Ours is a very practical age, and no matter how skilfully a man play the game of life, there is but one test of his ability,—did he win? If this condition attend him, his actions meet charitable construction. His doings are all favorably regarded; and while his capacity is extolled, even his shortcomings are extenuated. We dread an unlucky man! There is a kind of contagion in calamity, and we shun him as though he were plague-stricken. But with what flatteries we greet the successful one! That he reached the goal is the sure guarantee of his merits; and woe to him who would canvass the rectitude of his progress! Defeat is such a leveller! Genius and dulness, courage and pusillanimity, high-hearted hope and wasting energy, are all confounded together by failure, and the world would only smile at any effort to discriminate between them. Perhaps in the main the system works well. Perhaps mankind, incapable of judging motives, too impatient to investigate causes, is wise in adopting a short cut for its decisions. Certain it is, the rule is absolute that proclaims Success to be Desert!

Lady Dorothea was now about to experience this severe lesson, and not the less heavily that she never anticipated it. After a wearisome journey the Martins arrived in Dublin. The apartments secured to them, by a previous letter, at Bilton's, were all in readiness for their reception. The “Saunders” of the day duly chronicled their arrival; but there the great event seemed to terminate. No message from her Ladyship's noble kinsman greeted their coming; no kind note of welcome,—not even a visit from Mr. Lawrence Belcour, the aide-de-camp in waiting. The greatest of all moralists warns us against putting confidence in princes; and how doubly truthful is the adage when extended to viceroys! Small as was the borough of Oughterard, and insignificant as seemed the fact who should be its representative, the result of the election was made a great matter at the “Castle.” His Excellency was told that the Martins had mismanaged everything. They had gone to work in the old Tory cut-and-thrust fashion of former days—conciliated no interest, won over no antagonism; they had acted “precisely as if there had been no Relief Bill,”—we steal Colonel Massingbred's words,—and they were beaten—beaten in their own town—in the person of one of their own family, and by a stranger! The Viceroy was vexed. They had misconstrued every word of his letter,—a letter that, as he said, any child might have understood,—and there was a vote lost to his party. It was in vain that the Chief Secretary assured his Excellency “Jack was a clever fellow, who 'd put all to rights;” that with a little time and a little dexterity he 'd be able to vote with the Ministry on every important division; the great fact remained unatoned for,—his family, his own connections, “had done nothing for him.”

The first day in town dragged its length slowly over. Martin was fatigued, and did not go abroad, and no one came to visit him. To do him justice, he was patient under the neglect; to say more, he was grateful for it. It was so pleasant “to be let alone;” not even to be obliged to see Henderson, nor to be consulted about “Road Sessions” or “Police Reports,” but to have one's day in total unbroken listlessness; to have simply to say, “We 'll dine at seven,” and “I'm out for every one.” Far otherwise fared it in my “Lady's chamber.” All her plans had been based upon the attentions she was so certain of receiving, but of which now not a sign gave token. She passed the day in a state of almost feverish excitement, the more painful from her effort to conceal and control it. Repton dined with them. He came that day “because, of course, he could not expect to catch them disengaged on any future occasion.” Her Ladyship was furious at the speech, but smiled concurrence to it; while Martin carelessly remarked, “From all that I see, we may enjoy the same pleasure very often.” Never was the old lawyer so disagreeable when exerting himself to be the opposite. He had come stored with all the doings of the capital,—its dinners and evening parties, its mots and its gossip. From the political rumors and the chit-chat of society, he went on to speak of the viceregal court and its festivities.

“If there be anything I detest,” said her Ladyship, at last, “it is the small circle of a very small metropolis. So long as you look at it carelessly, it is not so offensive; but when you stoop to consider and examine it with attention, it reminds you of the hideous spectacle of a glass of water as seen through a magnifier,—you detect a miniature world of monsters and deformities, all warring and worrying each other.” And with this flattering exposition of her opinion, she arose speedily after dinner, and, followed by Miss Henderson, retired.

“I perceive that we had not the ear of the Court for our argument,” said Repton, as he resumed his place after conducting her to the door. Martin sipped his wine in silence. “I never expected she'd like Dublin; it only suits those who pass their lives in it; but I fancied that what with Castle civilities—”

“There 's the rub,” broke in Martin, but in a voice subdued almost to a whisper. “They 've taken no notice of us. For my own part, I 'm heartily obliged to them; and if they 'd condescend to feel offended with us, I 'd only be more grateful; but my Lady—”

A long, low whistle from Repton implied that he had fully appreciated the “situation.”

“Ah, I see it,” cried he; “and this explains the meaning of an article I read this morning in the 'Evening Post,'—the Government organ,—wherein it is suggested that country gentlemen would be more efficient supporters of the administration if they lent themselves heartily to comprehend the requirements of recent legislation, than by exacting heavy reprisals on their tenants in moments of defeat and disappointment.”

“Well, it is rather hard,” said Martin, with more of energy than he usually spoke in,—“it is hard! They first hounded us on to contest the borough for them, and they now abuse us that we did not make a compromise with the opposite party. And as to measures of severity, you know well I never concurred in them; I never permitted them.”

“But they are mistaken, nevertheless. There are writs in preparation, and executions about to issue over fourteen town-lands. There will be a general clearance of the population at Kyle-a-Noe. You 'll not know a face there when you go back, Martin!”

“Who can say that I 'll ever go back?” said he, mournfully.

“Come, come, I trust you will. I hope to pass some pleasant days with you there ere I die,” said Repton, cheer-ingly. “Indeed, until you are there again, I 'll never go farther west than Athlone on my circuit. I 'd not like to, look at the old place without you!”

Martin nodded as he raised his glass, as if to thank him, and then dropped his head mournfully, and sat without speaking.

“Poor dear Mary!” said he, at last, with a heavy sigh. “Our desertion of her is too bad. It's not keeping the pledge I made to Barry!”

“Well, well, there's nothing easier than the remedy. A week or so will see you settled in some city abroad,—Paris, or Brussels, perhaps. Let her join you; I 'll be her escort. Egad! I'd like the excuse for the excursion,” replied Repton, gayly.

“Ay, Repton,” said the other, pursuing his own thoughts and not heeding the interruption, “and you know what a brother he was. By Jove!” cried he, aloud, “were Barry just to see what we 've done,—how we 've treated the place, the people, his daughter!—were he only to know how I 've kept my word with him—Look, Repton,” added he, grasping the other's arm as he spoke, “there's not as generous a fellow breathing as Barry; this world has not his equal for an act of noble self-devotion and sacrifice. His life!—he 'd not think twice of it if I asked him to give it for me; but if he felt—if he could just awaken to the conviction that he was unfairly dealt with, that when believing he was sacrificing to affection and brotherly love he was made a dupe and a fool of—”

“Be cautious, Martin; speak lower—remember where you are,” said Repton, guardedly.

“I tell you this,” resumed the other, in a tone less loud but not less forcible: “the very warmth of his nature—that same noble, generous source that feeds every impulse of his life—would supply the force of a torrent to his passion; he 'd be a tiger if you aroused him!”

“Don't you perceive, my dear friend,” said Repton, calmly, “how you are exaggerating everything,—not alone your own culpability, but his resentment! Grant that you ought not to have left Mary behind you,—I 'm sure I said everything I could against it,—what more easy than to repair the wrong?”

“No, no, Repton, you 're quite mistaken. Take my word for it, you don't know that girl. She has taught herself to believe that her place is there,—that it is her duty to live amongst the people. She may exaggerate to her own mind the good she does; she may fancy a thousand things as to the benefit she bestows; but she cannot, by any self-deception, over-estimate the results upon her own heart, which she has educated to feel as only they do who live amongst the poor! To take her away from this would be a cruel sacrifice; and for what?—a world she would n't care for, couldn't comprehend.”

“Then what was to have been done?”

“I 'll tell you, Repton; if it was her duty to stay there, it was doubly ours to have remained also. When she married,” added he, after a pause,—“when she had got a home of her own,—then, of course, it would have been quite different! Heaven knows,” said he, sighing, “we have little left to tie us to anything or anywhere; and as to myself, it is a matter of the most perfect indifference whether I drag out the year or two that may remain to me on the shores of Galway or beside the Adriatic!”

“I can't bear this,” cried Repton, angrily. “If ever there was a man well treated by fortune, you are he.”

“I 'm not complaining.”

“Not complaining! but, hang it, sir, that is not enough! You should be overflowing with gratitude; your life ought to be active with benevolence; you should be up and doing, wherever ample means and handsome encouragement could assist merit or cheer despondency. I like your notion that you don't complain! Why, if you did, what should be done by those who really do travel the shady side of existence,—who are weighted with debt, bowed down with daily difficulties, crippled with that penury that eats into a man's nature till his very affections grow sordid, and his very dreams are tormented with his duns! Think of the poor fellows with ailing wives and sickly children, toiling daily, not to give them luxuries,—not to supply them with what may alleviate weariness or distract suffering, but bare sustenance,—coarse diet and coarser dress! Ah, my dear Martin, that Romanist plan of fasting one day in the week would n't be a bad institution were we to introduce it into our social code. If you and I could have, every now and then, our feelings of privation, just to teach us what others experience all the week through, we 'd have, if not more sympathy with narrow fortune, at least more thankfulness for its opposite.”

“Her Ladyship begs you will read this note, sir,” said a servant, presenting an open letter to Martin. He took it, and having perused it, handed it to Repton, who slowly read the following lines:—

“'With every consideration'!” repeated Repton. “Confound the puppy, and his Frenchified phraseology! Why is he not, as he ought to be, your obedient servant?”

“It is a somewhat cold and formal invitation,” said Martin, slowly. “I 'll just see what she thinks of it;” and he arose and left the room. His absence was fully of twenty minutes' duration, and when he did return his face betokened agitation.

“Here's more of it, Repton,” said he, filling and drinking off his glass. “It 's all my fault, it seems. I ought to have gone out to the 'Lodge' this morning, or called on somebody, or done something; in fact, I have been remiss, neglectful, deficient in proper respect—”

“So that you decline the invitation?” broke in Repton.

“Not a bit of it; we 're to accept it, man. That's what I cannot comprehend. We are offended, almost outraged, but still we're to submit. Ah, Repton, I'll be really rejoiced when we leave this,—get away from all these petty annoyances and small intriguings, and live amongst strangers!”

“Most patriotically spoken; but I'm not surprised at what you say. Have you made any resolve as to whither you mean to go?”

“No; we have so many plans, that the chances are we take none of them. I 'm told—I know nothing of it myself—but I 'm told that we shall easily find—and in any part of the Continent—the few requirements we want; which are, an admirable climate, great cheapness, and excellent society.”

There was a slight twinkle in Martin's eye as he spoke, as if he were in reality relishing the absurdity of these expectations.

“Was it Kate Henderson who encouraged you to credit this flattering picture?”

“No; these are my Lady's own experiences, derived from a residence there 'when George the Third was King.' As to Kate, the girl is by no means deficient in common sense; she has the frivolity of a Frenchwoman, and that light, superficial tone foreign education imparts; but take my word for it, Repton, she has very fine faculties!”

“I will take your word for it, Martin. I think you do her no more than justice,” said the old lawyer, sententiously.

“And I 'll tell you another quality she possesses,” said Martin, in a lower and more cautious tone, as though dreading to be overheard,—“she understands my Lady to perfection,—when to yield and when to oppose her. The girl has an instinct about it, and does it admirably; and there was poor dear Mary, with all her abilities, and she never could succeed in this! How strange, for nobody would think of comparing the two girls!”

“Nobody!” dryly re-echoed Repton.

“I mean, of course, that nobody who knew the world could; for in all the glitter and show-off of fashionable acquirement, poor Molly is the inferior.”

Repton looked steadfastly at him for several seconds; he seemed as if deliberating within himself whether or not he'd undeceive him at once, or suffer him to dwell on an illusion so pleasant to believe. The latter feeling prevailed, and he merely nodded slowly, and passed the decanter across the table.

“Molly,” continued Martin, with all the fluency of a weak man when he fancies he has got the better of an argument,—“Molly is her father all over. The same resolution, the same warmth of heart, and that readiness at an expedient which never failed poor Barry! What a clever fellow he was! If he had a fault, it was just being too clever.”

“Too speculative, too sanguine,” interposed Repton.

“That, if you like to call it so,—the weakness of genius.”

Repton gave a long sigh, and crossing his arms, fell into a fit of musing, and so they both sat for a considerable time.

“Harry is coming home, you said?” broke in Repton at last.

“Yes; he is tired of India,—tired of soldiering, I believe. If he can't manage an exchange into some regiment at home, I think he 'll sell out.”

“By Jove!” said the old lawyer, speaking to himself, but still aloud, “the world has taken a strange turn of late. The men that used to have dash and energy have become loungers and idlers, and the energy—the real energy of the nation—has centred in the women,—the women and the priests! If I'm not much mistaken, we shall see some rare specimens of enthusiasm erelong. Such elements as these will not slumber nor sleep!”

While Martin was pondering over this speech, a servant entered to say that Mr. Crow was without, and begged to know if he might pay his respects. “Ay, by all means. Tell him to come in,” said Martin. And the words were scarcely uttered when the artist made his appearance, in full dinner costume, and with a certain unsteadiness in his gait, and a restless look in his eyes, that indicated his having indulged freely, without, however, having passed the barrier of sobriety.

“You heard of our arrival, then?” said Martin, after the other had paid his respects, and assumed a seat.

“Yes, sir. It was mentioned to-day at dinner, and so I resolved that, when I could manage to step away, I'd just drop in and ask how her Ladyship and yourself were.”

“Where did you dine, Crow?”

“At the Chief Secretary's, sir, in the Park,” replied Crow, with a mixture of pride and bash fulness.

“Ah, indeed. Was your party a large one?”

“There were fourteen of us, sir, but I only knew three or four of the number.”

“And who were they, Crow?” said Repton, whose curiosity on all such topics was extreme.

“Young Nelligan was one. Indeed, it was through him I was asked myself. Colonel Massingbred was good enough to come over and have a look at my Moses,—a favor I humbly hope you 'll do me, gentlemen, any spare morning; for it's a new conception altogether, and I make the light come out of the bulrushes, just as Caravaggio did with his Lazarus.”

“Never mind Lazarus, Crow, but tell us of this dinner. Who were the others?”

“Well, sir, there was Nelligan and me,—that's one; and Tom Magennis,—two—”

“Our neighbor of Barnagheela?” exclaimed Martin, in amazement.

“The same, sir. I left him there at the port wine, and my word for it, but they 'll not get him away easily, though Father Rafferty will do his best—”

“And was the priest also of the party?”

“He was, sir; and sat at the Colonel's left, and was treated with every honor and distinction.”

“Eh, Martin, am I a true prophet?—answer me that. Has Val Repton foretold the course of events we are entering upon, or has he not?”

“But this is a regular outrage,—an open insult to us!” cried Martin. “Here is a leading member of the Government entertaining the very men who opposed and defeated us,—actually caressing the very party which they enlisted us to crush?”

“This game is within every child's comprehension!” said Repton. “If you, and men of your stamp and fortune, could have secured them a parliamentary majority, they 'd have preferred you. You 'd be pleasanter to deal with, less exacting, more gentlemanly in fact; but as you failed to do this,—as it was plain and clear you had not the people with you,—why, they 've thrown you over without a scruple, and taken into their favor the men who can and will serve them. I don't mean to say that the bargain is a good one,—nay, I believe the price of such aid will be very costly; but what do they care? It is one of the blessings of a representative government that Tories have to pay Whig debts, and Whigs are heirs to Tory defalcations.”

“Were politics discussed at table?” asked Martin, half impatiently.

“All manner of subjects. We had law, and the assizes, and the grand-jury lists, and who ought to be high sheriffs, and who not. And young Massingbred made a kind of a speech—”

“Was he there also?”

“That he was; and did the honors of the foot of the table, and made it the pleasantest place too! The way he introduced a toast to the independent and enlightened electors of Oughterard was as neat a thing as ever I heard.”

“The devil take the whole batch of them!” cried Martin. “To think that I 've spent nearly three thousand pounds for such a set of scoundrels is past endurance. I 'll never set foot amongst them again; as long as I live I 'll never enter that town.”

“Father Neal's own words,” cried Crow. “'We done with Martin forever,' said he. 'This election was his Waterloo. He may abdicate now!'”

“And that sentiment was listened to by the Chief Secretary?” exclaimed Martin.

“If he wasn't deaf he couldn't help hearing it, for we all did; and when I ventured to observe that a country was never the better for losing the patrons of art, and the great families that could encourage a genius, young Massingbred, said, 'Give up Moses, Mr. Crow,—give up Moses, and paint Daniel O'Connell, and you 'll never want admirers and supporters!' And they drowned me in a roar of laughter.”

“I wish my Lady could only hear all this,” said Rep ton, in a whisper to Martin.

“Always provided that I were somewhere else!” answered Martin. “But to be serious, Repton, I 'll hold no intercourse with men who treat us in this fashion. It is absurd to suppose that the Secretary could receive at his table this rabble,—this herd of low, vulgar—”

“Eh—what!” broke in Crow, with an expression of such truly comic misery as made Repton shake with laughter.

“I didn't mean you, Crow—I never thought of including you in such company,—but if these be Colonel Massingbred's guests, I 'll swear that Godfrey Martin shall not be my Lord Reckington's!” And with this bold resolve, uttered in a voice and manner of very unusual firmness, Martin arose and left the room.

“On the whole, then, your party was a pleasant one?” said Repton, anxious to lead Crow into some further details of the late dinner.

“Well, indeed it was, and it was not,” said the artist, hesitatingly. “It was like a picture with some fine bits in it,—a dash of rich color here and there,—but no keeping! no general effect! You understand? I myself took no share in the talk. I never understood it; but I could see that they who did were somehow at cross-purposes,—all standing in adverse lights,—if I may use the expression. Whenever the Colonel himself, or one of the 'swells' of the company, came out with a fine sentiment about regenerated Ireland, happy and prosperous, and so forth, Magennis was sure to break in with some violent denunciation of the infernal miscreants, as he called the landlords, or the greatest curse of the land,—the Law Church!”

“And how did Father Neal behave?”

“With great decorum,—the very greatest. He moderated all Tom's violence, and repeatedly said that he accepted no participation in such illiberal opinions. 'We have grievances, it is true,' said he, 'but we live under a Government able and willing to redress them. It shall never be said of us that we were either impatient or intolerant.' 'With such support, no Government was ever weak!' said the Colonel, and they took wine together.”

“That was very pleasant to see!” said Repton.

“So it was, sir,” rejoined Crow, innocently; “and I thought to myself, if there was only an end of all their squabbling and fighting, they 'd have time to cultivate the arts and cherish men of genius,—if they had them!” added he, after a pause.

“Father Neal, then, made a favorable impression, you 'd say?” asked Repton, half carelessly.

“I'd say, very favorable,—very favorable, indeed. I remarked that he always spoke so freely, so liberally. Twice or thrice, too, he said, 'If the Papists do this, that, or t' other;' and when the Colonel asked whether the Catholics of Ireland submitted implicitly to Rome in all things, he laughed heartily, and said, 'About as much as we do to the Cham of Tartary!'

“'I 'd like to examine our friend there before the Committee,' whispered an old gentleman at the Colonel's right hand.

“'It was the very thing was passing through my own mind at the minute,' said the Colonel.

“'That's exactly the kind of thing we want,' said the old gentleman again,—'a bold, straightforward denial; something that would tell admirably with the House! Present me to your friend, Massingbred!' And then the Chief Secretary said, 'The Member for Strudeham—Mr. Crutch-ley—is very desirous of being known to you, Mr. Rafferty.' And there was great smiling, and bowing, and drinking wine together after that.”

Martin now re-entered the room, and taking his place at the table, sat for some minutes in moody silence.

“Well,” said Repton, “what does my Lady think of your tidings?”

“She says she does n't believe it!”

“Does n't believe that these people dined with Massingbred; that Crow saw them, heard them, dined with them?”

“No, no,—not that,” said Martin, gently, and laying his hand familiarly on Crow's arm. “Don't mistake me; nor don't let Repton play the lawyer with us, and pervert the evidence. Lady Dorothea can't believe that her distinguished relative, the Viceroy, would ever countenance this game; that—that—in fact, we're to dine there, Repton, and see for ourselves! Though,” added he, after a brief pause, “what we are to see, or what we are to do when we 've seen it, I wish anybody would tell me!”

“Then I 'll be that man!” said Repton, with a mock solemnity, and imitating the tone and manner of a judge delivering sentence. “You 'll go from this place to the Lodge, where you 'll be fed 'to the neck,' feasted and flattered, and all your good resolves and high purposes will be cut down, and your noble indignation buried within the precincts of your own hearts!”

And, so saying, he arose from the table and extended his hand to take leave, with all the gravity of a solemn farewell.

“If you could say a word to his Excellency about Moses,” muttered Crow, as he was leaving the room, “it would be the making of me!” But Martin never heeded the appeal; perhaps he never heard it.