The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II). Lever Charles James

there is probably no cause for fear.”

      “I’ll just do so, then, Miss Mary; but at the same time I ‘d have you to understand that I ‘m taking a responsibility on myself that his Lordship never gave me any warrant for, and that there is not another – ” Mr. Scanlan stopped, but only in time; for, whether it was the fervor in which he uttered these words, or that Miss Martin anticipated what was about to follow, her cheek became scarlet, and a most unmistakable expression of her eyes recalled the worthy practitioner to all his wonted caution. “The matter is this, Miss Martin,” said he, with a degree of deference more marked than before, “Lord Kilmorris is dissatisfied with the way your uncle supported him at the last election. He complains of the hard conditions imposed upon him as to his line of conduct in the House; and, above all, he feels insulted by a letter Lady Dorothea wrote him, full of very harsh expressions and hard insinuations. I never saw it myself, but that’s his account of it, – in fact, he’s very angry.”

      “And means to throw up the borough, in short,” broke in Mary.

      “I’m afraid not, Miss Mary,” said the other, in a half whisper.

      “What then? – what can he purpose doing?”

      “He means to try and come in on his own interest,” said Scanlan, who uttered the words with an effort, and seemed to feel relief when they were out.

      “Am I to understand that he would contest the borough with us?”

      Scanlan nodded an affirmative.

      “No, no, Mr. Scanlan, this is some mistake, – some misapprehension on your part. His Lordship may very possibly feel aggrieved, – he may have some cause, for aught I know, – about something in the last election, but this mode of resenting it is quite out of the question, – downright impossible.”

      “The best way is to read his own words. Miss Martin. There’s his letter,” said he, handing one towards her, which, however, she made no motion to take.

      “If you won’t read it, then, perhaps you will permit me to do so. It’s very short, too, for he says at the end he will write more fully to-morrow.” Mr. Scanlan here muttered over several lines of the epistle, until he came to the following: “I am relieved from any embarrassment I should have felt at breaking with the Martins by reflecting over the altered conditions of party, and the new aspect politics must assume by the operations of the Emancipation Act. The old ways and traditions of the Tories must be abandoned at once and forever; and though Martin in his life of seclusion and solitude will not perceive this necessity, we here all see and admit it. I could, therefore, no longer represent his opinions, since they would find no echo in the House. To stand for the borough I must stand on my own views, which, I feel bold to say, include justice to both of the contending factions.”

      “Admirably argued,” broke in Mary. “He absolves himself from all ties of gratitude to my uncle by adopting principles the reverse of all he ever professed.”

      “It’s very like that, indeed, Miss Mary,” said Scanlan, timidly.

      “Very like it, sir? it is exactly so. Really the thing would be too gross if it were not actually laughable;” and as she spoke she arose and paced the room in a manner that showed how very little of the ludicrous side of the matter occupied her thoughts. “He will stand for the borough – he means to stand in opposition to us?”

      “That’s his intention – at least, if Mr. Martin should not come to the conclusion that it is better to support his Lordship than risk throwing the seat into the hands of the Roman Catholics.”

      “I can’t follow all these intrigues, Mr. Scanlan. I confess to you, frankly, that you have puzzled me enough already, and that I have found it no small strain on my poor faculties to conceive a gentleman being able to argue himself into any semblance of self-approval by such sentiments as those which you have just read; but I am a poor country girl, very ignorant of great topics and great people. The best thing I can do is to represent this affair to my uncle, and as early as may be.”

      “I hope he’ll not take the thing to heart, miss; and I trust he ‘ll acquit me– ”

      “Be assured he’ll despise the whole business most thoroughly, sir. I never knew him take any deep interest in these themes; and if this be a fair specimen of the way they are discussed, he was all the wiser for his indifference. Do you make any stay in the village? Will it be inconvenient for you to remain an hour or so?”

      “I’ll wait your convenience, miss, to any hour,” said Scanlan, with an air of gallantry which, had she been less occupied with her thoughts, might have pushed her hard to avoid smiling at.

      “I’ll be down at Mrs. Cronan’s till I hear from you, Miss Mary.” And with a look of as much deferential admiration as he dared to bestow, Scanlan took his leave, and mounting to his box, assumed the ribbons with a graceful elegance and a certain lackadaisical languor that, to himself at least, appeared demonstrative of an advanced stage of the tender passion.

      “Begad, she’s a fine girl; devil a lie in it, but she has n’t her equal! and as sharp as a needle, too,” muttered he, as he jogged along the shingly beach, probably for the first time in his whole life forgetting the effect he was producing on the bystanders.

      CHAPTER V. A STUDIO AND AN ARTIST

      “Is my uncle in the library, Terence?” asked Mary of a very corpulent old man, in a red-brown wig.

      “No, miss, he’s in the – bother it, then, if I ever can think of the name of it.”

      “The studio, you mean,” said she, smiling.

      “Just so, Miss Mary,” replied he, with a sigh; for he remembered certain penitential hours passed by himself in the same locality.

      “Do you think you could manage to let him know I want him – that is, that I have something important to say to him?”

      “It’s clean impossible, miss, to get near him when he’s there. Sure, is n’t he up on a throne, dressed out in goold and dimonds, and as cross as a badger besides, at the way they’re tormenting him?”

      “Oh, that tiresome picture, is it never to be completed?” muttered she, half unconsciously.

      “The saints above know whether it is or no,” rejoined Terence, “for one of the servants told me yesterday that they rubbed every bit of the master out, and began him all again; for my Lady said he was n’t half haggard enough, or worn-looking; but, by my conscience, if he goes on as he ‘s doing, he ought to satisfy them.”

      “Why, I thought it was Henderson was sitting,” said Mary, somewhat amused at the old man’s commentaries.

      “So he was; but they rubbed him out, too; for it seems now he ought to be bald, and they ‘ve sent him into Oughter-ard to get his head shaved.”

      “And what were you, Terry?”

      “Arrah, who knows?” said he, querulously. “At first I was to be somebody’s mother that was always cryin’; but they weren’t pleased with the way I done it; and then they made me a monk, and after that they put two hundredweight of armor on me, and made me lean my head on my arm as if I was overcome; and faith, so I was; for I dropped off asleep, and fell into a pot of varnish, and I ‘m in disgrace now, glory be to God! and I only hope it may last.”

      “I wish I shared your fortune, Terry, with all my heart,” said Mary, with some difficulty preserving her gravity.

      “Couldn’t it catch fire – by accident, I mean, miss – some evening after dark?” whispered Terry, confidentially. “Them ‘s materials that would burn easy! for, upon my conscience, if it goes on much longer there won’t be a sarvant will stay in the sarvice. They had little Tom Regan holding a dish of charcoal so long that he tuk to his bed on Friday last, and was never up since; and Jinny Moore says she ‘d rather lave the place than wear that undacent dress; and whist, there’s murder goin’ on now inside!” And with that the old fellow waddled off with a speed that seemed quite disproportionate to his years.

      While Mary was still hesitating as