It is a fact not only well worthy of mention, but pregnant with its own
instruction, that persons who have long enjoyed all the advantages of
an elevated social position better support the reverses which condemned
them to humble and narrow fortunes, than do the vulgar-minded, when, by
any sudden caprice of the goddess, they are raised to a conspicuous and
distinguished elevation.
There is in the gentleman, and still more in the gentlewoman,--as the
very word itself announces,--an element of placidity and quietude that
suggests a spirit of accommodation to whatever may arise to ruffle the
temper or disturb the equanimity. Self-respect and consideration for
others are a combination not inconsistent or unfrequent, and there
are few who have not seen, some time or other, a reduced gentleman
dispensing in a lowly station the mild graces and accomplishments of his
order, and, while elevating others, sustaining himself.
The upstart, on the other hand, like a mariner in some unknown sea
without chart or compass, has nothing to guide him; impelled hither or
thither as caprice or passion dictate, he is neither restrained by a
due sense of decorum, nor admonished by a conscientious feeling of good
breeding. With the power that rank and wealth bestow he becomes not
distinguished, but eccentric; unsustained by the companionship of his
equals, he tries to assimilate himself to them rather by their follies
than their virtues, and thus presents to the world that mockery of rank
and station which makes good men sad, and bad men triumphant.
To these observations we have been led by the altered fortunes of those
two families of whom our story treats. If the Darcys suddenly found
themselves brought down to a close acquaintanceship with poverty and its
fellows, they bore the change with that noble resignation that springs
from true regard for others at the sacrifice of ourselves. The little
shifts and straits of narrowed means were ever treated jestingly, the
trials that a gloomy spirit had converted into sorrows made matters of
merriment and laughter; and as the traveller sees the Arab tent in the
desert spread beside the ruined temple of ancient grandeur, and happy
faces and kind looks beneath the shade of ever-vanished splendor, so did
this little group maintain in their fall the kindly affection and the
high-souled courage that made of that humble cottage a home of happiness
and enjoyment.
Let us now turn to the west, where another and very different picture
presented itself. Although certain weighty questions remained to be
tried at law between the Darcys and the Hickmans, Bicknell could not
advise the Knight to contest the mortgage under which the Hickmans had
now taken possession of the abbey.
The reputation for patriotism and independence so fortunately acquired
by that family came at a most opportune moment. In no country of Europe
are the associations connected with the proprietorship of land more
regarded than in Ireland; this feeling, like most others truly Irish,
has the double property of being either a great blessing or a great
curse, for while it can suggest a noble attachment to country, it can
also, as we see it in our own day, be the fertile source of the most
atrocious crime.
Had Hickman O'Reilly succeeded to the estate of the Darcys at any other
moment than when popular opinion called the one a “patriot” and the
other a “traitor,” the consequences would have been serious; all
the disposable force, civil and military, would scarcely have been
sufficient to secure possession. The thought of the “ould ancient
family” deposed and exiled by the men of yesterday, would have excited
a depth of feeling enough to stir the country far and near. Every trait
that adorned the one, for generations, would be remembered, while the
humble origin of the other would be offered as the bitterest reproach,
by those who thought in embodying the picture of themselves and their
fortune they were actually summing up the largest amount of obloquy and
disgrace. Such is mob principle in everything! Aristocracy has no
such admirers as the lowly born, just as the liberty of the press is
inexpressibly dear to that part of the population who know not how to
read.
When last we saw Gwynne Abbey, the scene was one of mourning, the
parting hour of those whose affections clung to the old walls, and who
were to leave it forever. We must now return there for a brief space
under different auspices, and when Mr. Hickman O'Reilly, the high
sheriff of the county, was entertaining a large and distinguished
company in his new and princely residence.
It was the assize week, and the judges, as well as the leading officers
of the Crown, were his guests; many of the gentry were also there,--some
from indifference to whom their host might be, others from curiosity to
see how the upstart, Bob Hickman, would do the honors; and there were
many who felt far more at their ease in the abbey now than when they had
the fears of Lady Eleanor Darcy's quietude and coldness of manner before
them.
No expense was spared to rival the style and retinue of the abbey under
its former owners. O'Reilly well knew the value of first impressions
in such matters, and how the report that would soon gain currency
would decide the matter for or against him. So profusely, and with such
disregard to money, was everything done, that, as a mere question of
cost, there was no doubt that never in the Knight's palmiest days had
anything been seen more magnificent than the preparations. Luxuries,
brought at an immense cost, and by contraband, from abroad; wines, of
the rarest excellence, abounded at every entertainment; equipages, more
splendid than any ever seen there before, appeared each morning; and
troops of servants without number moved hither and thither, displaying
the gorgeous liveries of the O'Reillys.
The guests were for the most part the neighboring gentry, the military,
and the members of the bar; but there were others also, selected with
peculiar care, and whose presence was secured at no inconsiderable
pains. These were the leading “diners-out” of Dublin, and recognized
“men about town,” whose names were seen on club committees, and whose
word was law on all questions of society. Among them, the chief was Con
Heffernan; and he now saw himself for the first time a guest at Gwynne
Abbey. The invitation was made and accepted with a certain coquetting
that gave it the character of a reconciliation; there were political
differences to be got over, mutual recriminations to be forgotten; but
as each felt, for his own reasons, not indisposed to renew friendly
relations, the matter presented little difficulty, and when Mr. O'Reilly
received his guest, on his arrival, with a shake of both hands,
the action was meant and taken as a receipt in full for all past
misunderstanding, and both had too much tact ever to go back on
“bygones.”
There had been a little correspondence between the parties, the early
portions of which were marked “Confidential,” and the latter “Strictly
confidential and private.” This related to a request made by O'Reilly
to Heffernan to entreat his influence in behalf of Lionel Darcy. Nothing
could exceed the delicacy of the negotiation; for after professing that
the friendship which had subsisted between his own son and young Darcy
was the active motive for the request, he went on to say that in the
course of certain necessary legal investigations it was discovered that
young Lionel, in the unguarded carelessness of a young and extravagant
man, had put his name to bills of a large amount, and even hinted that
he had not stopped there, but had actually gone the length of signing
his father's name to documents for the sale of property. To obtain an
appointment for him in some regiment serving in India would at once
withdraw him from the likelihood of any exposure in these matters.
To interest Heffernan in the affair was the object of O'Reilly's
correspondence; and Heffernan was only too glad, at so ready an
opportunity, to renew their raptured relations.
Lions were not as fashionable in those days as at present; but still the
party had its share in the person of Counsellor O'Halloran, the great
orator of the bar, and the great speaker at public meetings, the rising
patriot, who, not being deemed of importance enough to be bought, was
looked on as incorruptible. He had come down special to defend O'Reilly
in a record of Darcy _versus_ Hickman,--the first case submitted
for trial by Bicknell, and one which, small in itself, would yet,
if determined in the Knight's favor, form a rule of great importance
respecting those that were to follow.
It was in the first burst of Hickman O'Reilly's indignation against
Government that he had secured O'Halloran as his counsel, never
anticipating that any conjuncture would bring him once more into
relations with the Ministry. His appointment of high sheriff, however,
and his subsequent correspondence with Heffernan, ending with the
invitation to the abbey, had greatly altered his sentiments, and he
more than once regretted the precipitancy with which he had selected his
advocate.
Whether “the Counsellor” did or did not perceive that his reception was
one of less cordiality and more embarrassment than might be expected,
it is not easy to say, for he was one of those persons who live too much
out of themselves to betray their own feelings to the world. He was a
large and well-looking man, but whose features would have been coarse in
their expression were it not for the animated intelligence of his eye,
and the quaint humor that played about the angles of his mouth, and
added to the peculiar drollery of an accent to which Kerry had lent all
its native archness. His gestures were bold, striking, and original; his
manner of speaking, even in private, impressive,--from the deliberate
slowness of his utterance, and the air of truthfulness sustained by
every agency of look, voice, and expression. The least observant could
not fail to remark in him a conscious power, a sense of his own great
gifts either in argument or invective; for he was no less skilful
in unravelling the tangled tissue of a knotted statement than in
overwhelming his adversary with a torrent of abusive eloquence.
The habits of his profession, but in particular the practice of
cross-examination, had given him an immense insight into the darker
recesses of the human heart, and made him master of all the subtleties
and evasions of inferior capacities. This knowledge he brought with him
into society, where his powers of conversation had already established
for him a high repute. He abounded in anecdote, which he introduced so
easily and naturally that the _à propos_ had as much merit as the story
itself. Yet with all these qualities, and in a time when the members of
his profession were more than ever esteemed and courted, he himself
was not received, save on sufferance, into the better society of the
capital. The stamp of a “low tone,” and the assertion of democratic
opinions, were two insurmountable obstacles to his social acceptance;
and he was rarely, if ever, seen in those circles which arrogated to
themselves the title of best. Whether it was a conscious sense of what
was “in him” powerful enough to break down such barriers as these,
and that, like Nelson, he felt the day would come when he would have a
“_Gazette of his own_,” but his manner at times displayed a spirit of
haughty daring and effrontery that formed a singular contrast with the
slippery and insinuating softness of his _nisi prius_ tone and gesture.
If we seem to dwell longer on this picture than the place the original
occupies in our story would warrant, it is because the character is not
fictitious, and there is always an interest to those who have seen the
broad current of a mighty river rolling onward in its mighty strength,
to stand beside the little streamlet which, first rising from the
mountain, gave it origin,--to mark the first obstacles that opposed its
course,--and to watch the strong impulses that moulded its destiny to
overcome them.
Whatever fears Hickman O'Reilly might have felt as to how his counsel,
learned in the law, would be received by the Government agent, Mr.
Heffernan, were speedily allayed. The gentlemen had never met before,
and yet, ere the first day went over, they were as intimate as old
acquaintances, each, apparently, well pleased with the strong good sense
and natural humor of the other. And so, indeed, it may be remarked in
the world, that when two shrewd, far-reaching individuals are brought
together, the attraction of quick intelligence and craft is sufficient
to draw them into intimate relations at once. There is something
wonderfully fraternal in roguery.
This was the only social difficulty O'Reilly dreaded, and happily it
was soon dispelled, and the general enjoyment was unclouded by even
the slightest accident. The judges were _bon vivants_, who enjoyed good
living and good wine; he of the Common Pleas, too, was an excellent
shot, and always exchanged his robes for a shooting-jacket on entering
the park, and despatched hares and woodcocks as he walked along, with
as much unconcern as he had done Whiteboys half an hour before. The
Solicitor-General was passionately fond of hunting, and would rather any
day have drawn a cover than an indictment; and so with the rest,--they
seemed all of them sporting-gentlemen of wit and pleasure, who did a
little business at law by way of “distraction.” Nor did O'Halloran form
an exception; he was as ready as the others to snatch an interval
of pleasure amid the fatigues of his laborious day. But, somehow, he
contrived that no amount of business should be too much for him; and
while his ruddy cheek and bright eye bespoke perfect health and renewed
enjoyment, it was remarked that the lamp burned the whole night long
unextinguished in his chamber, and that no morning found him ever
unprepared to defend the interest of his client.
There was, as we have said, nothing to throw a damper on the general
joy. Fortune was bent on dealing kindly with Mr. O'Reilly; for while he
was surrounded with distinguished and delighted guests, his father, the
doctor, the only one whose presence could have brought a blush to his
cheek, was confined to his room by a severe cold, and unable to join the
party.
The assize calendar was a long one, and the town the last in the
circuit, so that the judges were in no hurry to move on; besides, Gwynne
Abbey was a quarter which it was very unlikely would soon be equalled
in style of living and resources. For all these several reasons the
business of the law went on with an easy and measured pace, the Court
opening each day at ten, and closing about three or four, when a
magnificent procession of carriages and saddle-horses drew up in the
main street to convey the guests back to the abbey.
While the other trials formed the daily subject of table-talk,
suggesting those stories of fun, anecdote, and incident with which no
other profession can enter into rivalry, the case of Darcy _versus_
Hickman was never alluded to, and, being adroitly left last on the list
for trial, could not possibly interfere with the freedom so essential to
pleasant intercourse.
The day fixed on for this record was a Saturday. It was positively the
last day the judges could remain, and having accepted an engagement to
a distant part of the country for that very day at dinner, the Court was
to sit early, and there being no other cause for trial, it was supposed
the cause would be concluded in time to permit their departure. Up to
this morning the high sheriff had never omitted, as in duty bound, to
accompany the judges to the court-house, displaying in the number and
splendor of his equipages a costliness and magnificence that excited the
wonder of the assembled gentry. On this day, however, he deemed it would
be more delicate on his part to be absent, as the matter in litigation
so nearly concerned himself. And half seriously and half in jest he made
his apologies to the learned baron who was to try the cause, and begged
for permission to remain at the abbey. The request was most natural, and
at once acceded to; and although Heffer-nan had expressed the greatest
desire to hear the Counsellor, he determined to pass the morning, at
least, with O'Reilly, and endeavor afterwards to be in time for the
address to the jury.
At last the procession moved off; several country gentlemen, who had
come over to breakfast, joining the party, and making the cavalcade, as
it entered the town, a very imposing body. It was the market-day, too;
and thus the square in front of the court-house was crowded with a
frieze-coated and red-cloaked population, earnestly gesticulating
and discussing the approaching trial, for to the Irish peasant the
excitement of a law process has the most intense and fascinating
interest. All the ordinary traffic of the day was either neglected or
carelessly performed, in the anxiety to see those who dispensed the
dread forms of justice, but more particularly to obtain a sight of the
young “Counsellor,” who for the first time had appeared on this circuit,
but whose name as a patriot and an orator was widely renowned.
“Here he comes! Here he comes! Make way there!” went from mouth to
mouth, as O'Halloran, who had entered the inn for a moment, now issued
forth in wig and gown, and carrying a heavily laden bag in his hand. The
crowd opened for him respectfully and in dead silence, and then a hearty
cheer burst forth, that echoed through the wide square, and was taken up
by hundreds of voices in the neighboring streets.
It needed not the reverend companionship of Father John M'Enerty, the
parish priest of Curraghglass, who walked at his side, to secure him
this hearty burst of welcome, although of a truth the circumstance had
its merit also, and many favorable comments were passed upon O'Halloran
for the familiar way he leaned on the priest's arm, and the kindly
intelligence that subsisted between them.
If anything could have added to the pleasure of the assembled crowd at
the instant, it was an announcement by Father John, who, turning round
on the steps of the courthouse, informed them in a kind of confidential
whisper that was heard over the square, that “if they were good boys,
and did n't make any disturbance in the town,” the Counsellor would give
them a speech when the trial was over.
The most deafening shout of applause followed this declaration, and
whatever interest the questions of law had possessed for them before was
now merged in the higher anxiety to hear the great Counsellor himself
discuss the “veto,” that long-agitated question each had taught himself
to believe of nearest importance to himself.
“When last I visited this town,” said Bicknell to the senior counsel
employed in the Knight's behalf, “I witnessed a very different scene.
Then we had triumphal arches, and bonfire illuminations, and addresses.
It was young Darcy's birthday, and a more enthusiastic reception it is
impossible to conceive than he met in these very streets from these very
people.”
“There is only one species of interest felt for dethroned monarchs,”
said the other, caustically,--“how they bear their misfortunes.”
“The man you see yonder waving his hat to young O'Reilly was one of
a deputation to congratulate the heir of Gwynne Abbey! I remember him
well,--his name is Mitchell.”
“I hope not the same I see upon our jury-list here,” said the
Counsellor, as he unfolded a written paper, and perused it attentively.
“The same man; he holds his house under the Darcys, and has received
many and deep favors at their hands.”
“So much the worse, if we should find him in the jury-box. But have we
any chance of young Darcy yet? Do you give up all hope of his arrival?”
“The last tidings I received from my clerk were, that he was to follow
him down to Plymouth by that night's mail, and still hoped to be in time
to catch him ere the transport sailed.”
“What a rash and reckless fellow he must be, that would leave a country
where he has such interests at stake!”
“If he felt that a point of honor or duty was involved, I don't believe
he 'd sacrifice a jot of either to gain this cause, and I 'm certain
that some such plea has been made use of on the present occasion.”
“How they cheer! What's the source of their enthusiasm at this moment?
There it goes, that carriage with the green liveries and the Irish motto
round the crest. Look at O'Halloran, too! how he shakes hands with the
townsfolk; canvassing for a verdict already! Now, Bicknell, let us
move on; but, for my part, I feel our cause is decided outside the
court-house. If I 'm not very much mistaken, we are about to have an era
of 'popular justice' in Ireland, and our enemies could not wish us worse
luck.”