This true history contains no record of the evening Mr. Scanlan passed
at the Osprey's Nest; nor is it probable that in any diary kept by that
intelligent individual there will yet be found materials to supply this
historical void. Whether, therefore, high events and their consequences
were discussed, or that the meeting was only devoted to themes of
lighter importance, is likely to remain a secret to all time. That
matters beneath the range of politics occupied the consideration of the
parties was, however, evident from the following few lines of a note
received by young Nelligan the next morning:--
“Dear Joe,--I dined yesterday at the 'Nest,' and we talked
much of you. What would you think of paying a visit there
this morning to see the picture, or anything else you can
think of? I 've a notion it would be well taken. At all
events, come over and speak to me here.
“Ever yours,
“M. SCANLAN.”
“I scarcely understand your note, Maurice,” said young Nelligan, as he
entered the little room where the other sat at breakfast.
“Have you breakfasted?” said Scanlan.
“Yes, an hour ago.”
“Will you taste that salmon? Well, then, just try Poll Hanigan's attempt
at a grouse-pie; let me tell you, there is genius in the very ambition;
she got the receipt from the cook at Cro' Martin, and the imitation is
highly creditable. You 're wrong to decline it.” And he helped himself
amply as he spoke.
“But this note?” broke in the other, half impatiently.
“Oh--ay--the note; I 'm sure I forget what I wrote; what was it about?
Yes, to be sure, I remember now. I want you to make yourself known, up
there. It is downright folly, if not worse, to be keeping up these feuds
and differences in Ireland any longer; such a course might suit the
small politicians of Oughterard, but you and I know better, and Martin
himself knows better.”
“But I never took any part in the conflict you speak of; I lived out of
it,--away from it.”
“And are therefore, exactly suited to repair a breach to which you
never contributed. I assure you, my boy, the gentry--and I know them
well--will meet you more than half-way. There is not a prouder fellow
living than Martin there; he has throughout his whole life held his head
higher than any man in our county, and yet he is quite ready to
make advances towards you. Of course, what I say is strictly between
ourselves; but my opinion is, that, if you like it, you may be as
intimate up there as ever you were at old Hayes's, at the Priory.”
“Then, what would you have me do?” asked Nelligan.
“Just pay a visit there this morning; say that you are curious to see
that great picture,--and it is a wonderful thing, if only for the size
of it; or that you 'd like to have a look at Arran Island out of the big
telescope at the top of the house; anything will serve as a reason, and
then,--why, leave the rest to chance.”
“But really, Maurice, I see no sufficient cause for all this,” said the
youth, timidly.
“Look now, Joe,” said the other, drawing his chair closer to him, and
talking in the low and measured tone of a confidence,--“look now, you're
not going to pass your life as the successor to that excellent man, Dan
Nelligan, of Oughterard, selling hides and ropes and ten-penny-nails,
and making an estate the way old ladies make a patchwork quilt. You'll
be able to start in life with plenty of tin and plenty of talent; you'll
have every advantage that money and education can give, and only one
drawback on your road to success,--the mere want of blood,--that dash of
birth which forms the only real freemasonry in this world. Now mind me,
Joe; the next best thing to having this oneself is to live and associate
with those who have; for in time, what with catching up their prejudices
and learning their ways, you come to feel very much as they do; and,
what is better still, they begin to regard you as one of themselves.”
“But if I do not ambition this,--if I even reject it?” said the other,
impatiently.
“Then all I say is that Trinity College may make wonderful scholars, but
turns out mighty weak men of the world!”
“Perhaps so!” said Nelligan, dryly, and with a half-nettled air.
“I suppose you fancy there would be something like slavery in such a
position?” said Scanlan, with a derisive look.
“I know it!” responded the other, firmly.
“Then what do you say to the alternative,--and there is but one only
open to you,--what do you think of spending your life as a follower of
Daniel O'Connell; of being reminded every day and every hour that you
have not a privilege nor a place that he did n't win for you; that he
opened Parliament to you, and made you free of every guild where men
of ability rise to honor? Ay, Joe! and what 's a thousand times
worse,--knowing it all to be true, my boy! Take service with him once,
and if you leave him you 're a renegade; remember that, and bethink you
that there's no saying what crotchet he may have in store for future
agitation.”
“But I never purposed any such part for myself,” broke in Nelligan.
“Never mind, it will fall to your lot for all that, if you don't quickly
decide against it. What's Simmy Crow staring at? Look at him down there,
he's counting every window in the street like a tax-gatherer.” And
he pointed to the artist, who, shading his eyes with one hand, stood
peering at every house along the little street. “What's the matter,
Simmy?” cried he, opening the casement.
“It's a house I'm looking for, down here, and I forget which it is;
bother them, they 're all so like at this time of the year when they 're
empty.”
“Are you in search of a lodging, Simmy?”
“No, it is n't that!” said the other, curtly, and still intent on his
pursuit. “Bad luck to the architect that would n't vary what they call
the 'façade,' and give one some chance of finding the place again.”
“Who is it you want, man?”
“Faix, and I don't even know that same!” replied the artist; “but”--and
he lowered his voice to a whisper as he spoke--“he's an elegant study,--
as fine a head and face and as beautiful a beard as ever you saw. I met
him at Kyle's Wood a week ago, begging; and what with his fine forehead
and deep-set blue eyes, his long white hair, and his great shaggy
eyebrows, I said to myself: 'Belisarius,' says I, 'by all that's
grand,--a Moses, a Marino Faliero, or a monk in a back parlor
discoursing to an old skull and a vellum folio,--any one of these,' says
I, 'not to speak of misers, money-lenders, or magicians, as well;' and
so I coaxed him down here on Saturday last, and put him somewhere to
sleep, with a good supper and a pint of spirits, and may I never, if I
know where I left him.”
“Three days ago?”
“Just so; and worse than all, I shut up the place quite dark, and only
made a hole in the roof, just to let a fine Rembrandt light fall down on
his head. Oh, then, it's no laughing matter, Maurice! Sure if anything
happened to him--”
“Your life wouldn't be worth sixpence before any jury in the county.”
“Begad! it's what I was thinking; if they wouldn't take it as a
practical joke.”
“You're looking for ould Brennan!” cried a weather-beaten hag; “but he's
gone to Oughterard for a summons. You'll pay dear for your tricks this
time, anyhow.”
“Come up here, Simmy, and never mind her,” said Scanlan; then, turning
to Nelligan, he added, “There's not such a character in the county!
“I want my friend, Mr. Nelligan, here--Mr. Nelligan--Mr. Crow--I want
him, I say, to come up and have a look at the great 'Historical '--eh,
Simmy!--would n't it astonish him?”
“Are you a votary of art, sir?” asked Crow, modestly.
“I 've never seen what could be called a picture, except those portraits
in the College Examination Hall might be deemed such.”
“Indeed, and they're not worthy the name, sir. Flood, mayhap, is like,
but he's hard and stiff, and out of drawing; and Lord Clare is worse.
It's in the Low Countries you 'd see portraits, real portraits! men that
look down on you out of the canvas, as if _you_ were the intruder there,
and that _they_ were waiting to know what brought you. A sturdy old
Burgomaster, for instance, with a red-brown beard and a fierce pair
of eyes, standing up firm as a rock on a pair of legs that made many a
drawbridge tremble as he walked home to dinner on the Grand Canal, at
Rotterdam, after finishing some mighty bargain for half a spice island,
or paying a million of guilders down as a dowry for that flaxen-haired,
buxom damsel in the next frame. Look at the dimples in her neck, and
mark the folds in her satin. Is n't she comely, and calm, and haughty,
and house-wifery, all together? Mind her foot, it isn't small, but see
the shape of it, and the way it presses the ground--ay, just so--my
service to you; but you are one there 's no joking with, even if one was
alone with you.” And he doffed his hat, and bowed obsequiously as he
spoke.
“You're an enthusiast for your art?” said Nelligan, interested by the
unmistakable sincerity of his zeal.
“I am, sir,” was the brief reply.
“And the painter's is certainly a glorious career.”
“If for nothing else,” burst in Crow, eagerly, “that it can make of one
like me--poor, ignorant, and feeble, as I am--a fellow-soldier in
the same army with Van Dyke and Titian and Velasquez--to know that in
something that they thought, or hoped, or dared, or tried to do, I too
have my share! You think me presumptuous to say this; you are sneering
at such a creature as Simmy Crow for the impudence of such a boast, but
it's in humility I say it, ay, in downright abject humility; for I 'd
rather have swept out Rembrandt's room, and settled his rough boards on
Cuyp's easel, than I 'd be a--a--battle-axe guard, or a lord-in-waiting,
or anything else you like, that's great and grand at court.”
“I envy you a pursuit whose reward is in the practice rather than in the
promise,” said Nelligan, thoughtfully. “Men like myself labor that they
may reach some far-away land of rewards and successes, and bear the
present that they may enjoy the future.”
[Illustration: 114]
“Ay, but it will repay you well, by all accounts,” said Crow. “Miss Mary
told us last night how you had beat every one out of the field, and had
n't left a single prize behind you.”
“Who said this?” cried Joe, eagerly.
“Miss Mary,--Miss Martin. She said it was a credit to us all of the
west, here, that there was one, at least, from Galway, who could do
something besides horse-racing and cock-fighting--”
“So she did,” said Scanlan, interrupting, with some confusion. “She
said somebody had told her of young Nelligan. She called you 'Young
Nelligan.'”
“No, no; it was to myself she said it, and the words were, 'Mr. Joseph
Nelligan;' and then, when her uncle said, 'Why don't we know him? '--”
“My dear Simmy, you make a most horrible confusion when you attempt a
story,--out of canvas. Mind, I said out of canvas; for I confess that in
your grand 'Historical' the whole incident is admirably detailed. I 've
just said to my friend here, that he has a great pleasure before him in
seeing that picture.”
“If you 'll do me the honor to look at it,” said Crow, bowing
courteously, “when you come to dinner to-day.”
“Attend to _me_, Joe,” said Scanlan, passing an arm within Nelligan's,
and leading him away to another part of the room; “that fellow is little
better than an idiot. But I was just going to tell you what Martin said.
'You are intimate with young Nelligan,' said he; 'you know him well, and
you could possibly do without awkwardness what with more formality
might be difficult. Don't you think, then, that he would possibly waive
ceremony--'”
“I must be off,” broke in Crow, hastily. “I have a sitting at twelve
o'clock, so I hope we shall see you at seven, Mr. Nelligan; your note
said seven, sharp.” And without waiting for more, he seized his hat and
hurried down the stairs.
“A downright fool!” said Scanlan, angrily. “Mr. Martin said he 'd write
to you, if--if--if, in fact, you stood upon that punctilio; but that
he'd be all the better pleased if you 'd just accept acquaintance as
freely as he offered it, and come and dine there to-day, like a friend.”
“Is n't there, or has there not been, some difference between him and my
father?” asked Joe.
“A trifle,--and a mistake; the kind of thing that two men of calm heads
and common sense could have settled in five minutes, and which, to say
the truth, Martin was right in throughout. It's all passed and over now,
however, and it would be worse than foolish to revive it. There 's Miss
Martin!” cried he, “and I have a word to say to her;” and hurried off
without waiting for more. As he passed from the room, however, a letter
fell from his pocket; and as Nelligan stooped to take it up, he saw that
it was addressed to himself. He looked hesitatingly at it for a moment
or two, scarcely knowing whether or not he ought to break the seal. “It
was meant for me, at all events,” said he, and opened it. The contents
were as follows;--
“Mr. Martin presents his respects to Mr. Joseph Nelligan, and will feel
happy if--excusing the want of formal introduction--Mr. Nelligan will
admit him to the honor of acquaintance, and give him the pleasure of
his society at dinner, to-morrow, at seven o'clock. Mr. Martin does not
hesitate to say that to accept this unceremonious proposal will be felt
as a very great favor indeed by him and his family.”
“What does Scanlan mean by all this? Why not have handed me this note at
once?” was Nelligan's question to himself, as he descended the stairs
and gained the street. He was not sorry that Scanlan was not in sight,
and hastened homeward to think over this strange communication. Joe well
knew that his mother was not peculiarly endowed with worldly wisdom or
acuteness; and yet such was his need of counsel at the moment, that
he determined, at least in part, to lay the case before her. “She
can certainly tell me,” said he, “if there be any reason why I should
decline this proposal.” And with this resolve he entered the cottage.
“Don't you remember Catty Henderson, Joe?” said his mother, as he came
into the room, and presenting a young girl, very plainly but
neatly dressed, who arose to receive him with an air of well-bred
composure,--“Catty, that used to be your playfellow long ago?”
“I didn't know you were in Ireland, Miss Henderson. I should never have
recognized you,” said Nelligan, in some confusion.
“Nor was I till a few days back,” said she, in an accent very slightly
tinged with a foreign pronunciation. “I came home on Tuesday.”
“Isn't she grown, joe? and such a fine girl, too. I always said she 'd
be so; and when the others would have it that your nose was too long for
the rest of your features, I said, 'Wait till she grows up,--wait till
she 's a woman;' and see now if I 'm not right.”
It must be owned that Joe Nelligan's confusion during the delivery of
this prophetic criticism was far greater than Catty's own, who received
the speech with a low, gentle laugh, while Mrs. Nelligan went on: “I
made her stay till you came back, Joe, for I wanted her to see what
a tall creature you are, and not more than twenty,--her own age to
a month; and I told her what a genius you turned out, indeed, to the
surprise of us all, and myself, especially.”
“Thank you, mother,” said he, smiling.
“No, indeed, my dear, 't is your father you may thank for all your
talents and abilities; a wonderful man he is, beginning the world
without a sixpence; and there he is now, with I 'm sure I don't know how
many hundreds a year in land,--ay, Catty, in broad acres; just like any
squire in the county. Well, well, there 's many a change come over the
country since you were here,--how many years is it now?”
“Upwards of twelve,” said the young girl. “Dear me, how time flies! It
seems like yesterday that you and Joe had the measles together, in the
yellow room up at Broom Lodge, and your poor mother was alive then, and
would insist on giving you everything cool to drink, just because you
liked it, though I told her that was exactly the reason it was sure to
be bad for you; for there 's nothing so true in life,--that everything
we wish for is wrong.”
“An unpleasant theory, certainly,” said Catty, laughing; “but I hope
not of universal application, for I have been long wishing to see you
again.”
“Well, well, who knows whether it may be good or bad,” said she,
sighing; “not but I 'm pleased to see you growing up the image of
your poor dear mother,--taller, maybe, but not so handsome, nor so
genteel-looking; but when you have your trials and troubles, as she had,
maybe that will come, too, for I often remarked, there 's nothing like
affliction to make one genteel.”
“Why, mother, you are profuse in unhappy apothegms this morning,” said
Joe.
“And you are coming to stay amongst us now, Catty; or are you going back
to France again?” said Mrs. Nelligan, not heeding the remark.
“I scarcely know, as yet,” replied the young girl. “My father's letter
to summon me home said something about placing me as a governess, if I
were capable of the charge.”
“Of course you are, my dear, after all your advantages; not but that I
'd rather see you anything else,--a nice light business; for instance,
in baby-linen or stationery, or in Miss Busk's establishment, if that
could be accomplished.”
A very slight flush--so slight as to be nearly imperceptible--crossed
the young girl's cheek, but not a syllable escaped her, as Mrs. Nelligan
resumed,--
“And there was an excellent opening the other day at the Post here, in
the circulating-library way, and lending out a newspaper or two. I don't
know how much you might make of it. Not but maybe you 'd rather be
companion to a lady, or what they call a 'nervous invalid.'”
“That, too, has been thought of,” said the girl, smiling; “but I have
little choice in the matter, and, happily, as little preference for one
as the other of these occupations. And now I must take my leave, for I
promised to be back by two o'clock.”
“Well, there's Joe will see you home with pleasure, and I 'm sure you
have plenty to say to each other about long ago; not but I hope you 'll
agree better than you did then. You were the torment of my life, the way
you used to fight.”
“I couldn't think of trespassing on Mr. Joseph's time; I should be
quite ashamed of imposing such trouble on him. So good-bye, godmamma;
good-bye, Mr. Joseph,” said she, hurriedly throwing her shawl around
her.
“If you will allow me to accompany you,” said Joseph, scarcely knowing
whether she rejected or accepted his escort.
“To be sure she will, and you have both more sense than to fall out now;
and mind, Joseph, you 're to be here at four, for I asked Mrs. Cronan to
dinner.”
“Oh, that reminds me of something,” said Joe, hurriedly; and he leaned
over his mother's chair, and whispered to her, “Mr. Martin has invited
me to dine with him to-day; here is his note, which came to me in rather
a strange fashion.”
“To dine at the Nest! May I never! But I scarcely can believe my eyes,”
said Mrs. Nelligan, in ecstasy. “And the honor, and the pleasure, too;
well, well, you 're the lucky boy.”
“What shall I do, mother; is n't there something between my father and
him?”
“What will you do but go; what else would you do, I 'd like to know?
What will they say at the Post when they hear it?”
“But I want you to hear how this occurred.”
“Well, well; I don't care,--go you must, Joe. But there 's poor Catty
walking away all alone; just overtake her, and say that a sudden
invitation from the Martins--mention it as if you were up there every
day--”
But young Nelligan did not wait for the conclusion of this artful
counsel, but hurrying after Catty Henderson, overtook her as she had
gained the beach.
“I have no need of an escort, Mr. Joseph,” said she, good-humoredly. “I
know every turn of the way here.”
“But you'll not refuse my companionship?” said he. “We have scarcely
spoken to each other yet.” And as he spoke he drew his arm within her
own, and they walked along in silence.
“My mother thinks we did nothing but quarrel long ago,” said he, after a
pause; “but if my memory serves me truly, it was upon this very pathway
we once swore to each other vows of a very different kind. Do you
recollect anything of that, Miss Henderson?”
“I do, Mr. Joseph,” said she, with a sly half-glance as she uttered the
last word.
“Then why 'Mr. Joseph'?” said he, half reproachfully.
“Why 'Miss Henderson'?” said she, with a malicious smile at the other's
confusion; for somehow Joseph's manner was far less easy than her own.
“I scarcely know why,” replied he, after a short silence, “except that
you seem so changed; and I myself, too, am probably in your eyes as much
altered--from what we both were, that--that--”
“That, in short, it would be impossible to link the past with the
present,” said she, quickly; “and you were quite right. I 'm convinced
the effort is always a failure, and prejudices in a hundred ways the
good qualities of those who attempt it. Let us, therefore, begin our
acquaintance here; learn to know each other as we are,--that is, if we
are to know each other at all.”
“Why do you say that?” asked he, eagerly.
“For many reasons. We may not meet often; perhaps not at all; perhaps
under circumstances where to renew intimacy might be difficult.
Assuredly, although the path here might once have sufficed us, our roads
in life lie widely apart now, and the less we travel together the more
we shall each go towards his own goal, and--and the less regret we shall
feel at parting; and so now good-bye.”
“You wish it?” said he, reproachfully. “You desire this?”
“What matters it whether I wish it or not? I know it must be. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, then,--good-bye,” said he, affecting as much indifference as
he could; and then, slightly raising his hat, he turned away on the road
homeward.
Joseph Nelligan's reflections were not of the pleasantest as he
sauntered slowly back. He was not exactly satisfied with himself; he
felt, he could not just say how, that the young girl had had the mastery
over him; she was more calm or self-possessed; she had more tact, or she
knew more of life; had more of self-control, or breeding, or some other
quality, whatever it might be, than he had. At all events, he was ill
at ease and discontented. Then he doubted whether he ought to have taken
her at her word when she talked of parting. It might, possibly, have
been meant by her to evoke some show of resistance on his part; that
same inequality of station she seemed to hint at might, perhaps, demand
from him a greater deference. In fact, whichever way he turned the
matter over, he saw little cause for self-gratulation; nor did he
discover that it mended matters when he tried to accuse her of French
frivolity, and such other traits as he fancied of foreign origin.
In this not over-pleasant mood was it that he re-entered the cottage,
where his mother was busy in preparing a very formidable cravat for the
approaching dinner-party.
“Ah, Joe!” said she, anxiously, “if you were to dress now, and then stay
quiet, you 'd be quite fresh when the time came; for, remember, it's not
like your father you are, that has the world about him, and can converse
about everything that comes uppermost; but with all your learning, you
know, you always feel somehow--”
“Stupid, mother?”
“Not stupid, my dear, but depressed,--out of spirits in society; so
that my advice to you is, now, dress yourself in good time, take a small
glass of ginger-cordial, and throw your eye over the second chapter of
'Social Hints,' with an account of conversation before and at dinner,
and some excellent advice about'compliments, meet for every season of
the year.'”
“Do you think such preparations quite necessary, mother?” asked Joe,
slyly; for he rather relished the simplicity of her counsels.
“To be sure, I do; for yours is no common difficulty, Joe. If you talk
of country matters, you 'll get into Kyle's Wood and the Chancery suit;
if you touch politics or religion, it will be worse again. The Martins,
I hear, never play cards, so you can't allude to them; and they 'll
be too grand to know anything about poor Miss Cuddy going off with the
sergeant of police, or what Con Kelly did with his aunt's furniture.”
“So that really the topics open to me are marvellously few.”
“Well, there's shooting; but to be sure you know nothing about that, nor
fishing, either; and I suppose farming, if you did understand it, would
n't be genteel. Indeed, I see little that is n't dangerous, except the
dearness of everything. I remark that's a subject nobody ever tires of,
and all can take their share in.”
“And I conclude it to be fact, mother?”
“A very melancholy fact, my dear; and so I said to Betty Gargan,
yesterday. 'It's well for _you_,' said I, 'and the likes of you, that
use nothing but potatoes; but think of us, that have to pay sixpence a
pound for mutton, six-and-a-half for the prime pieces, and veal not to
be had under eightpence.' They talk of the poor, indeed! but sure they
never suffer from a rise in butcher's meat, and care nothing at all what
tea costs. I assure you I made the tears come into her eyes, with the
way I described our hardships.”
“So that this will be a safe subject for me, mother?”
“Perfectly safe, my dear, and no ways mean, either; for I always
remarked that the higher people are, the stingier they are, and the more
pleasure they take in any little sharp trick that saves them sixpence.
And when that 's exhausted, just bring in the Rams.”
“The Rams?”
“I mean my aunt Ram, and my relations in Wexford. I 'm sure, with a
little address, you 'll be able to show how I came to be married beneath
me, and all the misery it cost me.”
“Well, mother, I believe I have now ample material,” said Joe, rising,
with a lively dread of an opening which he knew well boded a lengthy
exposition; “and to my own want of skill must it be ascribed if I do not
employ it profitably.” And with this he hurried to his room to prepare
for the great event.
The “Gentlemen of England” do not deem it a very formidable circumstance
to repair towards seven, or half-past, to a dinner-party, even of the
dullest and most rigid kind. There is a sombre “routine” in these cases,
so recognized that each goes tolerably well prepared for the species
of entertainment before him. There is nothing very exhilarating in the
prospect, and as little to depress. It is a leaf torn out of one of the
tamest chapters in life's diary, where it is just as rare to record a
new dish as a new idea, and where the company and the cookery are both
foreknown.
No one goes with any exaggerated expectations of enjoyment; but as
little does he anticipate anything to discompose or displease him.
The whole thing is very quiet and well-bred; rather dull, but not
unpleasant. Now, Joseph Nelligan had not graduated as a “diner-out;” he
was about as ignorant of these solemn festivals as any man well could
be. He was not, therefore, without a certain sense of anxiety as to the
conversational requisites for such occasions. Would the company rise to
themes and places and people of which he had never as much as heard?
or would they treat of ordinary events, and if so, on what terms? If
politics came to be discussed, would Mr. Martin expect him to hear in
silence opinions from which he dissented? Dare he speak his sentiments,
at the cost of directing attention to himself?--a course he would fain
have avoided. These, and innumerable other doubts, occupied him as he
was dressing, and made him more than once regret that he had determined
to accept this invitation; and when the hour at last came for him to set
out, he felt a sense of shrinking terror of what was before him greater
than he had ever known as he mounted the dreaded steps of the College
Examination Hall.
He might, it is true, have bethought him of the fact that where Simmy
Crow and Maurice Scanlan were guests, he too might pass muster without
reproach; but he did not remember this, or, at least, it failed to
impress him sufficiently. Nor was his dread without a certain dash of
vanity, as he thought of the contrast between the humble place he was
perhaps about to occupy at a great man's table, and the proud one he
had achieved in the ranks of scholarship and science. Thus musing, he
sauntered slowly along till he found himself in front of the little
garden of the Osprey's Nest. He looked at his watch,--it was exactly
seven; so he pulled the bell, and entered.