“'Oh, but, Miss Mary,' says I, 'sure you don't think the worse of poor Joe—'
“'I never thought more highly of him, my dear Mrs. Nelligan,' said she, 'than at this moment; and, whatever others may say or think, I'll maintain my opinion, that he is a credit to us all. Good-bye! good-bye!' and then she turned short round, and said, 'I can't answer for how my uncle may feel about what has occurred to-day, but you know my sentiments. Farewell!' And with that she was off; indeed, before I had time to shut down the window, she was out of sight and away.”
“She ought to know, and she will know, that Joe never said one hard thing of her family. And though he had in his brief enough to tempt him to bring the Martins up for judgment, not a word, not a syllable did he utter.” This old Nelligan spoke with a proud consciousness of his son's honorable conduct.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Joe, “is it not enough that a man sells his intellect, pawns his capacity, and makes traffic of his brains, without being called on to market his very nature, and set up his very emotions for sale? If my calling demands this at my hands, I have done with it,—I renounce it.”
“But I said you refrained, Joe. I remarked that you would not suffer the heat of discussion to draw you into an angry attack—”
“And you praise me for it!” broke in Joe, passionately. “You deem it an occasion to compliment me, that, in defending the cause of a worthless debauchee, I did not seize with avidity the happy moment to assail an honorable gentleman; and not alone you, but a dozen others, congratulated me on this reserve,—this constraint,—as though the lawyer were but a bravo, and, his stiletto once paid for, he must produce the body of his victim. I regard my profession in another and a higher light; but if even its practice were the noblest that could engage human faculties, and its rewards the highest that could crown them, I'd quit it tomorrow, were its price to be the sacrifice of an honorable self-esteem and the regard of—of those we care for.” And in the difficult utterance of the last words his cheek became crimson, and his lip trembled.
“I 'll tell you what you 'll do, Joe,” said his mother, whose kindness was not invariably distinguished by tact,—“just come over with me to-morrow to Cro' Martin. I 'm going to get slips of the oak-leaf geranium and the dwarf rose, and we 'll just go together in a friendly way, and when we 're there you 'll have some opportunity or other to tell Miss Mary that it wasn't your fault for being against them.”
“He 'll do no such thing,” broke in Nelligan, fiercely. “Miss Mary Martin wants no apologies,—her family have no right to any. Joe is a member of a high and powerful profession. If he does n't fill as great a place now, who knows where he 'll not be this day fifteen years, eh, my boy? Maybe I 'll not be here to see,—indeed, it's more than likely I 'll not,—but I know it now. I feel as sure of it as I do that my name 's Dan.”
“And if you are not to see it, father,” said Joe, as he pressed his father's hand between both his own,—“you and my dearest mother,—the prize will be nigh valueless. If I cannot, when my reward is won, come home,—to such a home as this,—the victory will be too late.” And so saying he rose abruptly, and hurried from the room. The moment after he had locked his door, and, flinging himself upon his bed, buried his face between his hands.
With all the proud sensations of having achieved a great success, his heart was heavily oppressed. It seemed to him as though Destiny had decreed that his duty should ever place him in antagonism to his affections. Up to a short period before this trial came on he had frequently been in Miss Martin's company. Now, it was some trifling message for his mother; now, some book he had himself promised to fetch her; then visits to the sick—and Joe, latterly, had taken a most benevolent turn—had constantly brought them together; and often, when Mary was on foot, Joe had accompanied her to the gates of the demesne. In these meetings one subject usually occupied them,—the sad condition of the country, the destitution of the poor,—and on this theme their sympathies and hopes and fears all agreed. It was not only that they concurred in their views of the national character, but that they attributed its traits of good or evil to the very same causes; and while Nelligan was amazed at finding the daughter of a proud house deeply conversant with the daily life of the humblest peasant, she, too, was astonished how sincere in his respect for rank, how loyal in his devotion to the claims of blood, was one whose birth might have proclaimed him a democrat and a destroyer.