At this moment Cleve Stuart so quietly entered the room that Palma was not aware of his entrance until he stood before her.
“Mr. O’Melaghlin—Mr. Stuart,” she said, presenting the gentlemen to each other.
The visitor arose and both bowed.
“I bring a letter of introduction for you, sir, from the Messrs. Walling, of New York,” said The O’Melaghlin, drawing from his breast a neat, open envelope and handing it to Mr. Stuart.
Cleve took it with a bow.
On the envelope, besides the superscription—“To Cleve 320Stuart, Esq., Wolfscliff, W. V.,”—there was written between brackets, in the corner: “To introduce The O’Melaghlin, Carrick Arghalee, Antrim.”
Now, the use of the definite article as the prefix of a man’s surname had been a puzzle to Palma, and even a surprise to Cleve, though he remembered that in the north of Ireland, as well as in Scotland, it was affected by certain heads of families among the landed gentry of ancient lineage, and considered to outrank either plain “Mr.” or “Squire.” O’Melaghlin, therefore, must be recognized as The O’Melaghlin.
“With your permission,” said Stuart, with a bow, as he opened the letter, which was as follows—and rather more than sarcastic in its peculiar style, as Cleve thought when he read it, though he hoped and believed that the bearer of the letter had not—if he had read the words—perceived the sarcasm:
“Office of Walling & Walling, Att’ys, Etc. “New York, May 8, 187—.“Cleve Stuart, Esq., Wolfscliff, W. V.: I have the great honor to present—you—to The O’Melaghlin, of Carrick Arghalee, Antrim, Ireland.
“The O’Melaghlin is of the most ancient Irish, royal lineage, being directly descended from the O’Melaghlins, monarchs of Meath, whose kingdom was ravaged by Henry the Second, A. D. 1173, and given to one of his thievish followers, a disreputable carpet-bagger, called Hugh de Lacy.
“The O’Melaghlin hails now from Antrim because his ancestor, Patricious O’Melaghlin, in the reign of Edward the First, 1285, married Mona, sole child and heiress of Fergus of Arghalee, and subsequently became lord of Carrick Arghalee, in right of his wife. From this illustrious pair, representing a royal and a noble family united, The O’Melaghlin is directly descended.
“It would be highly impertinent in so humble an individual as myself to write of this gentleman’s merits and accomplishments. Should he honor you with his acquaintance, you will discover them for yourself. You will also hear from him in what manner you can have the distinction of serving him.
321“With compliments and congratulations to yourself and Mrs. Stuart on the present proud occasion, I remain, your faithful servant,
William Walling.”“Will Walling is a scamp, and merits a kicking for his impudence,” was Stuart’s half-earnest, half-jesting mental criticism on this letter and its writer. He thought he knew the reason for Will Walling’s sneers; he thought it was more than likely that The O’Melaghlin had repelled the genial Will and “kept him at a distance.” He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, and once more offered his hand to the visitor, saying:
“I am very happy to see you here, sir, and shall be very much pleased if I can serve you.”
“I thank you, Wolfscliff!” exclaimed The O’Melaghlin, giving his host his territorial title as if they had been in Antrim. “I thank you, sir. You have given me the hand of a friend, and although you may not at this moment recall the fact, you have given me the hand of a kinsman! Yes, sir, I am proud to say of a kinsman!” and he gave that hand a grip that crippled it for a week.
“A kinsman, O’Melaghlin!” exclaimed Cleve—he would have given great offense if he had addressed his guest as Mr. O’Melaghlin—“I am very much flattered, but I do not understand!”
“Ah, then, Wolfscliff, is not your family name Stuart?”
“Certainly.”
“And have you not a lawful right to that name?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And do you not spell it S-t-u-a-r-t?”
“I do.”
“Then you are my kinsman on the distaff side! Yes, there is but one root of the tree of Stuart, and that is the old royal root that grew fast in Scottish ground, and every one who lawfully bears the name of Stuart is a leaf of that same tree.”
“Granted,” said Cleve, with perhaps a faint leaven of sinful pride, “granted that my ancestor seven generations back was Charles Stuart, called the Young Pretender, how should that make us kinsmen?”
“I am afraid, young Wolfscliff, that you do not keep yourself 322well posted up in your family genealogy,” said The O’Melaghlin.
“Indeed I do not,” replied Stuart, with a laugh. “I fear I know little or nothing with certainty of my family on either side the house previous to their emigration to America. Why, O’Melaghlin, do you know if I could become a candidate for the highest office in this country, and knew who was my grandfather, it would be a grave objection to me in the minds of this democratic and republican people—unless, indeed, I could prove that he was a tramp, a gypsy, or, at the very best, a day laborer!”
The O’Melaghlin stroked his long, rusty red beard and slowly shook his head.
“The human race is going to ruin,” he said.
“But will you kindly explain how it is that we are of kin, sir?” said Palma hesitatingly.
“Surely, my dear young lady—surely. The facts are these: From prehistoric ages, in the dark before the dawn of time or of its record, to which the memory of mankind goeth not back. The O’Melaghlins were monarchs of Munster.”
“And lived in caves, and dressed in skins, and when a young king wanted a wife he walked into the next kingdom with his club on his shoulders, knocked down the first young girl he saw and brought her away on his back. Was it not so?” archly suggested Palma.
“Faith! I think you are right, ma’am. Since the O’Melaghlins go back to the darkest of days, they must have had the manners of the same,” said the chieftain, good-humoredly.
“Well, please go on. I will try not to interrupt you again.”
“The O’Melaghlins were monarchs of Meath for unnumbered generations before the Christian era, and for eleven centuries and a half after. Somewhere about the year 1160 Henry the Second—bad luck to the beast!—made the conquest of Ireland, ravaged the kingdom of Meath, and gave the land to a thieving carpet-bagger of his own, Hugh de Lacy by name. Ah! but The O’Melaghlins, turned out of their own, made short work of the usurper and murdered him in his stolen castle of Thrim. It was of no avail. His 323successors came after him, backed up by the power of the Saxon. The O’Melaghlins were scattered far and wide.”
“One of the tragedies of history,” said Stuart.
“True for you, O’Wolfscliff! The next memorable apoch in the history of that r’yal family fell in the reign of Edward the First, in the year 1270, more than a century after the conquest of Meath. Then the young head of the family—The O’Melaghlin of that apoch—married the Lady Mona, sole child and heiress of Fergus of Arghalee, surnamed the Tiger, and in due time, in right of his wife, succeeded to the chieftainship and became The O’Melaghlin of Carrick Arghalee! That, sir and madam, was the first step taken toward a union with the r’yal house of Scotland, from which you, sir, descinded.”
(The chieftain, when interested or excited, sometimes slipped into dialect.)
“Indeed!” exclaimed Stuart, rather mystified, for he did not as yet see the road to the royal alliance.
“Now then,” continued The O’Melaghlin, “that marriage was the first step, as I said. Nearly two centuries passed before the second step was taken. But then, centuries don’t count for much with old historic families whose origin is only lost in the ancient, prehistoric ages. It was in the year 1380, in the reign of Robert the Second, King of Scotland, that Randolph of Arghalee married the Lady Grauch, daughter of the Earl of Fife, who was the second son of the reigning monarch. D’ye moind, that’s where the r’yal blood comes in, and our kinship, more betoken! So shake hands upon it, Wolfscliff.”
Stuart good-humoredly put out his hand, already half crippled by O’Melaghlin’s first clasp, and received a second crushing grip.
“And now will you kindly inform me how I can be of service to you?” inquired the host.
“Thank you, sir, certainly. I wish to find my children, Michael and Judith. I was told by Mr. Walling that you would be able to give me their exact address, which he said was in London somewhere, but he could not tell where.”
While The O’Melaghlin spoke Stuart stared and Palma laughed. She felt a child’s delight at his astonishment in discovering that The O’Melaghlin was the father of Michael Man and Judith Hay.
324“Oh!” said the visitor, “you are surprised, sure, to hear me say this, but they are my children, for all that I have never set eyes on them in my life. It was not my fault, but the fate made by circumstances, that kept us apart. It is a painful story, sir, that I may tell you later at your convenience. Now I wish to ask you where, in all the great wilderness of London, I may find my children.”
“Nowhere in London. They are not there. They have changed their plans, and will remain for some time to come at Haymore Hall.”
“Surely I thought they were going to London for private tuition.”
“They can obtain that better, perhaps, at Haymore.”
“Ay?”
“Perhaps, O’Melaghlin, you would like to see your daughter’s last letter to my wife,” kindly suggested Stuart.
“Ay, that I would, if Mrs. Stuart has no objections, and it is very kind of you to offer to show it to me, and I thank you, Wolfscliff,” heartily responded the visitor.
And before he had finished speaking Palma had darted away in search of her letter box. She soon returned with it, sat down, placed it on her lap, opened it and took out a bundle of letters, from which she selected one to hand it to the visitor.
He quickly snatched it, and with an almost greedy look, so eager was the father to read the words of his unknown daughter.
He “devoured” the contents of that letter, though none of its words could speak of him, who was equally unknown to his daughter, and although they only told of household and neighborhood news, and of their changed plans in regard to the scene of their studies and the person of their tutor.
When he had dwelt on the letter as long as possible he returned it to its owner with manifest reluctance and cast covetous glances at the pile of letters from which it had been drawn.
“Would you like to read all your daughter’s letters? You can, of course, if you wish it, sir,” said Palma kindly.
“Oh, madam, if you would be so good as to let me do so,” gratefully replied the father.
“Here they are, then, about twenty of them in all, and 325they are long letters. Take them and read them at your leisure. Now there is the dinner bell. You will join us, I hope.”
“Thank you, my dear madam; but I am just off a long journey, and hardly presentable in a sitting-room, much less at a dinner table,” said The O’Melaghlin, glancing down at his dusty garments.
“Oh, never mind. We are plain country people,” said Palma, with a smile; for having lived in a crowded city all her life, with the exception of one short season at “Lull’s,” she took pride in thinking of herself as a country woman.
“If you would like to go to a room to brush off a little, I should be pleased to show you the way,” said Stuart.
“Thank you, Wolfscliff, I think I would if it will not delay your dinner or spoil your soup. Now speak frankly. There should be candor among kinsmen.”
“It will spoil nothing,” put in Palma, knowing that Cleve could not answer that question, “so, Mr. Stuart, please show The O’Melaghlin to the oak room.”
Cleve turned with a bow to his guest and led the way out.
Palma rang the bell and gave orders that the soup should be kept back for fifteen minutes.
In due time The O’Melaghlin reappeared in the drawing-room, and the small party went in to dinner.
In the course of that meal Stuart said to Palma:
“My dear, The O’Melaghlin has kindly promised to remain with us a few days, and has sent back his chaise to the Wolfshead to fetch his baggage.”
“I am very much pleased to hear this,” said Palma, turning with a bright smile to the visitor.
“Thank you, madam! You may wonder, perhaps, why I should have chosen to travel all the way down from New York to West Virginia to get from you the London address of my children, when I might have written to you and got it by return mail.”
“No; indeed, I never once thought of it in that manner.”
“Well, I may as well tell you how it was. When I learned from Mr. Walling that my children were in London, I determined to go there as soon as possible. And knowing what a rush there is across the big pond at this season of the year, I went to get my passage secured in the first available 326steamer. But, bless you! though I went to every office of ocean steamers in New York, and wrote to every one in Boston, I could get no sort of a passage in any one for the next six weeks. The first one I could engage was for the first of July, in the steamer Leviathan for Southampton.”
“Why! Are you going by the Leviathan? We are going by that ship!” impulsively exclaimed Palma.
“You are!” cried The O’Melaghlin, appealing to Stuart.
“Indeed we are!” responded the latter.
“Delight upon delight! That is almost too good to be true! Well, I am overjoyed to hear this! Now to resume my explanation why I came to you instead of writing: Finding that I had three weeks upon my hands I said to myself: ‘I will not write to get meager news. I will go down to West Virginia and see these near connections of my unknown children, and I will talk with them and get from them every detail of my son’s and daughter’s lives and characters.’ And so here I am.”
“And now that you are here, O’Melaghlin, we hope that you will stay with us until the day comes when we must all leave Wolfscliff for New York to embark on our voyage,” said Stuart.
The visitor turned and looked inquiringly on the lady’s face.
“Oh, yes, do, Mr. O’Melaghlin. We should be so happy to have you!” she exclaimed, in response to that mute appeal.
“You do me much honor, sir and madam. And to be frank with you, there is nothing on my part to prevent my acceptance and enjoyment of your kindness and hospitality,” replied The O’Melaghlin in modest words, but with a pompous manner.
Palma then withdrew and left the two men over their claret, and went to put her babies to bed. When this sweet duty was done she returned to the drawing-room, where she was soon joined by Stuart and O’Melaghlin.
And there, later in the evening, the latter told his story. It was the common story of a race of men and a fine estate falling into decadence from generation to generation. This The O’Melaghlin, in telling the tale, attributed to the misfortunes of the family, and the persecutions of the Saxon. But to those who could read between the lines, even of his 327version, it was self-evident that the downfall of the house was due to the vice and folly of its representatives.
Few men in the position of The O’Melaghlin would tell such a story with perfect frankness. Certainly he did not so tell his. And therefore it seems necessary, in the interests of truth, that it should be told by me.
With the exception of those absurd traditions of the prehistoric period of which no one can know anything, the proud family record of The O’Melaghlins, previous to their degradation, was in the main true, as every student of Irish history knows. But for a century past The O’Melaghlins of Arghalee had been fast livers, hard drinkers and reckless sinners. In every generation, every succeeding heir had come into his patrimony poorer in purse, prouder in spirit, and weaker in will to resist evil than any of his predecessors.
At length, about twenty-five years before the period of which I write, young Michael O’Melaghlin, at the age of twenty-one, came into the remnant of the grand old estate, consisting then of the half-ruined castle of Arghalee and a few acres of sterile land immediately around it.
He was the last of his family, and would have been alone in the world but that he loved and was beloved by a good and beautiful girl, well born, like himself; an orphan, like himself; poor, like himself, and even poorer, since she had not so much as a ruinous house and an acre of ground.
Moira MacDuinheld lived with distant relatives in the neighborhood of Arghalee.
They were not kind to her; they grudged her the cost of her maintenance; and when young Michael O’Melaghlin came courting her, they encouraged his suit that they might get rid of their burden; and they let him marry her, although they knew they were delivering her to poverty and privation, if to nothing worse.
Michael then married Moira with the full consent of her kindred, and took her home to his dilapidated, rat-infested, raven-haunted, storm-beaten old donjon keep, which was all that was left of the castle of Arghalee.
But soon the young pair began to suffer the bitterest pangs of poverty. We cannot go into detail here. Let it be sufficient to say that often they had not enough to eat, even of the plainest food. But, although “poverty had come in at the door, love did not fly out of the window,” for they 328loved each other more faithfully, because more pitifully, for all their privations and sufferings. And here comes in the insanity of pride. Both Michael and Moira were strong, healthy, able-bodied young people, and could each have obtained work in the neighborhood; Michael as a farm laborer, if nothing more—and he could have done little more, for he had but very little education, and Moira might have become a laundress—a trade easily acquired. But for an O’Melaghlin—a descendant of the ancient monarchs of Meath—to work! No! In the narrow, one-idea mind of the impoverished chieftain it was more noble to starve and to see his young wife starve, or to accept alms, and deem the bestower to be highly honored in being permitted to minister to the needs of The O’Melaghlin.
But hunger is a mighty factor in the affairs of life. It is said to have civilized the world. At least it exercised a very powerful influence upon these two healthy young people, who were almost always hungry, seldom having enough of oatmeal or potatoes on any day to satisfy their robust appetites. And when they had suffered this hunger for several months, and saw nothing but hunger in all the future, The O’Melaghlin suddenly resolved to sell all the remainder of his land, except one acre upon which his ruined tower stood—the oldest, as it was also the only part of the great castle now in existence—and with the money he might get for them go with his young wife to the gold fields of California. There, in the far-off foreign land, where he would not be known, he would seek for the gold that should restore the fortunes of his family. Upon whomsoever the gold fever fastens it fills with a furore.
Gold was The O’Melaghlin’s thought by day and his dream by night. Gold seeking, he persuaded himself, was not work—or at least it was not work for hire; and, besides, he would be a stranger in a strange land; and no one at home here in Antrim should ever be able to say that The O’Melaghlin had ever soiled his hands or blotted his ‘scutcheon with labor!
He sold four acres of his land for little more than enough money to take himself and his wife, by way of Glasgow, to San Francisco. He was offered nearly twice as much money if he would sell the remaining acre with the ancient tower upon it.
329But at the proposal The O’Melaghlin grew furious and insolent.
What! Sell the very donjon keep, the last stronghold of The O’Melaghlins of Arghalee? Many a time had the Saxons besieged the castle, and sometimes they had taken the outworks, but never the donjon keep. And now he would see their island scuttled in the midst and sunk between its four seas, like the rotten old craft that it was, before he would sell his tower and the last acre of ground on which it stood.
Though why this jeremiad should have been uttered against “the Saxon,” when it was an Irishman and a near relative who wanted to buy his old owl roost, no one but The O’Melaghlin himself could have explained.
His dream was to realize a fabulous fortune from the gold fields and come back and restore the tower, rebuild the castle and repurchase all the land sold by his forefathers for generations past. To do all this would require a vast fortune; but would he not make that fortune?
Heaven and earth! Did not many a common bit of human clay without family or name of the least value make a large fortune in the gold fields? When, then, The O’Melaghlin stooped to seek the ore, would not the earth open wide her bosom of uncounted treasures and lavish gold upon him?
The O’Melaghlin never doubted for an instant that she would.
So in due time The O’Melaghlin and his wife sailed from Glasgow, bound for San Francisco.
They went in the first cabin of the Golden Glory. Do you think The O’Melaghlin would take second place in any circumstances? No, he would die first!
When they reached San Francisco he took a room for himself and wife at one of the very best hotels, which was also, of course, one of the most expensive in the city.
He gave his name to the office clerk as:
“The O’Melaghlin,” which that hurried and distracted individual incontinently put down as:
T. O. Mannikin.
330