Chapter 21

“Art, my good boy, will you take your spade and clane out the remaindher o' that drain, between the Hannigans and us,” said his father.

“Well, will Frank come?”

“Sure you know he can't; isn't he weedin' that bit of _blanther_ in Crackton's park, an' afther that sure he has to cut scraws on the Pirl-hill for the new barn.”

“Well, I'll help him if he helps me; isn't that fair? Let us join.”

“Hut, get out o' that, avourneen; go yourself; do what you're bid, Art.”

“Is it by myself? murdher alive, father, don't ax me; I'll give him my new Cammon if he comes.”

“Throth you won't; the sorra hand I'd ever wish to see the same Cammon in but your own; faix, it's you that can handle it in style. Well now, Art, well becomes myself but I thought I could play a Cammon wid the face o' clay wanst in my time, but may I never sin if ever I could match you at it; oh, sorra taste o' your Cammon you must part wid; sure I'd rather scower the drain myself.”

“Bedad I won't part wid it then.”

“I'd rather, I tell you, scower it myself--an' I will, too. Sure if I renew the ould cough an me I'll thry the _Casharawan_, (* Dandelion) that did me so much good the last time.”

“Well, that's purty! Ha, ha, ha! you to go! Oh, ay, indeed--as if I'd stand by an' let you. Not so bad as that comes to, either--no. Is the spade an' shovel in the shed?”

“To be sure they are. Throth, Art, you're worth the whole o' them--the sorra lie in it. Well, go, avillish.”

This was this fine boy's weakness played upon by those who, it is true, were not at all conscious of the injury they were inflicting upon him at the time. He was certainly the pride of the family, and even while they humored and increased this his predominant and most dangerous foible, we are bound to say that they gratified their own affection as much as they did his vanity.

His father's family consisted, as we have said, of three sons and three daughters. The latter were the elder, and in point of age Art, as we have said, was the youngest of them all. The education that he and his brothers received was such as the time and the neglected state of the country afforded them. They could all read and write tolerably well, and knew something of arithmetic. This was a proof that their education had not been neglected. And why should it? Were they not the descendants of the great Maguires of Fermanagh? Why, the very consciousness of their blood was felt as a proud and unanswerable argument against ignorance. The best education, therefore, that could be procured by persons in their humble sphere of life, they received. The eldest brother, whose name was Brian, did not, as is too frequently the case with the eldest sons of small farmers, receive so liberal a portion of instruction as Frank or Art. This resulted from the condition and necessities of his father, who could not spare him from his farm--and, indeed, it cost the worthy man many a sore heart. At all events, time advanced, and the two younger brothers were taken from school with a view of being apprenticed to some useful trade. The character of each was pretty well in accordance with their respective dispositions. Frank had no enemies, yet was he by no means so popular as Art, who had many. The one possessed nothing to excite envy, and never gave offence; the other, by the very superiority of his natural powers, exultingly paraded, as they were, at the expense of dulness or unsuccessful rivalry, created many vindictive maligners, who let no opportunity pass of giving him behind his back the harsh word which they durst not give him to his face. In spite of all this, his acknowledged superiority, his generosity, his candor, and utter ignorance or hatred of the low chicaneries of youthful cunning, joined to his open, intrepid, and manly character, conspired to render him popular in an extraordinary degree. Nay, his very failings added to this, and when the battle of his character was fought, all the traditionary errors of moral life were quoted in his favor.

“Ay, ay, the boy has his faults, and who has not; I'd be glad to know? If he's lively, it's betther to be that, than a mosey, any day. His brother Frank is a good boy, but sure divil a squig of spunk or spirits is in him, an', my dear, you know the ould proverb, that a standin' pool always stinks, while the runnin' strame is sweet and clear to the bottom. If he's proud, he has a right to be proud, and why shouldn't he, seein' that it's well known he could take up more larnin' than half the school.”

“Well, but poor Frank's a harmless boy, and never gave offence to mortual, which, by the same token, is more than can be said of Art the lad.”

“Very well, we know all that; and maybe it 'ud be betther for himself if he had a sharper spice of the dioual in him--but sure the poor boy hasn't the brain for it. Offence! oh, the dickens may seize the offence poor Frank will give to man or woman, barrin' he mends his manners, and gats a little life into him--sure he was a year and a day in the Five Common Rules, an' three blessed weeks gettin' the Multiplication Table.”

Such, in general, was the estimate formed of their respective characters, by those who, of course, had an opportunity of knowing them best. Whether the latter were right or wrong will appear in the sequel, but in the meantime we must protest, even in this early stage of our narrative, against those popular exhibitions of mistaken sympathy, which in early life--the most dangerous period too--are felt and expressed for those who, in association with weak points of character, give strong indications of talent. This mistaken generosity is pernicious to the individual, inasmuch as it confirms him in the very errors which he should correct, and in the process of youthful reasoning, which is most selfish, induces him not only to doubt the whisperings of his own conscience, but to substitute in their stead the promptings of the silliest vanity.

Having thus given a rapid sketch of these two brothers in their schoolboy life, we now come to that period at which their father thought proper to apprentice them. The choice of the trade he left to their own natural judgment, and as Frank was the eldest, he was allowed to choose first. He immediately selected that of a carpenter, as being clean, respectable, and within-doors; and, as he added--

“Where the wages is good--and then I'm tould that one can work afther hours, if they wish.”

“Very well,” said the father, “now let us hear, Art; come, alanna, what are you on for?”

“I'll not take any trade,” replied Art.

“Not take any trade, Art! why, my goodness, sure you knew all along that you war for a trade. Don't you know when you and Frank grow up, and, of course, must take the world on your heads, that it isn't this strip of a farm that you can depend on.”

“That's what I think of,” said Frank; “one's not to begin the world wid empty pockets, or, any way, widout some ground to put one's foot on.”

“The world!” rejoined Art; “why, what the sorra puts thoughts o' the world into your head, Frank? Isn't it time enough for you or me to think o' the world these ten years to come?”

“Ay,” replied Frank, “but when we come to join it isn't the time to begin to think of it; don't you know what the ould saying says--_ha nha la na guiha la na scuillaba_--it isn't on the windy day that you are to look for your scollops.” *

* The proverb inculcates forethought and provision. Scollop is an osier sharpened at both ends, by which the thatch of a house is fastened down to the roof. Of a windy day the thatch alone would be utterly useless, if there were no scollops to keep it firm.

“An' what 'ud prevent you, Art, from goin' to larn a trade?” asked his father.

“I'd rather stay with you,” replied the affectionate boy; “I don't like to leave you nor the family, to be goin' among strangers.”

The unexpected and touching nature of his motive, so different from what was expected, went immediately to his father's heart. He looked at his fine boy, and was silent for a minute, after which he wiped the moisture from his eyes. Art, on seeing his father affected, became so himself, and added--

“That's my only raison, father, for not goin'; I wouldn't like to lave you an' them, if I could help it.”

“Well, acushla,” replied the father, while his eyes beamed on him with tenderness and affection, “sure we wouldn't ax you to go, if we could any way avoid it--it's for your own good we do it. Don't refuse to go, Art; sure for my sake you won't?”

“I will go, then,” he replied; “I'll go for your sake, but I'll miss you all.”

“An' we'll miss you, ahagur. God bless you, Art dear, it's jist like you. Ay, will we in throth miss you; but, then, think what a brave fine thing it'll be for you to have a grip of a dacent independent trade, that'll keep your feet out o' the dirt while you live.”

“I will go,” repeated Art, “but as for the trade, I'll have none but Frank's. I'll be a carpenter, for then he and I can be together.”

In addition to the affectionate motive which Art had mentioned to his father--and which was a true one--as occasioning his reluctance to learn a trade, there was another, equally strong and equally tender. In the immediate neighborhood there lived a family named Murray, between whom and the Maguires there subsisted a very kindly intimacy. Jemmy Murray was in fact one of the wealthiest men in that part of the parish, as wealth then was considered--that is to say, he farmed about forty acres, which he held at a moderate rent, and as he was both industrious and frugal, it was only a matter of consequence that he and his were well to do in the world. It is not likely, however, that even a passing acquaintance would ever have taken place between them, were it not for the consideration of the blood which was known to flow in the veins of the Fermanagh Maguires. Murray was a good deal touched with purse-pride--the most offensive and contemptible description of pride in the world--and would never have suffered an intimacy, were it not for the reason I have alleged. It is true he was not a man of such stainless integrity as Condy Maguire, because it was pretty well known that in the course of his life, while accumulating money, he was said to have stooped to practices that were, to say the least of them, highly discreditable. For instance, he always held over his meal, until there came what is unfortunately both too well known and too well felt in Ireland,--a dear year--a year of hunger, starvation, and famine. For the same reason he held over his hay, and indeed on passing his haggard you were certain to perceive three or four immense stacks, bleached by the sun and rain of two or three seasons into a tawny yellow. Go into his large kitchen or storehouse, and you saw three or four immense deal chests filled with meal, which was reserved for a season of scarcity--for, proud as Farmer Murray was, he did not disdain to fatten upon human misery. Between these two families there was, as we have said, an intimacy. It was wealth and worldly goods on the one side; integrity and old blood on the other. Be this as it may, Farmer Murray had a daughter, Margaret, the youngest of four, who was much about the age of Arthur Maguire. Margaret was a girl whom it was almost impossible to know and not to love. Though then but seventeen, her figure was full, rich, and beautifully formed. Her abundant hair was black and glossy as ebony, and her skin, which threw a lustre like ivory itself, had--not the whiteness of snow--but a whiteness a thousand times more natural--a whiteness that was fresh, radiant, and spotless. She was arch and full of spirits, but her humor--for she possessed it in abundance--was so artless, joyous, and innocent, that the heart was taken with it before one had time for reflection. Added, however, to this charming vivacity of temperament were many admirable virtues, and a fund of deep and fervent feeling, which, even at that early period of her life, had made her name beloved by every one in the parish, especially the poor and destitute. The fact is, she was her father's favorite daughter, and he could deny her nothing. The admirable girl was conscious of this, but instead of availing herself of his affection for her in a way that many--nay, we may say, most--would have done, for purposes of dress or vanity, she became an interceding angel for the poor and destitute; and closely as Murray loved money, yet it is due to him to say, that, on these occasions, she was generally successful. Indeed, he was so far from being insensible to his daughter's noble virtues, that he felt pride in reflecting that she possessed them, and gave aid ten times from that feeling for once that he did from a more exalted one. Such was Margaret Murray, and such, we are happy to say--for we know it--are thousands of the peasant girls of our country.

It was not to be wondered at, then, that in addition to the reluctance which a heart naturally affectionate, like Art's, should feel on leaving his relations for the first time, he should experience much secret sorrow at being deprived of the society of this sweet and winning girl.

Matters now, however, were soon arranged, and the time, nay, the very day for their departure was appointed. Art, though deeply smitten with the charms of Margaret Murray, had never yet ventured to breathe to her a syllable of love, being deterred naturally enough by the distance in point of wealth which existed between the families. Not that this alone, perhaps, would have prevented him from declaring his affection for her; but, young as he was, he had not been left unimpressed by his father's hereditary sense of the decent pride, strict honesty, and independent spirit, which should always mark the conduct and feelings of any one descended from the great Fermanagh Maguires. He might, therefore, probably have spoken, but that his pride dreaded a repulse, and that he could not bear to contemplate. This, joined to the natural diffidence of youth, sufficiently accounts for his silence.

There lived, at the period of which we write, which is not a thousand years ago, at a place called “the Corner House,” a celebrated carpenter named Jack M'Carroll. He was unquestionably a first-rate mechanic, kept a large establishment, and had ample and extensive business. To him had Art and Frank been apprenticed, and, indeed, a better selection could not have been made, for Jack was not only a good workman himself, but an excellent employer, and an honest man. An arrangement had been entered into with a neighboring farmer regarding their board and lodging, so that every thing was settled very much to the satisfaction of all parties.

When the day of their departure had at length arrived, Art felt his affections strongly divided, but without being diminished, between Margaret Murray and his family; while Frank, who was calm and thoughtful, addressed himself to the task of getting ready such luggage as they had been provided with.

“Frank,” said Art, “don't you think we ought to go and bid farewell to a few of our nearest neighbors before we lave home?”

“Where's the use of that?” asked Frank; “not a bit, Art; the best plan is jist to bid our own people farewell, and slip away without noise or nonsense.”

“You may act as you plaise, Frank,” replied the other; “as for me, I'll call on Jemmy Hanlon and Tom Connolly, at all events; but hould,” said he, abruptly, “ought I to do that? Isn't it their business to come to us?”

“It is,” replied Frank, “and so they would too, but that they think we won't start till Thursday; for you know we didn't intend to go till then.”

“Well,” said Art, “that's a horse of another color: I will call on them. Wouldn't they think it heartless of us to go off widout seein' them? An' besides, Frank, why should we steal away like thieves that had the hue and cry at their heels? No, faith, as sure as we go at all, we'll go openly, an' like men that have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Very well,” replied his brother, “have it your own way, so far as you're consarned, as for me, I look upon it all as mere nonsense.”

It is seldom that honest and manly affection fails to meet its reward, be the period soon or late. Had Art been guided by Frank's apparent indifference--who, however, acted in this matter solely for the sake of sparing his brother's feelings--he would have missed the opportunity of being a party to an incident which influenced his future life in all he ever afterwards enjoyed and suffered. He had gone, as he said, to bid farewell to his neighbors, and was on his return home in order to take his departure, when whom should he meet on her way to her father's house, after having called at his father's “to see the girls,” as she said, with a slight emphasis upon the word girls, but Margaret Murray.

As was natural, and as they had often done before under similar circumstances, each paused on meeting, but somehow on this occasion there was visible on both sides more restraint than either had ever yet shown. At length, the preliminary chat having ceased, a silence ensued, which, after a little time, was broken by Margaret, who, Art could perceive, blushed deeply as she spoke.

“So, Art, you and Frank are goin' to lave us.”

“It's not with my own consint I'm goin', Margaret,” he replied. As he uttered the words he looked at her; their eyes met, but neither could stand the glance of the other; they were instantly withdrawn.

“I'll not forget my friends, at all events,” said Art; “at least, there's some o' them I won't, nor wouldn't either, if I was to get a million o' money for doin' so.”

Margaret's face and neck, on hearing this, were in one glow of crimson, and she kept her eyes still on the ground, but made no reply. At length she raised them, and their glances met again; in that glance the consciousness of his meaning was read by both, the secret was disclosed, and their love told.

The place where they stood was in one of those exquisitely wild but beautiful green country lanes that are mostly enclosed on each side by thorn hedges, and have their sides bespangled with a profusion of delicate and fragrant wild flowers, while the pathway, from the unfrequency of feet, is generally covered with short daisy-gemmed grass, with the exception of a trodden line in the middle that is made solely by foot-passengers. Such was the sweet spot in which they stood at the moment the last glance took place between them.

At length Margaret spoke, but why was it that her voice was such music to him now? Musical and sweet it always was, and he had heard it a thousand times before, but why, we ask, was it now so delicious to his ear, so ecstatic to his heart? Ah, it was that sweet, entrancing little charm which trembled up from her young and beating heart, through its softest intonations; this low tremor it was that confirmed the tale which the divine glance of that dark, but soft and mellow eye, had just told him. But to proceed, at length she spoke--

“Arthur,” said the innocent girl, unconscious that she was about to do an act for which many will condemn her, “before you go, and I know I will not have an opportunity of seein' you again, will you accept of a keepsake from me?”

“Will I? oh, Margaret, Margaret!”--he gazed at her, but could not proceed, his heart was too full.

“Take this,” said she, “and keep it for my sake.”

Ho took it out of her hand, he seized the hand itself, another glance, and they sank into each other's arms, each trembling with an excess of happiness. Margaret wept. This gush of rapture relieved and lightened their young and innocent hearts, and Margaret having withdrawn herself from his arms, they could now speak more freely. It is not our intention, however, to detail their conversation, which may easily be conjectured by our readers. On looking at the keepsake, Art found that it was a tress of her rich and raven hair, which, we may add here, he tied about his heart that day, and on that heart, or rather the dust of that heart, it lies on this.

It was fortunate for Art that he followed! his brother's judgment in selecting the same trade. Frank, we have said, notwithstanding his coldness of manner, was by no means deficient in feeling or affection; he possessed, however, the power of suppressing their external manifestations, a circumstance which not unfrequently occasioned it to happen that want of feeling was often imputed to him without any just cause. At all events, he was a guide, a monitor, and a friend to his brother, whom he most sincerely and affectionately loved; he kindly pointed out to him his errors, matured his judgment by sound practical advice: where it was necessary, he gave him the spur, and on other, occasions held him in. Art was extremely well-tempered, as was Frank also, so that it was impossible any two brothers could agree better, or live in more harmony than they did. In truth, he had almost succeeded in opening Art's eyes to the weak points in his character, especially to the greatest, and most dangerous of all--his vanity, or insatiable appetite for praise. They had not been long in M'Carroll's establishment when the young man's foibles were soon seen through, and of course began to be played upon; Frank, however, like a guardian angel, was always at hand to advise or defend him, as the case might be, and as both, in a physical contest, were able and willing to fight their own battles, we need not say that in a short time their fellow-workmen ceased to play off their pranks upon either of them. Everything forthwith passed very smoothly; Art's love for Margaret Murray was like an apple of gold in his heart, a secret treasure of which the world knew nothing; they saw each other at least once a month, when their vows were renewed, and, surely, we need not say, that their affection on each subsequent interview only became more tender and enduring.

The period of Frank's and Art's apprenticeship had now nearly expired, and it is not too much to say that their conduct reflected the highest credit upon themselves. Three or four times, we believe, Art had been seduced, in the absence of his brother, by the influence of bad company, to indulge in drink, even to intoxication. This, during the greater part of a whole apprenticeship, considering his temperament, and the almost daily temptations by which he was beset, must be admitted on the whole to be a very moderate amount of error in that respect. On the morning after his last transgression, however, apprehending very naturally a strong remonstrance from his brother, he addressed him as follows, in anticipation of what he supposed Frank was about to say:--

“Now, Frank, I know you're goin' to scould me, and what is more, I know I disarve all you could say to me; but there's one thing you don't know, an' that is what I suffer for lettin' myself be made a fool of last night. Afther the advices you have so often given me, and afther what my father so often tould us to think of ourselves, and afther the solemn promises I made to you--and that I broke, I feel as if I was nothin' more or less than a disgrace to the name.”

“Art,” said the other, “I'm glad to hear you speak as you do; for it's a proof that repentance is in your heart. I suppose I needn't say that it's your intention not to be caught be these fellows again.”

“By the sacred--”

“Whisht,” said Frank, clapping his hand upon his mouth; “there's no use at all in rash oaths, Art. If your mind is made up honestly and firmly in the sight of God--and dependin' upon his assistance, that is enough --and a great deal betther, too, than a rash oath made in a sudden fit of repentance--ay, before you're properly recovered from your liquor. Now say no more, only promise me you won't do the like, again.”

“Frank, listen to me--by all the--”