Can any one tell us what has become of that high conversational power
for which Ireland, but more especially Dublin, was once celebrated? Have
the brilliant talkers of other days left no successors? Has that race of
delightful con-vivialists gone and disappeared forever? Or are we only
enduring an interregnum of dulness, the fit repose, perhaps, after a
period of such excitement? The altered circumstances of the country will
doubtless account for much of this change. The presence of a Parliament
in Ireland imparted a dignity and importance to society, while it
secured to social intercourse the men who made that Senate illustrious.
The Bar, too, of former days, was essentially the career of the highest
class, of those who had the ambition of political success without the
necessity of toiling for it through the laborious paths of the law; and
thus the wit, the brilliancy, and the readiness which gives conversation
its charm, obtained the high culture which comes of a learned
profession, and the social intercourse with men of refined
understanding.
With the Union this spirit died out. Some of the brightest and gayest
retired from the world, sad, dispirited, and depressed; some felt that
a new and very different career was to open before them, and addressed
themselves to the task of conforming to new habits and acquiring new
influences; and others, again, sought in the richer and greater country
the rewards which they once were satisfied to reap in their own. With
the Union, society in Dublin--using the word in its really comprehensive
sense--ceased to exist. The great interests of a nation departed, men
sank to the level of the small topics that engaged them, and gradually
the smallest and narrowest views of mere local matters usurped the place
of great events and liberal speculations. Towards the end of the
first quarter of the present century, a few of those who had once made
companionship with Curran and Grattan and Lysaght and Parsons were still
in good health and vigor. A fine, high-hearted, manly class they were,
full of that peculiar generosity of character which has ever marked the
true Irish gentleman, and with a readiness in humor and a genial flow of
pleasantry which rendered their society delightful.
Of this school--and probably the last, for he was then the Father of the
Bar--was Valentine Repton, a man whose abilities might have won for him
the very highest distinctions, but who, partly through indolence, and
partly through a sturdy desire to be independent of all party, had all
his life rejected every offer of advancement, and had seen his juniors
pass on to the highest ranks of the profession, while he still wore his
stuff-gown, and rose to address the Court from the outer benches.
He was reported in early life to have professed very democratic
opinions, for which he more than once had incurred the _deep_
displeasure of the authorities of the University. The principles of
the French Revolution had, however, been gradually toned down in him
by time, and probably by a very aristocratic contempt for the party who
advocated them; so that soon after he entered on his career at the Bar
he seemed to have abandoned politics; nor, except by a sly jest or an
epigram upon a party leader, no matter of which side, did he ever advert
to the contests of statecraft.
Though closely approaching seventy, he was hale and vigorous, his gray
eyes quick and full of fire, his voice clear, and his whole air and
bearing that of one many years younger. He had been a “beau” in his
youth, and there was in the accurately powdered hair, the lace ruffles
in which he still appeared at dinner, and the well-fitting silk
stocking, an evidence that he had not forgotten the attractions of
dress. At the Bar he still maintained the very highest place. His
powers of cross-examination were very great; his management of a jury
unrivalled. A lifelong acquaintance with Dublin had familiarized him
with the tone and temper of every class of its citizens, and had taught
him the precise kind of argument, and the exact nature of the appeal to
address to each. As he grew older, perhaps he did not observe all his
wonted discretion in the use of this subtle power, and somewhat presumed
upon his own skill. Nor was he so scrupulous in his deference to the
Court,--a feature which had once pre-eminently distinguished him;
but, upon the whole, he had kept wonderfully clear of the proverbial
irritability of age, and was, without an exception, the favorite amongst
his brethren.
The only touch of years observable about his mind was a fondness for
recurring to incidents or events in which he himself had borne a part.
A case in which he held a brief, the dinner at which he had
been brilliant, the epigram he had dashed off in Lady Somebody's
drawing-room, were bright spots he could not refrain from adverting to;
but, generally speaking, he had skill enough to introduce these without
any seeming effort or any straining, and thus strangers, at least, were
in wonderment at his endless stores of anecdote and illustration. No
man better than he knew how to throw a great name into the course of a
conversation, and make an audience for himself, by saying, “I remember
one day at the Priory with Curran”--or, “We were dining with poor
Grattan at Tinnehinch, when--” “As Flood once remarked to me--” and so
on.
The flattery of being addressed by one who had stood in such intimate
relation to those illustrious men never failed of success. The most
thoughtless and giddy hearers were at once arrested by such an opening,
and Repton was sure of listeners in every company.
The man who finds his place in every society is unquestionably a clever
man. The aptitude to chime in with the tone of others infers a high
order of humor,--of humor in its real sense; meaning, thereby,
the faculty of appreciating, and even cultivating, the individual
peculiarities of those around him, and deriving from their display a
high order of pleasure.
From these scattered traits let my reader conjure up Valentine Repton
before him, and imagine the bustling, active, and brisk-looking old
gentleman whose fidgetiness nearly drove Martin mad, as they held
converse together in the library after breakfast. Now seated, now rising
to pace the room, or drawing nigh the window to curse the pelting rain
without, Repton seemed the incarnation of uneasiness.
“Very splendid--very grand--very sumptuous--no doubt,” said he, ranging
his eyes over the gorgeous decorations of the spacious apartment, “but
would kill me in a month; what am I saying?--in a week!”
“What would kill you, Repton?” said Martin, languidly.
“This life of yours, Martin,--this sombre quiet, this unbroken
stillness, this grave-like monotony. Why, man, where 's your
neighborhood? where are your gentry friends?”
“Cosby Blake, of Swainestown, is abroad,” said Martin, with an indolent
drawl. “Randal Burke seldom comes down here now. Rickman, I believe, is
in the Fleet. They were the nearest to us!”
“What a country! and you are spending--What did you tell me last
night,--was it upwards of ten thousand a year here?”
“What with planting, draining, bridging, reclaiming waste lands,
and other improvements, the wages of last year alone exceeded seven
thousand!”
“By Jove! it 's nigh incredible,” said the lawyer, energetically. “My
dear Martin, can't you perceive that all this is sheer waste,--so much
good money actually thrown into Lough Corrib? Tell me, frankly, how long
have you been pursuing this system of improvement?”
“About three years; under Mary's management.”
“And the results,--what of them?”
“It is too early to speak of that; there's Kyle's Wood, for
instance,--we have enclosed that at considerable cost. Of course we
can't expect that the mere thinnings can repay us, the first year or
two.”
“And your reclaimed land,--how has _it_ prospered?”
“Not over well. They pushed draining so far that they 've left a large
tract perfectly barren and unproductive.”
“And the harbor,--the pier I saw yesterday?”
“That 's a bad business,--it's filling up the bay with sand! but we'll
alter it in summer.”
“And now for the people themselves,--are they better off, better fed,
clothed, housed, and looked after, than before?”
“Mary says so. She tells me that there is a wonderful change for the
better in them.”
“I don't believe a word of it, Martin,--not a word of it. Ireland is not
to be redeemed by her own gentry. The thing is sheer impossibility! They
both know each other too well. Do you understand me? They are too ready
to make allowances for shortcomings that have their source in some
national prejudice; whereas your Saxon or your Scotchman would
scout such a plea at once. Ireland wants an alternative, Martin,--an
alternative; and, amidst our other anomalies, not the least singular is
the fact that the Englishman, who knows nothing about us, nor ever will
know anything, is precisely the man to better our condition.”
“These are strange opinions to hear from your lips, Repton. I never
heard any man so sarcastic as yourself on English ignorance regarding
Ireland.”
“And you may hear me again on the same theme whenever you vouchsafe me
an audience,” said the lawyer, sharply. “It was but the other day I gave
our newly arrived secretary, Mr. Muspratt, a gentle intimation of my
sentiments on that score. We were dining at the Lodge. I sat next his
Excellency, who, in the course of dinner, directed my attention to a
very graphic picture the secretary was drawing of the misery he had
witnessed that very day, coming up from Carlow. He did the thing well,
I must own. He gave the famished looks, the rags, the wretchedness, all
their due; and he mingled his pathos and indignation with all the skill
of an artist; while he actually imparted a Raffaelle effect to his
sketch, as he portrayed the halt, the maimed, the blind, and the palsied
that crowded around the carriage as he changed horses, exclaiming,
by way of peroration, 'Misery and destitution like this no man ever
witnessed before, all real and unfeigned as it was sure to be.'
“'Naas is a miserable place, indeed,' said I, for he looked directly
towards me for a confirmation of his narrative.
“'There is no denying one word the gentleman has said; I came up that way
from circuit three weeks ago, and was beset in the same spot, and in the
same manner as we have just heard. I can't attempt such a description as
Mr. Muspratt has given us; but I will say that there was not a human
deformity or defect that did n't appear to have its representative in
that ragged gathering, all clamorous and eager for aid. I looked at them
for a while in wonderment, and at last I threw out a “tenpenny” in the
midst. The “blind” fellow saw it first, but the “lame cripple” had the
foot of him, and got the money!'”
Repton leaned back in his chair, and laughed heartily as he finished. “I
only wish you saw his face, Martin; and, indeed, his Excellency's too.
The aides-de-camp laughed; they were very young, and could n't help it.”
“He 'll not make you a chief justice, Repton,” said Martin, slyly.
“I 'll take care he don't,” said the other. “_Summum jus summa injuria_.
The chief justice is a great humbug, or a great abuse, whichever way you
like to render it.”
“And yet they'd be glad to promote you,” said Martin, thoughtfully.
“To be sure they would, sir; delighted to place me where they had no
fear of my indiscretions. But your judge should be ever a grave animal.
The temptation to a joke should never sit on the ermine. As Flood once
remarked to me of old Romney, 'A man, sir,' said he,--and Flood had
a semi-sarcastic solemnity always about him,--'a man, sir, who has
reversed the law of physics; for he rose by his gravity, and only fell
by his lightness.' Very epigrammatic and sharp, that. Ah, Martin, they
don't say these things nowadays. By the way, who is the young fellow who
dined with us yesterday?”
“His name is Nelligan; the son of one of our Oughterard neighbors.”
“Pleasing manners, gentle, too, and observant,” said Repton, with the
tone of one delivering a judgment to be recorded.
“He's more than that,” said Martin; “he is the great prize man of the
year in Trinity. You must have surely heard of his name up in town.”
“I think somebody did speak of him to me,--recommend him, in some
shape or other,” said Repton, abstractedly; “these things are so easily
forgotten; for, to say the truth, I hold very cheaply all intellectual
efforts accomplished by great preparation. The cramming, the grinding,
the plodding, the artificial memory work, and the rest of it, detract
terribly, in my estimation, from the glory of success. Give me your
man of impromptu readiness, never unprepared, never at a loss. The very
consciousness of power is double power.” And as he spoke he drew himself
up, threw his head back, and stared steadfastly at Martin, as though to
say, “Such is he who now stands before you.”
Martin was amused at the display of vanity, and had there been another
there to have participated in the enjoyment, would have willingly
encouraged him to continue the theme; but he was alone, and let it pass.
“I 'll make a note of that young man. Mulligan, is n't it?”
“Nelligan.”
“To be sure. I 'll remember poor Curran's epigram:--
'Oh, pity poor Tom Nelligan!
Who walking down Pall Mall,
He slipt his foot,
And down he fell,
And fears he won't get well again.'
Glorious fellow, sir; the greatest of all the convivialists of his
time, was Curran. A host in himself; but, as he once said, you could n't
always depend on the 'elevation.'”
Martin smiled faintly; he relished the lawyer's talk, but he felt
that it demanded an amount of attention on his part that wearied him.
Anything that cost him trouble was more or less of a “bore;” and he
already began to wish for his accustomed ease and indolence.
“Well, Repton,” said he, “you wished to see the quarries, I think?”
“To see everything and everybody, sir, and with my own eyes, too. As
Lysaght said, when I read the book of nature, 'I let no man note my
brief for me.'”
“I thought of being your companion, myself; but somehow, this morning,
my old enemy, the gout, is busy again; however, you 'll not regret the
exchange, Repton, when I give you in charge to my niece. She 'll be but
too happy to do the honors of our poor country to so distinguished a
visitor.”
“And a very artful plan to put me in good humor with everything,” said
Repton, laughing. “Well, I consent. I offer myself a willing victim to
any amount of seduction. How are we to go?--do we drive, walk, or ride?”
“If Mary be consulted, she'll say ride,” said Martin; “but perhaps--”
“I'm for the saddle, too,” broke in Repton. “Give me something active
and lively, light of mouth and well up before, and I'll show you, as
Tom Parsons said, that we can cut as good a figure at the wall as the
'bar.'”
“I 'll go and consult my niece, then,” said Martin, hastening out of the
room, to conceal the smile which the old man's vanity had just provoked.
Mary was dressed in her riding-habit, and about to leave her room as her
uncle entered it.
“I have just come in the nick of time, Molly, I see,” cried he. “I
want you to lionize an old friend of mine, who has the ambition to 'do'
Connemara under your guidance.”
“What a provoke!” said Mary, half aloud. “Could he not wait for another
day, uncle? I have to go over to Glencalgher and Kilduff; besides,
there's that bridge to be looked after, and they 've just come to tell
me that the floods have carried away the strong paling around the larch
copse. Really, this old gentleman must wait.” It was a rare thing for
Mary Martin to display anything either of impatience or opposition to
her uncle. Her affection for him was so blended with respect that she
scarcely ever transgressed in this wise; but this morning she was ill
and irritable,--a restless, feverish night following on a day of great
fatigue and as great excitement,--and she was still suffering, and her
nerves jarring when he met her.
“But I assure you, Molly, you 'll be pleased with the companionship,”
began Martin.
“So I might at another time; but I 'm out of sorts to-day, uncle. I 'm
cross and ill-tempered, and I 'll have it out on Mr. Henderson,--that
precious specimen of his class. Let Mr. Nelligan perform cicerone, or
persuade my Lady to drive him out; do anything you like with him, except
give him to me.”
“And yet that is exactly what I have promised him. As for Nelligan, they
are not suited to each other; so come, be a good girl, and comply.”
“If I must,” said she, pettishly. “And how are we to go?”
“He proposes to ride, and bespeaks something lively for his own mount.”
“Indeed! That sounds well!” cried she, with more animation. “There 's
'Cropper' in great heart; he 'll carry him to perfection. I 'll have a
ring-snaffle put on him, and my word for it but he 'll have a pleasant
ride.”
“Take care, Molly; take care that he's not too fresh. Remember that
Repton is some dozen years or more my senior.”
“Let him keep him off the grass and he 'll go like a lamb. I'll not
answer for him on the sward, though; but I 'll look to him, uncle, and
bring him back safe and sound.” And, so saying, Mary bounded away down
the stairs, and away to the stables, forgetting everything of her late
discontent, and only eager on the plan before her.
Martin was very far from satisfied about the arrangement for his
friend's equitation; nor did the aspect of Repton himself, as attired
for the road, allay that sense of alarm; the old lawyer's costume being
a correct copy of the colored prints of those worthies who figured in
the early years of George the Third's reign,--a gray cloth spencer being
drawn over his coat, fur-collared and cuffed, high riding-boots of black
polished leather, reaching above the knee, and large gauntlets of bright
yellow doeskin, completing an equipment which Martin had seen nothing
resembling for forty years back.
“A perfect cavalier, Repton!” exclaimed he, smiling.
“We once could do a little that way,” said the other, with a touch
of vanity. “In our early days, Martin, hunting was essentially a
gentleman's pastime. The meet was not disfigured by aspiring linen
drapers or ambitious hardwaremen, and the tone of the field was the
tone of society; but _nous avons changé tout cela_. Sporting men, as
they call themselves, have descended to the groom vocabulary; and the
groom morals, and we, of the old school, should only be laughed at for
the pedantry of good manners and good English, did we venture amongst
them.”
“My niece will put a different estimate on your companionship; and here
she comes. Molly, my old and valued friend, Mr. Repton.”
“I kiss your hand, Miss Martin,” said he, accompanying the speech by the
act, with all the grace of a courtier. “It's worth while being an old
fellow, to be able to claim these antiquated privileges.”
There was something in the jaunty air and well-assumed gallantry of the
old lawyer which at once pleased Mary, who accepted his courtesy with a
gracious smile. She had been picturing to herself a very different kind
of companion, and was well satisfied with the reality.
“I proposed to young Mr. Nelligan to join us,” said Repton, as he
conducted her to the door; “but it seems he is too deeply intent upon
some question or point of law or history--I forget which--whereupon we
differed last night, and has gone into the library to search for the
solution of it. As for me, Miss Martin, I am too young for such dry
labors; or, as the Duc de Nevers said, when somebody rebuked him
for dancing at seventy, 'Only think what a short time is left me for
folly.'”
We do not propose to chronicle, the subjects or the sayings by which
the old lawyer beguiled the way; enough if we say that Mary was actually
delighted with his companionship. The racy admixture of humor and strong
common-sense, acute views of life, flavored with, now a witty remark,
now a pertinent anecdote, were conversational powers totally new to her.
Nor was he less charmed with her. Independently of all the pleasure
it gave him to find one who heard him with such true enjoyment, and
relished all his varied powers of amusing, he was equally struck with
the high-spirited enthusiasm and generous ardor of the young girl. She
spoke of the people and the country with all the devotion of one who
loved both; and if at times with more of hopefulness than he himself
could feel, the sanguine forecast but lent another charm to her
fascination.
He listened with astonishment as she explained to him the different
works then in progress,--the vast plans for drainage; the great
enclosures for planting; the roads projected here, the bridges there. At
one place were strings of carts, conveying limestone for admixture with
the colder soil of low grounds; at another they met asses loaded with
seaweed for the potato land. There was movement and occupation on every
side. In the deep valleys, on the mountains, in the clefts of the rocky
shore, in the dark marble quarries, hundreds of people were employed;
and by these was Mary welcomed with eager enthusiasm the moment she
appeared. One glance at their delighted features was sufficient to show
that theirs was no counterfeit joy. Wherever she went the same reception
awaited her; nor did she try to conceal the happiness it conferred.
“This is very wonderful, very strange, and very fascinating, Miss
Martin,” said Repton, as they moved slowly through a rocky path,
escarped from the side of the mountain; “but pardon me if I venture to
suggest one gloomy anticipation in the midst of such brightness. What is
to become of all these people when _you_ leave them,--as leave them you
will and must, one day?”
“I never mean to do so,” said Mary, resolutely.
“Stoutly spoken,” said he, smiling; “but, unfortunately, he who hears it
could be your grandfather. And again I ask, how is this good despotism
to be carried on when the despot abdicates? Nay, nay; there never was
a very beautiful girl yet, with every charm under heaven, who did n't
swear she 'd never marry; so let us take another alternative. Your uncle
may go to live in London,--abroad. He may sell Cro' Martin--”
“Oh, that is impossible! He loves the old home of his family and his
name too dearly; he would be incapable of such a treason to his house!”
“Now, remember, my dear young lady, you are speaking to the most
suspectful, unimpulsive, and ungenerously disposed of all natures, an
old lawyer, who has witnessed so many events in life he would have
once pronounced impossible,--ay, just as roundly as you said the word
yourself,--and seen people and things under aspects so totally the
reverse of what he first knew them, that he has taught himself to
believe that change is the law, and not permanence, in this life, and
that you and I, and all of us, ought ever to look forward to anything,
everything, but the condition in which at present we find ourselves.
Now, I don't want to discourage you with the noble career you have
opened for yourself here. I am far more likely to be fascinated--I was
going to say fall in love--with you for it, than to try and turn your
thoughts elsewhere; but as to these people themselves, the experiment
comes too late.”
“Is it ever too late to repair a wrong, to assist destitution, relieve
misery, and console misfortune?” broke in Mary, eagerly.
“It is too late to try the feudal system in the year of our Lord 1829,
Miss Martin. We live in an age where everything is to be redressed by
a Parliament. The old social compact between proprietor and peasant is
repealed, and all must be done by 'the House.' Now, if your grandfather
had pursued the path that you are doing to-day, this crisis might
never have arrived; but he did not, young lady. He lived like a real
gentleman; he hunted, and drank, and feasted, and rack-rented, and
horsewhipped all around him; and what with duelling of a morning and
drinking over-night, taught the people a code of morals that has assumed
all the compactness of a system. Ay, I say it with grief, this is a land
corrupted from the top, and every vice of its gentry has but filtered
down to its populace! What was that I heard?--was it not a shot?” cried
he, reining in his horse to listen.
“I thought so, too; but it might be a blast, for we are not far from the
quarries.”
“And do you preserve the game, Miss Martin? are you sworn foe to the
poacher?”
“I do so; but in reality more for the sake of the people than the
partridges. Your lounging country fellow, with a rusty gun and a starved
lurcher, is but an embryo highwayman.”
“So he is,” cried Repton, delighted at the energy with which she spoke;
“and I have always thought that the worst thing about the game-laws was
the class of fellows we educate to break them. Poor old Cranbury was n't
of that opinion, though. You could never have seen him, Miss Martin; but
he was a fine specimen of the Irish Bench in the old time. He was the
readiest pistol in the Irish house; and, as they said then, he 'shot up'
into preferment. He always deemed an infraction of the game-laws as one
of the gravest crimes in the statute. Juries, however, did n't concur
with him; and, knowing the severity of the penalty, they invariably
brought in a verdict of Not Guilty, rather than subject a poor wretch
to transportation for a jack-snipe. I remember once,--it was at
Maryborough; the fellow in the dock was a notable poacher, and, worse
still, the scene of his exploits was Cranbury's own estate. As usual,
the jury listened apathetically to the evidence; they cared little
for the case, and had predetermined the verdict. It was, however, so
palpably proven, so self-evident that he was guilty, that they clubbed
their heads together to concert a pretext for their decision. Cranbury
saw the movement, and appreciated it, and, leaning his head down upon
his hand, mumbled out, as if talking to himself, in broken sentences,
'A poor man--with a large family--great temptation--and, after all,
a slight offence,--a very slight offence.' The jury listened and took
courage; they fancied some scruples were at work in the old judge's
heart, and that they might venture on the truth, innocuously. 'Guilty,
my Lord,' said the foreman. 'Transportation for seven years!' cried the
judge, with a look at the jury-box that there was no mistaking. They
were 'done,' but there never was another conviction in that town
afterwards.”
“And were such things possible on the justice-seat?” exclaimed Mary, in
horror.
“Ah, my dear young lady, I could tell you of far worse than that. There
was a time in this country when the indictment against the prisoner
was Secondary in importance to his general character, his party,
his connections, and fifty other things which had no bearing upon
criminality. There goes another shot! I 'll swear to that,” cried he,
pulling up short, and looking in the direction from which the report
proceeded.
Mary turned at the same moment, and pointed with her whip towards a
beech wood that skirted the foot of the mountain.
“Was it from that quarter the sound came?” said she.
The sharp crack of a fowling-piece, quickly followed by a second report,
now decided the question; and, as if by mutual consent, they both
wheeled their horses round, and set off at a brisk canter towards the
wood.
“I have taken especial pains about preserving this part of the estate,”
said Mary, as they rode along. “It was my cousin Harry's favorite cover
when he was last at home, and he left I can't say how many directions
about it when quitting us; though, to say truth, I never deemed any
precautions necessary till he spoke of it.”
“So that poaching was unknown down here?”
“Almost completely so; now and then some idle fellow with a half-bred
greyhound might run down a hare, or with a rusty firelock knock over a
rabbit, but there it ended. And as we have no gentry neighbors to ask
for leave, and the Oughterard folks would not venture on that liberty,
I may safely say that the report of a gun is a rare event in these
solitudes.”
“Whoever he be, yonder, is not losing time,” said Rep-ton; “there was
another shot.”
Their pace had now become a smart half-gallop; Mary, a little in
advance, leading the way, and pointing out the safe ground to her
companion. As they drew nigh the wood, however, she slackened speed till
he came up, and then said,--
“As I know everybody hereabouts, it will be enough if I only see the
offender; and how to do that is the question.”
“I am at your orders,” said Repton, raising his whip to a salute.
“It will be somewhat difficult,” said Mary, pondering; “the wood is so
overgrown with low copse that one can't ride through it, except along
certain alleys. Now we might canter there for hours and see nothing. I
have it,” cried she, suddenly; “you shall enter the wood and ride slowly
along the green alley, yonder, till you come to the crossroad, when you
'll turn off to the left; while I will remain in observation outside
here, so that if our friend make his exit I am sure to overtake him. At
all events, we shall meet again at the lower end of the road.”
Repton made her repeat her directions, and then, touching his hat in
respectful salutation, rode away to fulfil his mission. A low gate,
merely fastened by a loop of iron without a padlock, admitted the lawyer
within the precincts, in which he soon discovered that his pace must be
a walk, so heavy was the deep clayey soil, littered with fallen leaves
and rotting acorns. Great trees bent their massive limbs over his head,
and, even leafless as they were, formed a darksome, gloomy aisle, the
sides of which were closed in with the wild holly and the broom, and
even the arbutus, all intermingled inextricably. There was something
solemn even to sadness in the deep solitude, and so Repton seemed to
feel as he rode slowly along, alone, tingeing his thoughts of her he had
just quitted with melancholy.
“What a girl and what a life!” said he, musingly. “I must tell
Martin that this will never do! What can all this devotion end in but
disappointment! With the first gleam of their newly acquired power the
people will reject these benefits; they will despise the slow-won fruits
of industry as the gambler rejects a life of toil. Then will come
a reaction--a terrible reaction--with all the semblance of black
ingratitude! She will herself be disgusted. The breach once made will
grow wider and wider, and at last the demagogue will take the place of
the landed proprietor. Estrangement at first, next distrust, and finally
dislike, will separate the gentry from the peasantry, and then--I
tremble to think of what then!”
As Repton had uttered these words, the sharp bang of a gun startled him,
and at the same instant a young fellow sprang from the copse in front
of him into the alley. His coarse fustian shooting-jacket, low-crowned
oil-skin hat, and leather gaiters seemed to bespeak the professional
poacher, and Repton dashed forward with his heavy riding-whip upraised
towards him.
[Illustration: 206]
“Take care, old gentleman,” said the young man, facing about; “my second
barrel is loaded, and if you dare--”
“By Heaven! I'll thrash you, you scoundrel!” said Repton, whose passion
was now boiling over by a sudden bound of the cob, which had nearly
thrown him from the saddle,--a mischance greeted by a hearty burst of
laughter from the stranger.
“I fancy you have quite enough to do at this moment!” cried he, still
laughing.
Half mad with anger, Repton pressed his spurs to the cob's flanks, while
he gave him a vigorous cut of the whip on the shoulder. The animal
was little accustomed to such usage, and reared up wildly, and would
inevitably have fallen back with his rider, had not the stranger,
springing forward, seized the bridle, and pulled him down by main force.
Whether indifferent to his own safety, or so blinded by passion as not
to recognize to what he owed it, the old man struck the other a heavy
blow with his whip over the head, cutting through his hat, and covering
his face with blood.
The young man passing his arm through the bridle, so as to render the
other's escape impossible, coolly removed his hat and proceeded to
stanch the bleeding with his handkerchief,--not the slightest sign of
excitement being displayed by him, nor any evidence of feeling that the
event was other than a more accident.
“Let loose my bridle-rein,--let it loose, sir,” said Repton,
passionately,--more passionately, perhaps, from observing the measured
calmness of the other.
“When I know who you are, I shall,” said the young man.
“My name is Valentine Repton; my address, if you want it, is Merrion
Square North, Dublin; and can you now tell me where a magistrate's
warrant will reach _you?_”
“My present residence is a house you may have seen on the side of the
mountain as you came along, called, I think, Barnagheela; my name is
Massingbred.”
“You presume to be a gentleman, then?” said Repton.
“I have not heard the matter disputed before,” said Jack, with an easy
smile, while he leisurely bound the handkerchief round his head.
“And of course, you look for satisfaction for this?”
“I trust that there can be no mistake upon that point, at least,”
replied he.
“And you shall have it, too; though, hang me, if I well know whether you
should not receive it at the next assizes,--but you shall have it. I
'll go into Oughterard this day; I 'll be there by nine o'clock, at the
Martin Arms.”
“That will do,” said Massingbred, with a coolness almost like
indifference; while he resumed his gun, which he had thrown down, and
proceeded to load the second barrel.
“You are aware that you are poaching here?” said Repton,--“that this is
part of the Martin estate, and strictly preserved?”
“Indeed! and I thought it belonged to Magennis,” said Jack, easily; “but
a preserve without a gamekeeper, or even a notice, is a blockade without
a blockading squadron.” And without a word more, or any notice of the
other, Massingbred shouldered his gun and walked away.
It was some time before Repton could summon resolution to leave the
spot, such was the conflict of thoughts that went on within him. Shame
and sorrow were, indeed, uppermost in his mind, but still not unmingled
with anger at the consummate ease and coolness of the other, who by this
line of conduct seemed to assume a tone of superiority the most
galling and insulting. In vain did he endeavor to justify his act to
himself,--in vain seek to find a plausible pretext for his anger. He
could not, by all his ingenuity, do so, and he only grew more passionate
at his own failure. “Another would hand him over to the next justice of
the peace,--would leave him to quarter sessions; but not so Val
Repton. No, by Jove, he 'll find a man to his humor there, if he wants
fighting,” said he, aloud, as he turned his horse about and rode slowly
back.
It was already dusk when he joined Miss Martin, who, uneasy at his
prolonged absence, had entered the wood in search of him. It required
all the practised dissimulation of the old lawyer to conceal the signs
of his late adventure; nor, indeed, were his replies to her questions
quite free from a certain amount of inconsistency. Mary, however,
willingly changed the subject, and led him back to speak of topics more
agreeable and congenial to him. Still he was not the same sprightly
companion who had ridden beside her in the morning. He conversed with a
degree of effort, and, when suffered, would relapse into long intervals
of silence.
“Who inhabits that bleak-looking house yonder?” said he, suddenly.
“A certain Mr. Magennis, a neighbor, but not an acquaintance, of ours.”
“And how comes it that he lives in the very middle, as it were, of the
estate?”
“An old lease, obtained I can't say how many centuries back, and which
will expire in a year or two. He has already applied for a renewal of
it.”
“And of course, unsuccessfully?”
“Up to this moment it is as you say, but I am endeavoring to persuade
my uncle not to disturb him; nor would he, if Magennis would only be
commonly prudent. You must know that this person is the leading Radical
of our town of Oughterard, the man who sets himself most strenuously in
opposition to our influence in the borough, and would uproot our power
there, were he able.”
“So far, then, he is a courageous fellow.”
“Sometimes I take that view of his conduct, and at others I am disposed
to regard him as one not unwilling to make terms with us.”
“How subtle all these dealings can make a young lady!” said Repton,
slyly.
“Say, rather, what a strain upon one's acuteness it is to ride out with
a great lawyer, one so trained to see spots in the sun that he won't
acknowledge its brightness if there be a speck to search for.”
“And yet it's a great mistake to suppose that we are always looking on
the dark side of human nature,” said he, reflectively; “though,” added
he, after a pause, “it's very often our business to exaggerate baseness,
and make the worst of a bad man.”
“Even that may be more pardonable than to vilify a good one,” said Mary.
“So it is, young lady; you are quite right there.” He was thoughtful
for a while, and then said: “It is very singular, but nevertheless true,
that, in my profession, one loses sight of the individual, as such, and
only regards him as a mere element of the case, plaintiff or defendant
as he may be. I remember once, in a southern circuit, a hale,
fine-looking young fellow entering my room to present me with a hare. He
had walked twelve miles to offer it to me. 'Your honor doesn't remember
me,' said he, sorrowfully, and evidently grieved at my forgetfulness.
'To be sure I do,' replied I, trying to recall his features; 'you
are--let me see--you are--I have it--you are Jemmy Ryan.'
“'No, sir,' rejoined he, quickly, 'I'm the boy that murdered him.'
“Ay, Miss Martin, there's a leaf out of a lawyer's notebook, and yet
I could tell you more good traits of men and women, more of patient
martyrdom under wrong, more courageous suffering to do right, than if I
were--what shall I say?--a chaplain in a nobleman's family.”
Repton's memory was well stored with instances in question, and he
beguiled the way by relating several, till they reached Cro' Martin.
“And there is another yet,” added he, at the close, “more strongly
illustrating what I have said than all these, but I cannot tell it to
_you_.”
“Why so?” asked she, eagerly.
“It is a family secret, Miss Martin, and one that in all likelihood you
shall never know. Still, I cannot refrain from saying that you have in
your own family as noble a specimen of self-sacrifice and denial as I
ever heard of.”
They were already at the door as he said this, and a troop of servants
had assembled to receive them. Mary, therefore, had no time for further
inquiry, had such an attempt been of any avail.
“There goes the first dinner-bell, Miss Martin,” said Repton, gayly.
“I'm resolved to be in the drawing-room before you!” And with this he
hopped briskly upstairs, while Mary hastened to her room to dress.