THE KINGLY O’MELAGHLINS
At this moment Cleve Stuart so quietly entered the room that Palma was
not aware of his entrance until he stood before her.
“Mr. O’Melaghlin—Mr. Stuart,” she said, presenting the gentlemen to each
other.
The visitor arose and both bowed.
“I bring a letter of introduction for you, sir, from the Messrs.
Walling, of New York,” said The O’Melaghlin, drawing from his breast a
neat, open envelope and handing it to Mr. Stuart.
Cleve took it with a bow.
On the envelope, besides the superscription—“To Cleve Stuart, Esq.,
Wolfscliff, W. V.,”—there was written between brackets, in the corner:
“To introduce The O’Melaghlin, Carrick Arghalee, Antrim.”
Now, the use of the definite article as the prefix of a man’s surname
had been a puzzle to Palma, and even a surprise to Cleve, though he
remembered that in the north of Ireland, as well as in Scotland, it was
affected by certain heads of families among the landed gentry of ancient
lineage, and considered to outrank either plain “Mr.” or “Squire.”
O’Melaghlin, therefore, must be recognized as The O’Melaghlin.
“With your permission,” said Stuart, with a bow, as he opened the
letter, which was as follows—and rather more than sarcastic in its
peculiar style, as Cleve thought when he read it, though he hoped and
believed that the bearer of the letter had not—if he had read the
words—perceived the sarcasm:
“OFFICE OF WALLING & WALLING, Att’ys, Etc.
“New York, May 8, 187—.
“CLEVE STUART, ESQ., Wolfscliff, W. V.: I have the great honor to
present—you—to The O’Melaghlin, of Carrick Arghalee, Antrim, Ireland.
“The O’Melaghlin is of the most ancient Irish, royal lineage, being
directly descended from the O’Melaghlins, monarchs of Meath, whose
kingdom was ravaged by Henry the Second, A. D. 1173, and given to one
of his thievish followers, a disreputable carpet-bagger, called Hugh
de Lacy.
“The O’Melaghlin hails now from Antrim because his ancestor,
Patricious O’Melaghlin, in the reign of Edward the First, 1285,
married Mona, sole child and heiress of Fergus of Arghalee, and
subsequently became lord of Carrick Arghalee, in right of his wife.
From this illustrious pair, representing a royal and a noble family
united, The O’Melaghlin is directly descended.
“It would be highly impertinent in so humble an individual as myself
to write of this gentleman’s merits and accomplishments. Should he
honor you with his acquaintance, you will discover them for yourself.
You will also hear from him in what manner you can have the
distinction of serving him.
“With compliments and congratulations to yourself and Mrs. Stuart on
the present proud occasion, I remain, your faithful servant,
WILLIAM WALLING.”
“Will Walling is a scamp, and merits a kicking for his impudence,” was
Stuart’s half-earnest, half-jesting mental criticism on this letter and
its writer. He thought he knew the reason for Will Walling’s sneers; he
thought it was more than likely that The O’Melaghlin had repelled the
genial Will and “kept him at a distance.” He folded the letter, put it
in his pocket, and once more offered his hand to the visitor, saying:
“I am very happy to see you here, sir, and shall be very much pleased if
I can serve you.”
“I thank you, Wolfscliff!” exclaimed The O’Melaghlin, giving his host
his territorial title as if they had been in Antrim. “I thank you, sir.
You have given me the hand of a friend, and although you may not at this
moment recall the fact, you have given me the hand of a kinsman! Yes,
sir, I am proud to say of a kinsman!” and he gave that hand a grip that
crippled it for a week.
“A kinsman, O’Melaghlin!” exclaimed Cleve—he would have given great
offense if he had addressed his guest as Mr. O’Melaghlin—“I am very much
flattered, but I do not understand!”
“Ah, then, Wolfscliff, is not your family name Stuart?”
“Certainly.”
“And have you not a lawful right to that name?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And do you not spell it S-t-u-a-r-t?”
“I do.”
“Then you are my kinsman on the distaff side! Yes, there is but one root
of the tree of Stuart, and that is the old royal root that grew fast in
Scottish ground, and every one who lawfully bears the name of Stuart is
a leaf of that same tree.”
“Granted,” said Cleve, with perhaps a faint leaven of sinful pride,
“granted that my ancestor seven generations back was Charles Stuart,
called the Young Pretender, how should that make us kinsmen?”
“I am afraid, young Wolfscliff, that you do not keep yourself well
posted up in your family genealogy,” said The O’Melaghlin.
“Indeed I do not,” replied Stuart, with a laugh. “I fear I know little
or nothing with certainty of my family on either side the house previous
to their emigration to America. Why, O’Melaghlin, do you know if I could
become a candidate for the highest office in this country, and knew who
was my grandfather, it would be a grave objection to me in the minds of
this democratic and republican people—unless, indeed, I could prove that
he was a tramp, a gypsy, or, at the very best, a day laborer!”
The O’Melaghlin stroked his long, rusty red beard and slowly shook his
head.
“The human race is going to ruin,” he said.
“But will you kindly explain how it is that we are of kin, sir?” said
Palma hesitatingly.
“Surely, my dear young lady—surely. The facts are these: From
prehistoric ages, in the dark before the dawn of time or of its record,
to which the memory of mankind goeth not back. The O’Melaghlins were
monarchs of Munster.”
“And lived in caves, and dressed in skins, and when a young king wanted
a wife he walked into the next kingdom with his club on his shoulders,
knocked down the first young girl he saw and brought her away on his
back. Was it not so?” archly suggested Palma.
“Faith! I think you are right, ma’am. Since the O’Melaghlins go back to
the darkest of days, they must have had the manners of the same,” said
the chieftain, good-humoredly.
“Well, please go on. I will try not to interrupt you again.”
“The O’Melaghlins were monarchs of Meath for unnumbered generations
before the Christian era, and for eleven centuries and a half after.
Somewhere about the year 1160 Henry the Second—bad luck to the
beast!—made the conquest of Ireland, ravaged the kingdom of Meath, and
gave the land to a thieving carpet-bagger of his own, Hugh de Lacy by
name. Ah! but The O’Melaghlins, turned out of their own, made short work
of the usurper and murdered him in his stolen castle of Thrim. It was of
no avail. His successors came after him, backed up by the power of the
Saxon. The O’Melaghlins were scattered far and wide.”
“One of the tragedies of history,” said Stuart.
“True for you, O’Wolfscliff! The next memorable apoch in the history of
that r’yal family fell in the reign of Edward the First, in the year
1270, more than a century after the conquest of Meath. Then the young
head of the family—The O’Melaghlin of that apoch—married the Lady Mona,
sole child and heiress of Fergus of Arghalee, surnamed the Tiger, and in
due time, in right of his wife, succeeded to the chieftainship and
became The O’Melaghlin of Carrick Arghalee! That, sir and madam, was the
first step taken toward a union with the r’yal house of Scotland, from
which you, sir, descinded.”
(The chieftain, when interested or excited, sometimes slipped into
dialect.)
“Indeed!” exclaimed Stuart, rather mystified, for he did not as yet see
the road to the royal alliance.
“Now then,” continued The O’Melaghlin, “that marriage was the first
step, as I said. Nearly two centuries passed before the second step was
taken. But then, centuries don’t count for much with old historic
families whose origin is only lost in the ancient, prehistoric ages. It
was in the year 1380, in the reign of Robert the Second, King of
Scotland, that Randolph of Arghalee married the Lady Grauch, daughter of
the Earl of Fife, who was the second son of the reigning monarch. D’ye
moind, that’s where the r’yal blood comes in, and our kinship, more
betoken! So shake hands upon it, Wolfscliff.”
Stuart good-humoredly put out his hand, already half crippled by
O’Melaghlin’s first clasp, and received a second crushing grip.
“And now will you kindly inform me how I can be of service to you?”
inquired the host.
“Thank you, sir, certainly. I wish to find my children, Michael and
Judith. I was told by Mr. Walling that you would be able to give me
their exact address, which he said was in London somewhere, but he could
not tell where.”
While The O’Melaghlin spoke Stuart stared and Palma laughed. She felt a
child’s delight at his astonishment in discovering that The O’Melaghlin
was the father of Michael Man and Judith Hay.
“Oh!” said the visitor, “you are surprised, sure, to hear me say this,
but they are my children, for all that I have never set eyes on them in
my life. It was not my fault, but the fate made by circumstances, that
kept us apart. It is a painful story, sir, that I may tell you later at
your convenience. Now I wish to ask you where, in all the great
wilderness of London, I may find my children.”
“Nowhere in London. They are not there. They have changed their plans,
and will remain for some time to come at Haymore Hall.”
“Surely I thought they were going to London for private tuition.”
“They can obtain that better, perhaps, at Haymore.”
“Ay?”
“Perhaps, O’Melaghlin, you would like to see your daughter’s last letter
to my wife,” kindly suggested Stuart.
“Ay, that I would, if Mrs. Stuart has no objections, and it is very kind
of you to offer to show it to me, and I thank you, Wolfscliff,” heartily
responded the visitor.
And before he had finished speaking Palma had darted away in search of
her letter box. She soon returned with it, sat down, placed it on her
lap, opened it and took out a bundle of letters, from which she selected
one to hand it to the visitor.
He quickly snatched it, and with an almost greedy look, so eager was the
father to read the words of his unknown daughter.
He “devoured” the contents of that letter, though none of its words
could speak of him, who was equally unknown to his daughter, and
although they only told of household and neighborhood news, and of their
changed plans in regard to the scene of their studies and the person of
their tutor.
When he had dwelt on the letter as long as possible he returned it to
its owner with manifest reluctance and cast covetous glances at the pile
of letters from which it had been drawn.
“Would you like to read all your daughter’s letters? You can, of course,
if you wish it, sir,” said Palma kindly.
“Oh, madam, if you would be so good as to let me do so,” gratefully
replied the father.
“Here they are, then, about twenty of them in all, and they are long
letters. Take them and read them at your leisure. Now there is the
dinner bell. You will join us, I hope.”
“Thank you, my dear madam; but I am just off a long journey, and hardly
presentable in a sitting-room, much less at a dinner table,” said The
O’Melaghlin, glancing down at his dusty garments.
“Oh, never mind. We are plain country people,” said Palma, with a smile;
for having lived in a crowded city all her life, with the exception of
one short season at “Lull’s,” she took pride in thinking of herself as a
country woman.
“If you would like to go to a room to brush off a little, I should be
pleased to show you the way,” said Stuart.
“Thank you, Wolfscliff, I think I would if it will not delay your dinner
or spoil your soup. Now speak frankly. There should be candor among
kinsmen.”
“It will spoil nothing,” put in Palma, knowing that Cleve could not
answer that question, “so, Mr. Stuart, please show The O’Melaghlin to
the oak room.”
Cleve turned with a bow to his guest and led the way out.
Palma rang the bell and gave orders that the soup should be kept back
for fifteen minutes.
In due time The O’Melaghlin reappeared in the drawing-room, and the
small party went in to dinner.
In the course of that meal Stuart said to Palma:
“My dear, The O’Melaghlin has kindly promised to remain with us a few
days, and has sent back his chaise to the Wolfshead to fetch his
baggage.”
“I am very much pleased to hear this,” said Palma, turning with a bright
smile to the visitor.
“Thank you, madam! You may wonder, perhaps, why I should have chosen to
travel all the way down from New York to West Virginia to get from you
the London address of my children, when I might have written to you and
got it by return mail.”
“No; indeed, I never once thought of it in that manner.”
“Well, I may as well tell you how it was. When I learned from Mr.
Walling that my children were in London, I determined to go there as
soon as possible. And knowing what a rush there is across the big pond
at this season of the year, I went to get my passage secured in the
first available steamer. But, bless you! though I went to every office
of ocean steamers in New York, and wrote to every one in Boston, I could
get no sort of a passage in any one for the next six weeks. The first
one I could engage was for the first of July, in the steamer _Leviathan_
for Southampton.”
“Why! Are you going by the _Leviathan_? We are going by that ship!”
impulsively exclaimed Palma.
“You are!” cried The O’Melaghlin, appealing to Stuart.
“Indeed we are!” responded the latter.
“Delight upon delight! That is almost too good to be true! Well, I am
overjoyed to hear this! Now to resume my explanation why I came to you
instead of writing: Finding that I had three weeks upon my hands I said
to myself: ‘I will not write to get meager news. I will go down to West
Virginia and see these near connections of my unknown children, and I
will talk with them and get from them every detail of my son’s and
daughter’s lives and characters.’ And so here I am.”
“And now that you are here, O’Melaghlin, we hope that you will stay with
us until the day comes when we must all leave Wolfscliff for New York to
embark on our voyage,” said Stuart.
The visitor turned and looked inquiringly on the lady’s face.
“Oh, yes, do, Mr. O’Melaghlin. We should be so happy to have you!” she
exclaimed, in response to that mute appeal.
“You do me much honor, sir and madam. And to be frank with you, there is
nothing on my part to prevent my acceptance and enjoyment of your
kindness and hospitality,” replied The O’Melaghlin in modest words, but
with a pompous manner.
Palma then withdrew and left the two men over their claret, and went to
put her babies to bed. When this sweet duty was done she returned to the
drawing-room, where she was soon joined by Stuart and O’Melaghlin.
And there, later in the evening, the latter told his story. It was the
common story of a race of men and a fine estate falling into decadence
from generation to generation. This The O’Melaghlin, in telling the
tale, attributed to the misfortunes of the family, and the persecutions
of the Saxon. But to those who could read between the lines, even of his
version, it was self-evident that the downfall of the house was due to
the vice and folly of its representatives.
Few men in the position of The O’Melaghlin would tell such a story with
perfect frankness. Certainly he did not so tell his. And therefore it
seems necessary, in the interests of truth, that it should be told by
me.
With the exception of those absurd traditions of the prehistoric period
of which no one can know anything, the proud family record of The
O’Melaghlins, previous to their degradation, was in the main true, as
every student of Irish history knows. But for a century past The
O’Melaghlins of Arghalee had been fast livers, hard drinkers and
reckless sinners. In every generation, every succeeding heir had come
into his patrimony poorer in purse, prouder in spirit, and weaker in
will to resist evil than any of his predecessors.
At length, about twenty-five years before the period of which I write,
young Michael O’Melaghlin, at the age of twenty-one, came into the
remnant of the grand old estate, consisting then of the half-ruined
castle of Arghalee and a few acres of sterile land immediately around
it.
He was the last of his family, and would have been alone in the world
but that he loved and was beloved by a good and beautiful girl, well
born, like himself; an orphan, like himself; poor, like himself, and
even poorer, since she had not so much as a ruinous house and an acre of
ground.
Moira MacDuinheld lived with distant relatives in the neighborhood of
Arghalee.
They were not kind to her; they grudged her the cost of her maintenance;
and when young Michael O’Melaghlin came courting her, they encouraged
his suit that they might get rid of their burden; and they let him marry
her, although they knew they were delivering her to poverty and
privation, if to nothing worse.
Michael then married Moira with the full consent of her kindred, and
took her home to his dilapidated, rat-infested, raven-haunted,
storm-beaten old donjon keep, which was all that was left of the castle
of Arghalee.
But soon the young pair began to suffer the bitterest pangs of poverty.
We cannot go into detail here. Let it be sufficient to say that often
they had not enough to eat, even of the plainest food. But, although
“poverty had come in at the door, love did not fly out of the window,”
for they loved each other more faithfully, because more pitifully, for
all their privations and sufferings. And here comes in the insanity of
pride. Both Michael and Moira were strong, healthy, able-bodied young
people, and could each have obtained work in the neighborhood; Michael
as a farm laborer, if nothing more—and he could have done little more,
for he had but very little education, and Moira might have become a
laundress—a trade easily acquired. But for an O’Melaghlin—a descendant
of the ancient monarchs of Meath—to work! No! In the narrow, one-idea
mind of the impoverished chieftain it was more noble to starve and to
see his young wife starve, or to accept alms, and deem the bestower to
be highly honored in being permitted to minister to the needs of The
O’Melaghlin.
But hunger is a mighty factor in the affairs of life. It is said to have
civilized the world. At least it exercised a very powerful influence
upon these two healthy young people, who were almost always hungry,
seldom having enough of oatmeal or potatoes on any day to satisfy their
robust appetites. And when they had suffered this hunger for several
months, and saw nothing but hunger in all the future, The O’Melaghlin
suddenly resolved to sell all the remainder of his land, except one acre
upon which his ruined tower stood—the oldest, as it was also the only
part of the great castle now in existence—and with the money he might
get for them go with his young wife to the gold fields of California.
There, in the far-off foreign land, where he would not be known, he
would seek for the gold that should restore the fortunes of his family.
Upon whomsoever the gold fever fastens it fills with a furore.
Gold was The O’Melaghlin’s thought by day and his dream by night. Gold
seeking, he persuaded himself, was not work—or at least it was not work
for hire; and, besides, he would be a stranger in a strange land; and no
one at home here in Antrim should ever be able to say that The
O’Melaghlin had ever soiled his hands or blotted his ‘scutcheon with
labor!
He sold four acres of his land for little more than enough money to take
himself and his wife, by way of Glasgow, to San Francisco. He was
offered nearly twice as much money if he would sell the remaining acre
with the ancient tower upon it.
But at the proposal The O’Melaghlin grew furious and insolent.
What! Sell the very donjon keep, the last stronghold of The O’Melaghlins
of Arghalee? Many a time had the Saxons besieged the castle, and
sometimes they had taken the outworks, but never the donjon keep. And
now he would see their island scuttled in the midst and sunk between its
four seas, like the rotten old craft that it was, before he would sell
his tower and the last acre of ground on which it stood.
Though why this jeremiad should have been uttered against “the Saxon,”
when it was an Irishman and a near relative who wanted to buy his old
owl roost, no one but The O’Melaghlin himself could have explained.
His dream was to realize a fabulous fortune from the gold fields and
come back and restore the tower, rebuild the castle and repurchase all
the land sold by his forefathers for generations past. To do all this
would require a vast fortune; but would he not make that fortune?
Heaven and earth! Did not many a common bit of human clay without family
or name of the least value make a large fortune in the gold fields?
When, then, The O’Melaghlin stooped to seek the ore, would not the earth
open wide her bosom of uncounted treasures and lavish gold upon him?
The O’Melaghlin never doubted for an instant that she would.
So in due time The O’Melaghlin and his wife sailed from Glasgow, bound
for San Francisco.
They went in the first cabin of the _Golden Glory_. Do you think The
O’Melaghlin would take second place in any circumstances? No, he would
die first!
When they reached San Francisco he took a room for himself and wife at
one of the very best hotels, which was also, of course, one of the most
expensive in the city.
He gave his name to the office clerk as:
“The O’Melaghlin,” which that hurried and distracted individual
incontinently put down as:
T. O. Mannikin.