CHAPTER XXXVIII. REPTON'S LAST CAUSE
We have no right, as little have we the inclination, to inflict our reader with the details by which Barry Martin asserted and obtained his own. A suit in which young Martin assumed to be the defendant developed the whole history to the world, and proclaimed his title to the estate. It was a memorable case in many ways; it was the last brief Val Repton ever held. Never was his clear and searching intellect more conspicuous; never did he display more logical acuteness, nor trace out a difficult narrative with more easy perspicuity.
“My Lords,” said he, as he drew nigh the conclusion of his speech, “it would have been no ordinary satisfaction to me to close a long life of labor in these courts by an effort which restores to an ancient name the noble heritage it had held for centuries. I should have deemed such an occasion no unfitting close to a career not altogether void of its successes; but the event has still stronger claims upon my gratitude. It enables me in all the unembellished sternness of legal proof to display to an age little credulous of much affection the force of a brother's love,—the high-hearted devotion by which a man encountered a long life of poverty and privation, rather than disturb the peaceful possession of a brother.
“Romance has its own way of treating such themes; but I do not believe romance can add one feature to the simple fact of this man's self-denial.
“We should probably be lost in our speculations as to the noble motives of this sacrifice, if our attention was not called away to something infinitely finer and more exalted than even this. I mean the glorious life and martyr's death of her who has made a part of this case less like a legal investigation than the page of an affecting story. Story, do I say! Shame on the word! It is in truth and reality alone are such virtues inscribed. Fiction cannot deal with the humble materials that make up such an existence,—the long hours of watching by sickness; the weary care of teaching the young; the trying disappointments to hope bravely met by fresh efforts; the cheery encouragement drawn from a heart exhausting itself to supply others. Think of a young girl—a very child in the world's wisdom, more than a man in heroism and daring, with a heart made for every high ambition, and a station that might command the highest—calmly consenting to be the friend of destitution, the companion of misery, the daily associate of every wretchedness; devoting grace that might have adorned a court to shed happiness in a cabin, and making of beauty that would have shed lustre around a palace the sunshine that pierced the gloom of a peasant's misery! Picture to yourself the hand a prince might have knelt to kiss, holding the cup to the lips of fever; fancy the form whose elegance would have fascinated, crouched down beside the embers as she spoke words of consolation or hope to some bereaved mother or some desolate orphan!
“These are not the scenes we are wont to look on here. Our cares are, unhappily, more with the wiles and snares of crafty men than with the sorrows and sufferings of the good! It is not often human nature wears its best colors in this place; the spirit of litigious contest little favors the virtues that are the best adornments of our kind. Thrice happy am I, then, that I end my day where a glorious sunset gilds its last hours; that I close my labors not in reprobating crime or stigmatizing baseness, but with a full heart, thanking God that my last words are an elegy over the grave of the best of The Martins of Cro' Martin.'”
The inaccurate record from which we take these passages—for the only report of the trial is in a newspaper of the time—adds that the emotion of the speaker had so far pervaded the court that the conclusion was drowned in mingled expressions of applause and sorrow; and when Repton retired, he was followed by the whole bar, eagerly pressing to take their last farewell of its honored father.
The same column of the paper mentions that Mr. Joseph Nelligan was to have made his first motion that day as Solicitor-General, but had left the court from a sudden indisposition, and the cause was consequently deferred.
If Val Repton never again took his place in court, he did not entirely abdicate his functions. Barry Martin had determined on making a conveyance of the estate to his nephew, and the old lawyer was for several weeks busily employed in that duty. Although Merl's claim became extinguished when young Martin's right to the property was annulled, Barry Martin insisted on arrangements being made to repay him all that he had advanced,—a course which Repton, with some little hesitation, at last concurred in. He urged Barry to reserve a life-interest to himself in the property, representing the various duties which more properly would fall to his lot than to that of a young and inexperienced proprietor. But he would not hear of it.
“He cannot abide the place,” said Repton, when talking the matter over with Massingbred. “He is one of those men who never can forgive the locality where they have been miserable, nor the individual who has had a share in their sorrow. When he settles his account with Henderson, then he 'll leave the West forever.”
“And will he still leave Henderson in his charge?” asked Jack.
“That is as it may be,” said Repton, cautiously. “There is, as I understand, some very serious reckoning between them. It is the only subject on which Martin has kept mystery with me, and I do not like even to advert to it.”
Massingbred pondered long over these words, without being able to make anything of them.
It might be that Henderson's conduct had involved him in some grave charge; and if so, Jack's own intentions with regard to the daughter would be burdened with fresh complications. “The steward” was bad enough; but if he turned out to be the “unjust steward”—“I 'll start for Galway to-night,” thought he. “I 'll anticipate the discovery, whatever it be. She can no longer refuse to see me on the pretext of recent sorrow. It is now two months and more since this bereavement befell her. I can no longer combat this life of anxiety and doubt.—What can I do for you in the West, sir?” asked he of Repton, suddenly.
“Many things, my young friend,” said Repton, “if you will delay your departure two days, since they are matters on which I must instruct you personally.”
Massingbred gave a kind of half-consent, and the other went on to speak of the necessity for some nice diplomacy between the uncle and his nephew. “They know each other but little; they are on the verge of misunderstandings a dozen times a day. Benefits are, after all, but sorry ties between man and man. They may ratify the treaty of affection; they rarely inscribe the contract!”
“Still Martin cannot but feel that to the noblest act of his uncle's generosity he is indebted for all he possesses.”
“Of course he knows, and he feels it; but who is to say whether that same consciousness is not a load too oppressive to bear. I know already Barry Martin's suggestions as to certain changes have not been well taken, and he is eager and pressing to leave Ireland, lest anything should disturb the concord, frail as it is, between them.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Massingbred, passionately, “there is wonderfully little real good in this world; wonderfully little that can stand the test of the very basest of all motives,—mere gain.”
“Don't say so!” cried Repton. “Men have far better natures than you think; the fault lies in their tempers. Ay, sir, we are always entering into heavy recognizances with our passions, to do fifty things we never cared for. We have said this, we have heard the other; somebody sneered at that, and some one else agreed with him; and away we go, pitching all reason behind us, like an old shoe, and only seeking to gratify a whim, or a mere caprice, suggested by temper. Why do people maintain friendly intercourse at a distance for years, who could not pass twenty-four hours amicably under the same roof? Simply because it is their natures, and not their tempers, are in exercise.”
“I scarcely can separate the two in my mind,” said Jack, doubtingly.
“Can't you, sir? Why, nature is your skin, temper only your great-coat.” And the old lawyer laughed heartily at his own conceit. “But here comes the postman.”
The double knock had scarcely reverberated through the spacious hall when the servant entered with a letter.
“Ah! Barry Martin's hand. What have we here?” said Repton, as he ran his eyes over it. “So-so; just as I was saying this minute, only that Barry has the good sense to see it himself. 'My nephew,' he writes, 'has his own ideas on all these subjects, which are not mine; and as it is no part of my plan to hamper my gift with conditions that might impair its value, I mean to leave this at once.
“'I have had my full share of calamity since I set foot in this land; and if this rugged old nature could be crushed by mere misfortune, the last two months might have done it. But no, Repton, the years by which we survive friends serve equally to make us survive affections, and we live on, untouched by time!
“'I mean to be with you this evening. Let us dine alone together, for I have much to say to you.
“' Yours ever,
“'Barry Martin.
“'I hope I may see Massingbred before I sail. I 'd like to shake hands with him once again. Say so to him, at all events.'”
“Come in to-morrow to breakfast,” said Repton; “by that time we'll have finished all mere business affairs.” And Massingbred having assented, they parted.