In the small and not over-neat parlor of the Martin Arms at Oughterard,
a young man sat at his breakfast, at times casting his eyes over the
columns of the “Vindicator,” and anon strolling to the window to watch
the gathering of the country people at the weekly market. The scene
was one of that mingled bustle and languor so characteristically Irish.
Cart-loads of turf, vegetables, fruit, or turkeys blocked up the narrow
passage between booths of fancy wares, gilt jewelry, crockery, and
cutlery; the vendors all eagerly vociferating commendations of their
stores, in chorus with still more clamorous beggars, or the discordant
notes of vagrant minstrelsy. Some animal monstrosity, announced by a
cracked-voiced herald and two clarionets, added to a din to which loud
laughter contributed its share of uproar.
The assemblage was entirely formed of the country people, many of whom
made the pretext of having a pig or a lamb to sell the reason of
their coming; but, in reality, led thither by the native love of a
gathering,--that fondness to be where their neighbors were,--without
any definite aim or object. There was, then, in strong contrast to the
anxious solicitation of all who had aught to sell, the dreary, languid,
almost apathetic look of the mere lounger, come to while away his weary
hour and kill time just like any very bored fine gentleman who airs his
listlessness along St James's Street, or lazily canters his _ennui_ down
Rotten Row.
Jack Massingbred--for he was the traveller whose straw hat and knapsack
stood upon a table near--was amused at a scene so full of its native
characteristics. The physiognomy, the dress, the bearing of the people,
their greetings as they met, their conduct of a bargain, all bespoke a
nation widely differing from the sister country, and set him a-dreaming
as to how it was that equality of laws might very possibly establish
anything but equality of condition amongst people so dissimilar.
[Illustration: 126]
While thus musing, his eye chanced to rest upon the half-effaced
inscription over a shop door in front, and where the name of Daniel
Nelligan figured as “licensed for all kinds of groceries and spirits.”
“Nelligan,” repeated he to himself, “I shall certainly quiz my friend
Joe, when we meet, about his namesake in Oughterard. How good it would
be to pick up some details of our friend opposite to torment him with!
What rare fun to affect to have discovered a near relative in this man
of hides, glue, sugar, and Jamaica rum! Eh, gad, I'll try it.” And with
this resolve he crossed the street at once, and soon found himself in
the compact crowd which thronged the doorway of this popular shop.
It was, indeed, a busy scene, since many who were there came as much
sellers as buyers, giving all the complexity of barter to their several
transactions. Here was a staid country-woman exchanging her spunyarn, or
her “cloth,” as it is called, for various commodities in tea, candles,
and such like; here a farmer, with a sample of seed-oats in his
pocket-handkerchief, of which he wanted the value in certain farm
utensils; here was another, with a stout roll of home-made frieze to
dispose of; some were even fain to offer a goose or a hen as the medium
for a little tobacco, or some equally tempting luxury of cottier life.
But there was another class of customers, who, brushing their way
through the throng, made for a small, dingy-looking chamber behind
the shop, in which Mr. Nelligan performed the functions of banker and
money-lender, discounting small bills, advancing loans, and transacting
all the various duties of a petty capitalist,--means by which, it was
alleged, he had already amassed a very ample fortune.
An announcement in writing on the glass door of this sanctum informed
Massingbred that “bank-notes” were exchanged, and “small loans advanced
on good security,” suggesting to him at once the means of opening an
acquaintance with the interior. Without any very definite purpose,
however, he now found himself one of a very closely packed crowd within
the chamber. At a small desk, around which ran a railing of about a foot
in height, serving, as it were, to “filter the stream” of solicitation
that poured in upon him, sat a dark-eyed, bilious-looking man of about
fifty; a black wig, cut in two deep arches over the temples, showed
a strongly formed, massive head, very favorably in contrast to the
features beneath it, which were only indicative of intense shrewdness
and cunning. The eyes, in particular, were restless and furtive-looking,
distrust and suspicion giving their entire expression,--qualities, it
was to be owned, in very active employment in the intercourse of his
daily life.
The anxious looks around him--careworn, eager, tremulous with anxiety
as they were--seemed the very opposite to his own, full of the security
that a strong purse bestows, and stern in the conscious strength of his
affluence.
“It won't do, Hagan,” said he, with a half-smile, as he pushed back
through the grating a very dirty, discolored piece of paper. “You 'll
be off to America before it comes due. I would n't take the
Lord-Lieutenant's note at six months, as times go.”
“See, now, Mr. Nelligan,” replied the other, pressing his face close
to the cage, and talking with intense eagerness. “May I never see
Christmas, but I 'll pay it 'T was marryin' the daughter left me low in
cash; but with the blessing of God and your help--”
“I hope you 're more certain of the blessing than the help. What's
this with the string round it?” continued Nelligan, addressing another
applicant.
“'T is a roll of notes I wanted to ax your honor about. Molly never 'let
on' she had them till Friday last; and now that James is going away, and
wants a trifle to fit him out--”
“Why, they're French's Bank, man, that broke years ago,--they 're not
worth a farthing!”
“Arrah, don't say so, and God reward you,” cried the poor fellow, while
his eyes filled up and his lip trembled convulsively; “don't take the
hope out of my heart all at onst. Look at them again, your honor, and
maybe you 'll think different.”
“If I did, I 'd be as great a fool as yourself, Patsy. The bank is
closed, and the banker dead this many a day; and I would n't give
you sixpence for sixty thousand of them. Take him out in the fresh
air,--give him a mouthful of water,” added he, hastily, as the wretched
countryman staggered back, sick, and almost fainting with the sad
tidings.
“Mrs. Mooney,” said he, addressing a pale, mild-featured woman in a
widow's cap and black gown, “you can't expect to hear from Dublin for a
week or ten days to come. It takes some time to administer; but if you
are in want of a few pounds--”
“No, sir, thank you,” said she, in a low voice; “but as I can't go back
to the place again,--as I 'll never be able to live there now--”
“Don't be in a hurry, Mrs. Mooney, do nothing rash. None of us know what
we can do till we 're tried. There's Miles Dogherty never thought he 'd
be paying me that eight pound fifteen he owes me, and see now if he is
n't come with it to-day.”
“Faix, and I am not,” sturdily responded a very powerfully built man in
the comfortable dress of a substantial farmer. “I don't owe it, and
I 'll never pay it; and what's more, if you get a decree against me
to-morrow, I'd sell every stick and stone in the place and go to 'Quay
bec'.”
“Indeed you would n't, Miles, not a bit more than I'd go and take the
law of an old friend and neighbor.”
“Faix, I never thought you would,” said the stout man, wiping his
forehead, and appearing as if he had forgotten his wrath.
“And now, Miles, what about that water-course?” said Nelligan,
good-humoredly; “are you content to leave it to any two fair men--”
As he got thus far, his eye for the first time fell upon Massingbred,
who, with folded arms, was leaning against a wall, an attentive
spectator of the whole scene.
“That is a stranger yonder! what can he want here?” said Nelligan, who
watched the attentive look of Massingbred's face with considerable
distrust. He whispered a few words into the ear of a man beside him,
who, making his way through the crowd, addressed the young man with--
“It's the master, sir, wants to know if he could do anything for your
honor?”
“For _me?_ oh, you spoke to _me?_” said Massingbred, suddenly recalled
to himself. “Yes, to be sure; I wanted to know--that is, I was
thinking--” And he stopped to try and remember by what device he had
purposed making Mr. Nelligan's acquaintance.
While he thus stood doubting and confused, his eyes suddenly met the
black, searching, deep-set orbs that peered at him behind the grating;
and without knowing how or why, he slowly approached him.
“In what way can I be of any use to you, sir?” said Nelligan, in a tone
which very palpably demanded the reason of his presence there.
Jack Massingbred was eminently “cool,”--that is, he was possessed of
that peculiar assurance which rarely suffers itself to be ruffled by a
difficulty. In the intercourse of society, and with men of the world, he
could have submitted to any test unabashed; and yet now, in presence of
this shrewd-looking and very commonplace personage, he, somehow, felt
marvellously ill at ease, and from the simple reason that the man before
whom he stood was not of his “world,” but one of a set of whose habits
and thoughts and ways he was in utter ignorance.
Nelligan's question was a second time addressed to him, and in the same
words, before he thought of framing a reply to it. For a second or two
it occurred to him to say that he had strolled in, half inadvertently,
and apologizing for the intrusion, to withdraw; but his pride was
offended at the notion of defeat this conduct implied, and with an
assumption of that conventional impudence far more natural to him, he
said,--
“It was your name, sir, attracted me--the name 'Nelligan' which I read
over your door--being that of a very dear and valued friend of mine,
suggested to me to inquire whether you might not be relatives.”
The cool indifference which accompanied these words, uttered as they
were in a certain languid drawl, were very far from predisposing
Nelligan in favor of the speaker; while the pretence of attaching
any singularity to a name so common as his own, struck him at once as
indicative of covert impertinence.
“Nelligan is not a very remarkable name down here, sir,” dryly responded
he.
“Very possibly,” replied Jack, with all his accustomed ease. “I know
little or nothing of Ireland. Your namesake, or your relative, perhaps,
was a college friend of mine, but to what part of the country he
belonged, I never knew.”
The words, “a college friend,” roused the other's anxiety, and leaning
forward eagerly, and dropping his voice to a whisper, he said,--
“Where? In what college, may I ask, sir?”
“In Trinity, Dublin.”
“The Medallist of this year, you mean?” said the other, almost
breathless in his anxiety.
“Just so. The same fellow who has been sweeping away all the honors of
his day. You have heard of him, it would seem?”
“He is my son, sir. I 'm Joe Nelligan's father!”
Massingbred's astonishment did not betray itself by any change of
feature; not a word escaped him; but his eye ranged over the scene
around him, and came back to rest upon old Nelligan's face with an
expression of the calmest meaning.
“What a fortunate accident--for _me_, I mean,” continued he. “Joe and
I are very dear friends, and it is a great happiness for me to make
his father's acquaintance. Is he with you now?” “No, sir; he's at the
sea,--a place called Kilkieran, about twenty miles away; but we 'll have
him back by tomorrow if you 'll stay with us, and I 'm sure you 'll not
refuse me that pleasure. The young gentleman who is my son's friend, is
mine also, if he 'll permit me to call him so; and now just tell me what
name shall I say?--who is it that I 'm to tell Joe has arrived here?”
“Say that Jack Massingbred is come, and I 'll lay my life on't you'll
see him here as fast as may be.”
“And now, Mr. Massingbred, just take up your quarters with us. Where are
you stopping? I 'll send over the boy for your trunks, for I need n't
say that this must be your home while you stay at Oughterard.” The
genial tone of warm hospitality in which he now spoke made him seem
a very different man from the hard-featured old money-lender he had
appeared when Jack first beheld him, and Massingbred returned his
cordial shake hands with a pressure equal to his own, while he said,--
“Be assured that I accept your offer most heartily. My whole baggage is
a knapsack and a fishing-rod, so that if you admit me as your guest you
must dispense with all beyond the very humblest requirements. I have no
coat, except this on me; and, when I brush my hair, I have dressed for
dinner.”
“You are amongst very humble people, Mr. Massingbred,--a country
shopkeeper, and his wife, and son,--and they 'll be only too happy to
feel that you don't despise their company. Come, and I 'll show you your
room.” And so saying, Nelligan led him up a narrow stair, and at the
end of a corridor opened a door into a neatly furnished chamber, which
looked out into a spacious garden. The whole interior was scrupulously
clean and comfortable; and as Jack surveyed his new dominions, he
inwardly blessed his good fortune that had piloted him into such a
haven.
“I 'll just step down and write to Joe. Meanwhile you 'll have your
things brought over to you. Make yourself at home here--at least, as
much as you can in such a place--and when you want anything, just ask
for it.” And with these words old Nelligan left him to his own thoughts.
Whatever savored of an adventure was the delight of Jack Massingbred.
He was one of those men whose egotism takes the shape of playing hero to
themselves,--a tolerably large category amongst the spoiled children
of this world. To be thrown into any strange or novel position, with
associates he was unused to, and amidst circumstances totally unlike all
he had ever met before, was his great happiness; and although here there
was nothing like actual peril to heighten the zest of the enjoyment,
there was a certain dash of embarrassment in the situation that
increased its piquancy. This embarrassment lay in his approaching
meeting with young Nelligan.
All the reserve his young college friend had maintained with regard to
his family was at once explained; and Jack began to think over how
often it must have occurred to him to say the most galling and offensive
things in his ignorance of Nelligan's real station. “If he had been
frank and open with me,” said he to himself, “this would never have
happened.” But therein Jack made two errors, since Nelligan was in no
wise bound to make such revelations, nor was Massingbred the man to
distinguish himself amongst his associates by a close friendship with
the son of a country shopkeeper. He had been trained in a very different
school, and taught to estimate his own station by the standard of
his companionship. Indeed, he had witnessed the lenity which met his
transgressions when they occurred in high company, and saw his father
pay the debts he had contracted amongst titled associates with a far
more generous forgiveness than had they taken their origin with
more plebeian friends. “What could have induced the man to become a
Fellow-Commoner,” said he, over and over; “it is such a palpable piece
of presumption?” The truth was, Jack felt excessively irritated at never
having even suspected his friend's pretensions, and was eager to throw
the blame of a deception where none had ever been practised.
“They told me I should find everything very different here from in
England, but they never hinted at anything like this.” There came then
another phase over his reflections, as he asked himself, “But what
affair is it of mine? Nelligan never thrust himself on me, it was I that
sought him. He never proposed introducing me to his family, it was I
that made them out,--I, in fact, who have imposed myself upon them. If
I deemed the old grocer _infra dig._, I need never have known him; but
I have not felt this to be the case. He may be--indeed, Joe Nelligan's
father ought to be--a very superior fellow, and at all events the whole
situation is new, and must be amusing.”
Such was the course of his thoughts as he arranged his clothes in the
little chest of drawers, put out his few books and papers on the table,
and proceeded to make himself perfectly at home and comfortable in his
new quarters.
The embarrassments of selfish men are always lighter than those of other
people, their egotism filling, as it does, such a very large space in
the sea of their troubles. Thus was it that Massingbred suffered little
discomfort at the thought of his friend Nelligan's probable shame and
awkwardness, his thoughts being occupied by how he, clever fellow that
he was, had traced out his home and origin,--won, by a few words, the
old father's esteem, and established himself, by his own sharp wits, a
guest of his house.
“It is a downright adventure,” said he; he even thought how the
thing would tell afterwards at some convivial meeting, and set about
dramatizing to himself his own part in the incident, to heighten the
piquancy of the narrative. He resolved to conform in everything to the
habits of the household,--to accommodate himself in all respects to
old Nelligan's tastes, so that Joe should actually be amazed at the
versatile resources of his nature, and struck with astonishment at this
new evidence of his powers.
Nor was Mr. Nelligan idle during all this time; the thought of a fellow
collegian of his son Joe being a guest under his roof was a very proud
and inspiring reflection. It was such a recognition of Joe's social
claims,--so flat a contradiction to all the surmises of those who
deprecated his college life, and said “that old Dan was wrong to put
his boy into Trinity”--that he already regarded the incident as the full
earnest of success.
“What would have brought him here, if it wasn't for Joe? How would he
ever have been under my roof, if he wasn't Joe's friend?” There was a
palpable triumph here that nothing could gainsay, and with a proud heart
he locked up his desk, resolving to do no more business that day, but
make it one of enjoyment.
“Who will I get to dine with us,” thought he, “since Joe can't have
the letter before this evening, and do his best he won't be here before
morning?” The question of those who should fill the places around his
board was a difficulty he had never experienced before, for Mr. Nelligan
was the first man in Oughterard, and never had any trouble about his
dinner company. His politics--very decided as they were--drew the line
amongst his acquaintances, and the Liberal party well knew that they
alone were the partakers of his hospitalities. There now, however, came
the thought that the most respectable residents of the town--Dr. Dasy,
of the Infirmary; Mr. Scanlan, the Attorney; and Morris Croft, the
Adjutant of the Galway------were Conservatives. These were the
fit company to meet young Massingbred, at least for the first day;
afterwards, he might be introduced to their own set. And yet, Father
Neal Rafferty would be outraged at all this. Peter Hayes, of the Priory,
would never enter his doors again; and Peter Hayes had made a will in
favor of Joe Nelligan, and left him every sixpence he had in the world.
“What if we mixed them all together?” said Dan, fairly puzzled by all
the conflicting interests. “A good dinner, some excellent port wine, and
'lashings' of whiskey-punch, might mould the ingredients together--at
least, when under the restraint of a stranger's presence--sufficiently
to pass muster!”
From his doubts as to how the experiment would succeed, came others
as to whether the guests would condescend to meet; and thus his
embarrassments went on increasing around him without his finding a way
through them.
“That's an elegant salmon I saw Catty bringing home to you, Nelligan?”
said a red-faced man, with large white whiskers, and a most watery look
in his eyes.
“Yes, Brierley, there's a young gentleman just come down here--a friend
of Joe's in college, to stop a day or two with us.”
“A nob?” said the other, with a wink.
Nelligan nodded assent and went on,--
“And I 'm just bothered how to get two or three to make company for
him.”
“If it's grandeur you want, why don't you go over to the barracks there,
and ask Captain Downie and the two others? Faix! it's a hearty welcome
you 'd get, for they 've never seen the inside of Cro' Martin since the
detachment came here.”
“It 's my own acquaintances I 'd like to ask to my house, Mat Brierley,”
said Nelligan, proudly; “and the time was when they were n't shy of
coming there.”
“What do you say to Peter Hayes, then?” said the other. “If you mean to
do the civil thing, you'll ask him before he buys that old highwayman
of a goose he's cheapening yonder; and there's Father Rafferty in the
snuff-shop, and Tom Magennis, and myself-, and that makes six, just the
right number for the little round table.”
Nelligan paused, and seemed to reflect over the proposition.
“You 'll be quizzing the Englishman,--'taking a rise' out of the Saxon,
Brierley?” said Nelligan, distrustfully.
“Devil a bit; I know better manners than that!”
“Tom Magennis would have at him about politics; I know he could n't
refrain. And I need n't tell you that English notions are not ours upon
these topics.”
“Give Tom a hint, and he 'll never touch the subject.”
“And Father Neal, will you vouch for him that he won't attack the
Established Church, and abuse the Protestants?”
“That I will, if he's not provoked to it.”
“Can you answer for yourself, Mat Brierley, that you won't try to borrow
a five-pound note of him before the evening's over?” said Nelligan,
laughingly.
“I' ve a friend here,” said Brierley, tapping the other on the breast,
“that would never see me in want of such a trifle as that.”
Nelligan made no other reply to this speech than a somewhat awkward
grimace, and walked hurriedly on to overtake a tall and very fat man
that was just turning the corner of the street. This was Father Neal
Rafferty. A very flourishing wave of his reverence's hand, and an urbane
bend of his body, betokened the gracious acceptance he gave to the
other's invitation; and Brierley walked away, muttering to himself:
“They may thank me for this dinner, then; for old Dan was going to feed
the 'swells,' if I had n't stopped him.”