While she halts to determine what course next to follow,—for these signs of revelry have disconcerted her,—she hears a rough, loud voice from within call out, “There's another toast you must drink now, and fill for it to the brim. Come, Peter Hayes, no skulking; the liquor is good, and the sentiment the same. Gentlemen, you came here to-night to honor my poor house—my ancestral house, I may call it—on the victory we 've gained over tyranny and oppression.” Loud cheers here interrupted him, but he resumed: “They tried—by the aid of the law that they made themselves—to turn me out of my house and home. They did all that false swearing and forged writing could do, to drive me—me, Tom Magennis, the last of an ancient stock—out upon the highways.” (Groans from the hearers.) “But they failed,—ay, gentlemen, they failed. Old Repton, with all his skill, and Scanlan, with all his treachery, could n't do it. Joe Nelligan, like Goliath—no, like David, I mean—put a stone between their two eyes, and laid them low.” (Loud cheering, and cries of “Why is n't he here?” “Where is he to-night?”) “Ay, gentlemen,” resumed the speaker, “ye may well ask where is he this night? when we are celebrating not only our triumph, but his; for it was the first brief he ever held,—the first guinea he ever touched for a fee! I 'll tell you where he is. Skulking—ay, that's the word for it—skulking in Oughterard,—hiding himself for shame because he beat the Martins!” ( Loud expressions of anger, and some of dissent, here broke forth; some inveighing against this cowardice, others defending him against the charge.) “Say what you like,” roared Magennis; “I know, and he knows that I know it. What was it he said when Mahony went to him with my brief? 'I'll not refuse to undertake the case,' said he, 'but I 'll not lend myself to any scurrilous attack upon the family at Cro' Martin!'” (Groans.) “Ay, but listen,” continued he: “'And if I find,' said he—'if I find that in the course of the case such an attempt should be made, I 'll throw down my brief though I never should hold another.' There's Joe Nelligan for you! There's the stuff you thought you 'd make a Patriot out of!”
“Say what you like, Tom Magennis, he's a credit to the town,” said old Hayes, “and he won your cause this day against one of the 'cutest of the Dublin counsellors.”
“He did so, sir,” resumed Magennis, “and he got his pay, and there's nothing between us; and I told him so, and more besides; for I said, 'You may flatter them and crawl to them; you may be as servile as a serpent or a boa-constrictor to them; but take my word for it, Mister Joe,—or Counsellor Nelligan, if you like it better,—they'll never forget who and what you are,—the son of old Dan there, of the High Street,—and you 've a better chance to be the Chief Justice than the husband of Mary Martin!'”
“You told him that!” cried several together. “I did, sir; and I believe for a minute he meant to strike me; he got pale with passion, and then he got red—blood red; and, in that thick way he has when he 's angry, he said, 'Whatever may be my hopes of the Bench, I'll not win my way to it by ever again undertaking the cause of a ruffian!' 'Do you mean me?' said I,—'do you mean me?' But he turned away into the house, and I never saw him since. If it had n't been for Father Neal there, I 'd have had him out for it, sir!”
“We've other work before us than quarrelling amongst ourselves,” said the bland voice of Father Rafferty; “and now for your toast, Tom, for I 'm dry waiting for it.”
“Here it is, then,” cried Magennis. “A speedy downfall to the Martins!”
“A speedy downfall to the Martins!” was repeated solemnly in chorus; while old Hayes interposed, “Barring the niece,—barring Miss Mary.”
“I won't except one,” cried Magennis. “My august leader remarked, 'It was false pity for individuals destroyed the great revolution of France.' It was—” Mary did not wait for more, but, turning her horse's head, moved slowly around towards the back of the house.
Through a wide space, of which the rickety broken gate hung by a single hinge, Mary entered a large yard, a court littered with disabled carts, harrows, and other field implements, all equally unserviceable. Beneath a low shed along one of the walls stood three or four horses, with harness on them, evidently belonging to the guests assembled within. All these details were plainly visible by the glare of an immense fire which blazed on the kitchen hearth, and threw its light more than half-way across the yard. Having disposed of her horse at one end of the shed, Mary stealthily drew nigh the kitchen window, and looked in. An old, very old woman, in the meanest attire, sat crouching beside the fire; and although she held a huge wooden ladle in her hand, seemed, by her drooped head and bent-down attitude, either moping or asleep. Various cooking utensils were on the fire, and two or three joints of meat hung roasting before it, while the hearth was strewn with dishes, awaiting the savory fare that was to fill them.
These, and many other indications of the festivity then going on within, Mary rapidly noticed; but it was evident, from the increasing eagerness of her gaze, that the object which she sought had not yet met her eye. Suddenly, however, the door of the kitchen opened and a figure entered, on which the young girl bent all her attention. It was Joan Landy, but how different from the half-timid, half-reckless peasant girl that last we saw her! Dressed in a heavy gown of white satin, looped up on either side with wreaths of flowers, and wearing a rich lace cap on her head, she rushed hurriedly in, her face deeply flushed, and her eyes sparkling with excitement. Hastily snatching up a check apron that lay on a chair, she fastened it about her, and drew near the fire. It was plain from her gesture, as she took the ladle from the old woman's hand, that she was angry, and by her manner seemed as if rebuking her. The old crone, however, only crouched lower, and spreading out her wasted fingers towards the blaze, appeared insensible to everything addressed to her. Meanwhile Joan busied herself about the fire with all the zealous activity of one accustomed to the task. Mary watched her intently; she scrutinized with piercing keenness every lineament of that face, now moved by its passing emotions, and she muttered to herself, “Alas, I have come in vain!” Nor was this depressing sentiment less felt as Joan, turning from the fire, approached a fragment of a broken looking-glass that stood against the wall. Drawing herself up to her full height, she stood gazing proudly, delightedly, at her own figure. The humble apron, too, was speedily discarded, and as she trampled it beneath her feet she seemed to spurn the mean condition of which it was the symbol. Mary Martin sighed deeply as she looked, and muttered once more, “In vain!”