ways; it was the last brief Val Repton
ever held. Never was his clear and searching intellect more conspicuous;
never did he display more logical acuteness, nor trace out a difficult
narrative with more easy perspicuity.
“My Lords,” said he, as he drew nigh the conclusion of his speech, “it
would have been no ordinary satisfaction to me to close a long life of
labor in these courts by an effort which restores to an ancient name the
noble heritage it had held for centuries. I should have deemed such
an occasion no unfitting close to a career not altogether void of its
successes; but the event has still stronger claims upon my gratitude. It
enables me in all the unembellished sternness of legal proof to display
to an age little credulous of much affection the force of a brother's
love,--the high-hearted devotion by which a man encountered a long life
of poverty and privation, rather than disturb the peaceful possession of
a brother.
“Romance has its own way of treating such themes; but I do not
believe romance can add one feature to the simple fact of this man's
self-denial.
“We should probably be lost in our speculations as to the noble motives
of this sacrifice, if our attention was not called away to something
infinitely finer and more exalted than even this. I mean the glorious
life and martyr's death of her who has made a part of this case less
like a legal investigation than the page of an affecting story. Story,
do I say! Shame on the word! It is in truth and reality alone are such
virtues inscribed. Fiction cannot deal with the humble materials that
make up such an existence,--the long hours of watching by sickness; the
weary care of teaching the young; the trying disappointments to hope
bravely met by fresh efforts; the cheery encouragement drawn from a
heart exhausting itself to supply others. Think of a young girl--a very
child in the world's wisdom, more than a man in heroism and daring, with
a heart made for every high ambition, and a station that might command
the highest--calmly consenting to be the friend of destitution, the
companion of misery, the daily associate of every wretchedness; devoting
grace that might have adorned a court to shed happiness in a cabin,
and making of beauty that would have shed lustre around a palace the
sunshine that pierced the gloom of a peasant's misery! Picture to
yourself the hand a prince might have knelt to kiss, holding the cup to
the lips of fever; fancy the form whose elegance would have fascinated,
crouched down beside the embers as she spoke words of consolation or
hope to some bereaved mother or some desolate orphan!
“These are not the scenes we are wont to look on here. Our cares are,
unhappily, more with the wiles and snares of crafty men than with the
sorrows and sufferings of the good! It is not often human nature wears
its best colors in this place; the spirit of litigious contest little
favors the virtues that are the best adornments of our kind. Thrice
happy am I, then, that I end my day where a glorious sunset gilds
its last hours; that I close my labors not in reprobating crime or
stigmatizing baseness, but with a full heart, thanking God that my last
words are an elegy over the grave of the best of The Martins of Cro'
Martin.'”
The inaccurate record from which we take these passages--for the only
report of the trial is in a newspaper of the time--adds that the emotion
of the speaker had so far pervaded the court that the conclusion was
drowned in mingled expressions of applause and sorrow; and when Repton
retired, he was followed by the whole bar, eagerly pressing to take
their last farewell of its honored father.
The same column of the paper mentions that Mr. Joseph Nelligan was to
have made his first motion that day as Solicitor-General, but had left
the court from a sudden indisposition, and the cause was consequently
deferred.
If Val Repton never again took his place in court, he did not entirely
abdicate his functions. Barry Martin had determined on making a
conveyance of the estate to his nephew, and the old lawyer was for
several weeks busily employed in that duty. Although Merl's claim became
extinguished when young Martin's right to the property was annulled,
Barry Martin insisted on arrangements being made to repay him all that
he had advanced,--a course which Repton, with some little hesitation, at
last concurred in. He urged Barry to reserve a life-interest to himself
in the property, representing the various duties which more properly
would fall to his lot than to that of a young and inexperienced
proprietor. But he would not hear of it.
“He cannot abide the place,” said Repton, when talking the matter over
with Massingbred. “He is one of those men who never can forgive the
locality where they have been miserable, nor the individual who has had
a share in their sorrow. When he settles his account with Henderson,
then he 'll leave the West forever.”
“And will he still leave Henderson in his charge?” asked Jack.
“That is as it may be,” said Repton, cautiously. “There is, as I
understand, some very serious reckoning between them. It is the only
subject on which Martin has kept mystery with me, and I do not like even
to advert to it.”
Massingbred pondered long over these words, without being able to make
anything of them.
It might be that Henderson's conduct had involved him in some grave
charge; and if so, Jack's own intentions with regard to the daughter
would be burdened with fresh complications. “The steward” was bad
enough; but if he turned out to be the “unjust steward”--“I 'll start
for Galway to-night,” thought he. “I 'll anticipate the discovery,
whatever it be. She can no longer refuse to see me on the pretext of
recent sorrow. It is now two months and more since this bereavement
befell her. I can no longer combat this life of anxiety and doubt.--What
can I do for you in the West, sir?” asked he of Repton, suddenly.
“Many things, my young friend,” said Repton, “if you will delay your
departure two days, since they are matters on which I must instruct you
personally.”
Massingbred gave a kind of half-consent, and the other went on to speak
of the necessity for some nice diplomacy between the uncle and his
nephew. “They know each other but little; they are on the verge of
misunderstandings a dozen times a day. Benefits are, after all, but
sorry ties between man and man. They may ratify the treaty of affection;
they rarely inscribe the contract!”
“Still Martin cannot but feel that to the noblest act of his uncle's
generosity he is indebted for all he possesses.”
“Of course he knows, and he feels it; but who is to say whether that
same consciousness is not a load too oppressive to bear. I know already
Barry Martin's suggestions as to certain changes have not been well
taken, and he is eager and pressing to leave Ireland, lest anything
should disturb the concord, frail as it is, between them.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Massingbred, passionately, “there is wonderfully
little real good in this world; wonderfully little that can stand the
test of the very basest of all motives,--mere gain.”
“Don't say so!” cried Repton. “Men have far better natures than you
think; the fault lies in their tempers. Ay, sir, we are always entering
into heavy recognizances with our passions, to do fifty things we never
cared for. We have said this, we have heard the other; somebody sneered
at that, and some one else agreed with him; and away we go, pitching all
reason behind us, like an old shoe, and only seeking to gratify a whim,
or a mere caprice, suggested by temper. Why do people maintain friendly
intercourse at a distance for years, who could not pass twenty-four
hours amicably under the same roof? Simply because it is their natures,
and not their tempers, are in exercise.”
“I scarcely can separate the two in my mind,” said Jack, doubtingly.
“Can't you, sir? Why, nature is your skin, temper only your great-coat.”
And the old lawyer laughed heartily at his own conceit. “But here comes
the postman.”
The double knock had scarcely reverberated through the spacious hall
when the servant entered with a letter.
“Ah! Barry Martin's hand. What have we here?” said Repton, as he ran his
eyes over it. “So-so; just as I was saying this minute, only that Barry
has the good sense to see it himself. 'My nephew,' he writes, 'has his
own ideas on all these subjects, which are not mine; and as it is no
part of my plan to hamper my gift with conditions that might impair its
value, I mean to leave this at once.
“'I have had my full share of calamity since I set foot in this land;
and if this rugged old nature could be crushed by mere misfortune, the
last two months might have done it. But no, Repton, the years by which
we survive friends serve equally to make us survive affections, and we
live on, untouched by time!
“'I mean to be with you this evening. Let us dine alone together, for I
have much to say to you.
“' Yours ever,
“'Barry Martin.
“'I hope I may see Massingbred before I sail. I 'd like to shake hands
with him once again. Say so to him, at all events.'”
“Come in to-morrow to breakfast,” said Repton; “by that time we'll have
finished all mere business affairs.” And Massingbred having assented,
they parted.