The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. II (of II)

“Possibly. I have no recollection of it,” said Jack, musing.

“An ignoble confession, sir,” said Repton; “no less shocked should I be were she to tell me she was uncertain if she had ever met Mr. Massingbred. As Burke once remarked to me, ‘Active intelligences, like appropriate ingredients in chemistry, never meet without fresh combinations.’ It is then a shame to ignore such products. I ‘d swear that when you did meet you understood each other thoroughly; agreed well, – ay, and what is more to the purpose, differed in the right places too.”

“I’m certain we did,” said Jack, smiling, “though I’m ungrateful enough to forget all about it.”

“Well,” said Martin, entering, “I have sent for another advocate to plead my cause. My daughter will tell you, sir, that she, at least, is not afraid to encounter the uncivilized glens beside the Orinoco. Come in, Kate. You tell me that you and Mr. Massingbred are old friends.”

Massingbred started as he heard the name, looked up, and there stood Kate before him, with her hand extended in welcome.

“Good heavens! what is this? Am I in a dream? Can this be real?” cried Jack, pressing his hands to his temples, and trembling from head to foot in the intensity of his anxiety.

“My father tells me of an invitation he has given you, Mr. Massingbred,” said she, smiling faintly at his embarrassment, “and asks me to repeat it; but I know far better than he does all that you would surrender by exile from the great world wherein you are destined to eminence. The great debater, the witty conversationalist, the smart reviewer, might prove but a sorry trapper, and even a bad shot! I have my scruples, then, about supporting a cause where my conscience does not go along with me.”

“My head on’t, but he ‘ll like the life well,” said Barry, half impatiently.

“Am I to think that you will not ask me to be your guest?” said Jack, in a whisper, only audible by Kate.

“I have not said so,” said she, in the same low tone. “Will you go further, Kate,” muttered he, in tremulous eagerness, “and say, ‘Come’?” “Yes!” said she. “Come!”

“I accept!” cried Jack, rushing over, and grasping Martin’s hands between his own. “I ‘m ready, – this hour, this instant, if you like it.”

“We find the prisoner guilty, my Lords,” said Repton; “but we recommend him to mercy, as his manner on this occasion convinces us it is a first offence.”

We have now done with the Martins of Cro’ Martin. Should any of our readers feel a curiosity as to the future fortunes of the estate, its story, like that of many another Irish property, is written in the Encumbered Estates Court. Captain Martin only grew wiser by the especial experience of one class of difficulties. His indolent, easy disposition and a taste for expense led him once again into embarrassments from which there was but one issue, – the sale of his property. He has still, however, a handsome subsistence remaining, and lives with Lady Dorothea, notable and somewhat distinguished residents of a city on the Continent.

We cannot persuade ourselves that we have inspired interest for the humbler characters of our piece. Nor dare we ask the reader to hear more about Mrs. Cronan and her set, nor learn how Kilkieran fared in the changes around it.

For Joseph Nelligan, however, we claim a parting word. He was the first of an order of men who have contributed no small share to the great social revolution of Ireland in late years. With talents fully equal to the best in the opposite scale of party, and a character above all reproach, he stood a rebuking witness to all the taunts and sarcasms once indiscriminately levelled at his class; and, at the same time, inspired his own party with the happy knowledge that there was a nobler and more legitimate road to eminence than by factious display and popular declamation.

We do not wish to inquire how far the one great blow to his happiness – the disappointment of his early life – contributed to his success by concentrating his ambition on his career. Certain is it, no man achieved a higher or more rapid elevation, and old Dan lived to receive at his board the Chief Justice of the Queen’s Bench in the person of his own son.

Poor Simmy Crow! for if we would forget him, he has taken care that oblivion is not to be his fate. He has sent from the Rocky Mountains, where he is now wandering with Barry Martin, some sketches of Indian Life to the Irish Art Exhibition.

If it be a pleasure to trace in our friends the traits we have admired in them in youth, and remark the embers of the fires that once wanned their hearts, Simmy affords us this gratification, since his drawings reveal the inspirations that first filled his early mind. The Chief in his war-paint has a fac-simile likeness to his St. John in the Wilderness; and as for the infant the squaw is bathing in the stream, we can produce twelve respectable witnesses to depose that it is “Moses.”

We are much tempted to add a word about the Exiles themselves, but we abstain. It is enough to say that all the attractive prospects of ambition held out by friends, all the seductions of generous offers from family, have never tempted them to return to the Old World; but that they live on happily, far away from the jarring collisions of life, the tranquil existence they had longed for.

THE END.