Kitabı oku: «The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II)», sayfa 21

“And is it over?” asked Nelligan, eagerly.

“To be sure it is. Young Massingbred is in, and a nice business it is.”

“Let me inform you, Mr. Crow, before you proceed further – ” broke in Nelligan; but as he got so far, Colonel Massingbred laid his hand on his arm, and said, in a bland but steady voice, “Pray allow the gentleman to continue; his account promises to be most interesting.”

“Indeed, then, that’s what it is not,” said Crow; “for I think it’s all bad from beginning to end.” Another effort to interrupt by Nelligan being repressed by the Colonel, Crow resumed: “Everybody trying to cheat somebody else; the Martins wanting to cheat the borough, the borough wanting to jockey the Martins, and then young Massingbred humbugging them both! And there he is now, Member for Oughterard; and much he cares for them both.”

“Was there a contest, sir?” asked the Colonel, while by a gesture he enforced silence on Nelligan.

“As bitter a one as ever you saw in your life,” continued Simmy, quite flattered at the attention vouchsafed him; “for though the Martins put young Massingbred forward at first, they quarrelled with him before the day for the nomination, – something or other about the franchise, or Maynooth, or the Church Establishment. Sorra one o’ me know much about these matters; but it was a serious difference, and they split about it! And after all their planning and conniving together, what do they do but propose Martin’s son, the man in the dragoons, for the borough! Massingbred bids them do their worst, packs up, sets out for the town, and makes a speech exposing them all! The next morning he comes to the poll, with Joe’s father there, and Peter Hayes, to propose and second him. Martin drives in with three elegant coaches and four, and tries to do the thing ‘grand.’ ‘It’s too late, sir; the people know their power,’ as Father Neal told them; and, upon my conscience, I believe it’s a most dangerous kind of knowledge. At all events, at it they go; and such fighting and murdering nobody ever saw before. There’s not a whole pane of glass in the town, and many a skull cracked as well! One of the wickedest of the set was young Massingbred himself; he ‘d assault the cars as they drove in, and tear out the chaps he thought were his own voters, in spite of themselves. He has the spirit of the devil in him! And then to hear how he harangued the people and abused the aristocracy. Maybe he did n’t lay it on well! To be sure, the Martins drove him to it very hard. They called him a ‘renegade’ and a ‘spy.’ They ransacked everything they could get against his character, and at last declared that he had no qualification, and wasn’t worth sixpence.”

“And how did he answer that?” cried the Colonel, who, fixing his eyes on the other, entirely engaged his attention.

“I ‘ll tell you how he did. Just producing the title-deeds of an estate that old Nelligan settled on him eight days before, – ay, and so well and securely that Counsellor Repton himself, with all his cuteness, could n’t find a flaw in it. Repton said, in my own hearing, ‘That ‘s the cleverest blackguard in Ireland!’”

“Mr. Crow – Crow, I say,” broke in young Nelligan.

“Pray don’t interrupt him,” said the Colonel, in a tone that seemed to demand obedience; “I want to learn by what majority he gained the day.”

“Thirty-eight or thirty-nine; and there’s only two hundred and odd in the borough. There may be, perhaps, a dozen of these to strike off on a petition; but he ‘s all safe after that.”

“And will they petition against his return?”

“They say so, but nobody believes them. His father,” – and here he made a gesture towards Nelligan, – “his father has a strong purse, and will see him well through it all.”

“This is very interesting news to me, sir,” said the Colonel, with another sign to Joseph not to betray him; “for although I could well imagine Jack Massingbred equal to such an occasion as you describe, I was scarcely prepared to hear of the generous confidence reposed in him, nor the prompt and able co-operation of the Liberal party.”

“Ah, I perceive,” said Crow, with a significant motion of his eyebrows. “You thought that his name would be against him, and that people would say, ‘Is n’t he the son of old Moore Massingbred, that took his bribe for the Union?’”

“This is intolerable,” cried Nelligan, starting up from his seat and speaking with all the vehemence of outraged feelings. “It is to Colonel Massingbred himself you have dared to address this impertinence.”

“What – how – what’s this!” exclaimed Crow, in a perfect horror of shame.

“The fault, if there be any, is all mine, sir,” said the Colonel, pressing him down into his seat. “I would not have lost the animated description you have just given me, uttered, as it was, in such perfect frankness, for any consideration; least of all, at the small price of hearing a public expression on a public man’s conduct. Pray, now, continue to use the same frankness, and tell me anything more that occurs to you about this remarkable contest.”

This appeal, uttered in all the ease of a well-bred manner, was quite unsuccessful. Mr. Crow sat perfectly horrified with himself, endeavoring to remember what possible extent of offence he might have been betrayed into by his narrative. As for Nelligan, his shame and confusion were even greater still; and he sat gazing ruefully and reproachfully at the unlucky painter.

Colonel Massingbred made one or two more efforts to relieve the awkwardness of the incident, but so palpably fruitless were the attempts that he desisted, and arose to take his leave. As Joe accompanied him to the door, he tried to blunder out some words of excuse. “My dear Mr. Nelligan,” broke in the other, with a quiet laugh, “don’t imagine for a moment that I am offended. In the first place, your friend was the bearer of very pleasant tidings, for Jack has not condescended to write to me about his success; and secondly, public life is such a stern schoolmaster, that men like myself get accustomed to rather rough usage, particularly at the hands of those who do not know us. And now, as I am very unwilling to include you in this category, when will you come and see me? What day will you dine with me?”

Nelligan blushed and faltered, just as many another awkward man has done in a similar circumstance; for, however an easy matter for you, my dear sir, with all your tact and social readiness, to fix the day it will suit you to accept of an almost stranger’s hospitality, Joseph had no such self-possession, and only stammered and grew crimson.

“Shall it be on Saturday? for to-morrow I am engaged to the Chancellor, and on Friday I dine with his Excellency. Will Saturday suit you?” asked the Colonel.

“Yes, sir, perfectly; with much pleasure,” answered Nelligan.

“Then Saturday be it, and at seven o’clock,” said Massingbred, shaking his hand most cordially; while Joe, with sorrowful step, returned to his chamber.

“Well, I think I did it there, at all events!” cried Simmy, as the other entered. “But what, in the name of all that’s barefaced, prevented your stopping me? Why did n’t you pull me up short before I made a beast of myself?”

“How could I? You rushed along like a swollen river. You were so full of your blessed subject that you would n’t heed an interruption; and as to signs and gestures, I made twenty without being able to catch your eye.”

“I believe I ‘m the only man living ever does these things,” said Simmy, ruefully. “I lost the two or three people that used to say they were my friends by some such blundering folly as this. I only hope it won’t do you any mischief. I trust he ‘ll see that you are not responsible for my delinquencies!”

There was a hearty sincerity in poor Simmy’s sorrow that at once conciliated Nelligan, and he did his best to obliterate every trace of the unhappy incident.

“I scarcely supposed my father would have forgiven Massingbred so easily,” said Joe, in his desire to change the topic.

“Blarney, – all blarney!” muttered Crow, with an expressive movement of his eyebrows.

“Father Neal himself is rather a difficult subject to treat with,” added Joe.

“Blarney again!”

“Nor do I think,” continued Nelligan, “that the constituency of the borough, as a body, are remarkable for any special liability to be imposed on!”

“Nor would they, had it been an Irishman was trying to humbug them,” said Crow, emphatically. “Take my word for it, – and I ‘ve seen a great deal of the world, and perhaps not the best of it either, – but take my word for it, English blarney goes further with us here than all else. It ‘s not that it’s clever or insinuating or delicate, – far from it; but you see that nobody suspects it. The very blunders and mistakes of it have an air of sincerity, and we are, besides, so accustomed always to be humbugged with a brogue, that we fancy ourselves safe when we hear an English accent.”

“There’s some ingenuity in your theory,” said Joe, smiling.

“There’s fact in it; that’s what there is,” said Crow, rising from his seat. “I ‘ll be going now, for I ‘m to dine with Tom Magennis at six.”

“Is he here, too?”

“Yes; and was n’t it a piece of good luck that I did n’t say anything about him before Colonel Massingbred?”

“Why so?”

“Just for this, then, – that it was young Massingbred gave him a letter to his father, recommending him for some place or other. Half of the borough expects to be in the Treasury, or the Post-Office, or the Board of Trade; and I was just on the tip of saying what a set of rapscallions they were. I ‘m sure I don’t know what saved me from it.”

“Your natural discretion, doubtless,” said Joe, smiling.

“Just so; it must have been that!” replied he, with a sigh.

“You’ll breakfast with me to-morrow, Crow, at eight,” said Nelligan, as he parted with him at the door. And Simmy, having pledged himself to be punctual, hurried off to keep his dinner appointment.

CHAPTER XXII. A DAY “AFTER”

The reaction that succeeds to a period of festivity has always an air of peculiar sadness and gloom about it. The day after a ball, the withered flowers, the faded decorations, the disordered furniture, – all tell the tale of departed pleasure and past enjoyment. The afternoon of that morning which has witnessed a wedding-breakfast, – the April landscape of joy and grief, the bridal beauty, and the high-beating hope of the happy lover, have all fled; and in the still and silent chambers there seems to brood a sense of sorrow and mourning. Still with these thoughts happier memories are mingled. The bright pageant of the past rises again before the mind; and smiles and music and laughter and graceful forms come back, and people space with their images. But how different from all this was the day after the election at Cro’ Martin!

For a week had the Martins condescended to derogate from their proud station and “play popular” to the electors of Oughterard. They had opened their most sumptuous apartments to vulgar company, and made guests of those they deemed inferior to their own domestics. They had given dinners and suppers and balls and picnics. They had lavished all the flatteries of attentions on their rude neighbors. They had admitted them to all the privileges of a mock equality, “so like the real article as not to be detected.” They had stored their minds with all the lives and adventures of these ignoble intimates, so as to impart a false color of friendship to their conversation with them; in a word, and to use one by which her Ladyship summed up all the miseries of the occasion, they had “demoralized” more in a week than she believed it possible could have been effected in ten years. Let us be just, and add that my Lady had taken the phrase bodily out of her French vocabulary, and in her ardor applied it with its native signification, – that is, she alluded to the sad consequences of association with underbred company, and not by any means to any inroads made upon her sense of honor and high principle.

Still, whatever pangs the sacrifice was costing within, it must be owned that no signs of them displayed themselves on the outside. Even Repton, stern critic as he was, said that “they did the thing well.” And now it was all over, the guests gone, the festivities ended, the election lost, and nothing in prospect save to settle the heavy outlay of the contest, and pay the high price for that excessively dear article which combines contamination with disappointment.

In her capacity of head of the administration, Lady Dorothea had assumed the whole guidance of this contest. With Miss Henderson as her private secretary, she had corresponded and plotted and bribed and intrigued to any extent; and although Repton was frequently summoned to a council, his advice was very rarely, if ever, adopted. Her Ladyship’s happy phrase – “one ought to know their own borough people better than a stranger” – usually decided every vexed question in favor of her judgment.

It is a strange characteristic of human nature that at no time do people inveigh so loudly against bad faith, treachery, and so on, as when themselves deeply engaged in some very questionable enterprise. Now her Ladyship had so fully made up her mind to win in this contest that she had silenced all scruples as to the means. She had set out with some comfortable self-assurance that she knew what was good for those “poor creatures” infinitely better than they did. That it was her duty – a very onerous and disagreeable one, too – to rescue them from the evil influence of demagogues and such like; and that when represented by a member of her family, they would be invested with a pledge that everything which proper legislation could do for them would be theirs. So far she had the approval of her own conscience; and for all that was to follow after, she never consulted that tribunal. It is not at all improbable that there was little opportunity of doing so in a week of such bustle and excitement. Every day brought with it fresh cares and troubles; and although Kate Henderson proved herself invaluable in her various functions, her Ladyship’s fatigues and exertions were of the greatest.

The day after the election Lady Dorothea kept her bed. The second day, too, she never made her appearance; and it was late in the afternoon of the third that she stole languidly into her library, and ordered her maid to send Miss Henderson to her.

As Kate entered the room, she could not help feeling struck by the alteration that had taken place in her Ladyship’s appearance, who, as she lay back in a deep chair, with closed eyes and folded hands, looked like one risen from a long sick-bed.

As she started and opened her eyes, however, at Kate’s approach, the features assumed much of their wonted expression, and their haughty character was only tinged, but not subdued, by the look of sorrow they wore. With the low and pleasant voice which Kate possessed in perfection, she had begun to utter some words of pleasure at seeing her Ladyship again, when the other interrupted her hastily, saying, —

“I want you to read to me, child. There, take that volume of Madame de Sevigne, and begin where you see the mark. You appear weak to-day, – tired, perhaps?”

“Oh, a mere passing sense of fatigue, my Lady,” said Kate, assuming her place, and preparing her book.

“Chagrin, annoyance – disgust I would call it – are far more wearing than mere labor. For my own part, I think nothing of exertion. But let us not speak of it. Begin.”

And Kate now commenced one of those charming letters, wherein the thought is so embellished by the grace of expression that there is a perpetual semblance of originality, without that strain upon the comprehension that real novelty exacts. She read, too, with consummate skill. To all the natural gifts of voice and utterance she added a most perfect taste, and that nicely subdued dramatic feeling which lends to reading its great fascination. Nearly an hour had thus passed, and not a word nor a gesture from Lady Dorothea interrupted the reader. With slightly drooped eyelids, she sat calm and tranquil; and as Kate, at moments, stole a passing glance towards her, she could not guess whether she was listening to her or not.

“You’d have succeeded on the stage, Miss Henderson,” said she at length, raising her eyes slowly. “Did it never occur to you to think of that career?”

“Once I had some notion of it, my Lady,” said Kate quietly. “I played in a little private theatre of the Duchess’s, and they thought that I had some dramatic ability.”

“People of condition have turned actors, latterly, – men, of course, I mean; for women, the ordeal is too severe, – the coarse familiarity of a very coarse class, the close association with most inferior natures – By the way, what a week of it we have had! I ‘d not have believed any one who told me that the whole globe contained as much unredeemed vulgarity as this little neighborhood. What was the name of the odious little woman that always lifted the skirt of her dress before sitting down?”

“Mrs. Creevy, my Lady.”

“To be sure, – Mrs. Creevy. And her friend, who always came with her?”

“Miss Busk – ”

“Yes, of course; Miss Busk, of the Emporium. If I don’t mistake, I ‘ve given her an order for something, – bonnets, or caps; what is it?”

“A head-dress. Your Ladyship told her – ”

“You ‘ll make me ill, child – positively ill – if you remind me of such horrors. I told you to come and read for me, and you begin to inflict me with what – I declare solemnly – is the most humiliating incident of my life.”

Kate resumed her book, and read on. Lady Dorothea was now, however, unmistakably inattentive, and the changing color of her cheek betrayed the various emotions which moved her.

“I really fancy that Miss Martin liked the atrocious creatures we have received here the past week; she certainly showed them a species of attention quite distinct from mere acceptance; and then they all addressed her like old acquaintance. Did you observe that?”

“I thought that they assumed a degree of familiarity with Miss Martin which was scarcely consistent with their station.”

“Say highly ridiculous, child, – perfectly preposterous; for although she will persist in a style of living very opposite to the requirements of her position, she is Miss Martin, and my niece!”

There was now a dead pause of some seconds. At length her Ladyship spoke: —

“To have been beaten in one’s own town, where we own every stick and stone in the place, really requires some explanation; and the more I reflect upon it, the more mysterious does it seem. Repton, indeed, had much to say to it. He is so indiscreet, – eh, don’t you think so?”

“He is very vain of his conversational powers, my Lady, and, like all clever talkers, says too much.”

“Just so. But I don’t think him even agreeable. I deem him a bore,” said my Lady, snappishly. “That taste for story-telling – that anecdotic habit – is quite vulgar; nobody does it now.”

Kate listened, as though too eager for instruction to dare to lose a word, and her Ladyship went on: —

“In the first place, everybody – in society, I mean – knows every story that can or ought to be told; and, secondly, a narrative always interrupts conversation, which is a game to be played by several.”

Kate nodded slightly, as though to accord as much acquiescence as consorted with great deference.

“It is possible, therefore,” resumed her Ladyship, “that he may have divulged many things in that careless way he talked; and my niece, too, may have been equally silly. In fact, one thing is clear, – the enemy acquired a full knowledge of our tactics, and met every move we made by another. I was prepared for all the violence, all the insult, all the licentious impertinence and ribaldry of such a contest; but certainly I reckoned on success.” Another long and dreary pause ensued, and Lady Dorothea’s countenance grew sadder and more clouded as she sat in moody silence. At length a faint tinge of color marked her cheek; her eyes sparkled, and it was in a voice of more than ordinary energy she said: “If they fancy, however, that we shall accept defeat with submission, they are much mistaken. They have declared the war, and it shall not be for them to proclaim peace on the day they ‘ve gained a victory. And Miss Martin also must learn that her Universal Benevolence scheme must give way to the demands of a just retribution. Have you made out the list I spoke of?”

“Yes, my Lady, in part; some details are wanting, but there are eighteen cases here quite perfect.”

“These are all cottiers, – pauper tenants,” said Lady Dorothea, scanning the paper superciliously through her eyeglass.

“Not all, my Lady; here, for instance, is Dick Sheehan, the blacksmith, who has worked for the castle twenty-eight years, and who holds a farm called Mulianahogue, on a terminable lease.”

“And he voted against us?” broke she in.

“Yes; and made a very violent speech, too.”

“Well, turn him out, then,” said Lady Dorothea, interrupting her. “Now, where ‘s your father? Send for Henderson at once; I ‘ll have no delay with this matter.”

“I have sent for him, my Lady; he ‘ll be here within half an hour.”

“And Scanlan also. We shall want him.”

“Mr. Scanlan will be here at the same time.”

“This case here, with two crosses before it, what does this refer to?” said her Ladyship, pointing to a part of the paper.

“That’s Mr. Magennis, my Lady, of Barnagheela, who has been making incessant appeals for a renewal of his tenure – ”

“And how did he behave?”

“He seconded Mr. Massingbred’s nomination, and made a very outrageous speech on the occasion.”

“To be sure, I remember him; and he had the insolence – the unparalleled insolence – afterwards to address Miss Martin, as she sat beside me in the carriage, and to tell her that if the rest of the family had been like her the scene that had been that day enacted would never have occurred! Who is this Hosey Lynch? His name is so familiar to me.”

“He is a postmaster of Oughterard, and a kind of factotum in the town.”

“Then make a note of him. He must be dismissed at once.”

“He is not a freeholder, my lady, but only mentioned as an active agent of the Liberal party.”

“Don’t adopt that vulgar cant, Miss Henderson, – at least, when speaking to me, They are not – they have no pretensions to be called the Liberal party. It is bad taste as well as bad policy to apply a flattering epithet to a faction.”

“What shall I call them in future, my Lady?” asked Kate, with a most admirably assumed air of innocence.

“Call them Papists, Radicals, Insurgents, – anything, in fact, which may designate the vile principles they advocate. You mentioned Mr. Nelligan, and I own to you I felt ill – positively ill – at the sound of his name. Just to think of that man’s ingratitude, – base ingratitude. It is but the other day his son was our guest here, – actually dined at the table with us! You were here. You saw him yourself!”

“Yes, my Lady,” was the quiet reply.

“I ‘m sure nothing could be more civil, nothing more polite, than our reception of him. I talked to him myself, and asked him something – I forget what – about his future prospects, and see if this man, or his father – for it matters not which – is not the ringleader of this same movement! I tell you, child, and I really do not say so to hurt your feelings, or to aggravate your natural regrets at your condition in life, but I say it as a great moral lesson, – that low people are invariably deceitful. Perhaps they do not always intend it; perhaps – and very probably, indeed – their standard of honorable dealing is a low one; but of the fact itself you may rest assured. They are treacherous, and they are vindictive!”

“Ennis Cafferty, my Lady, who lives at Broguestown,” said Kate, reading from the list, “sends a petition to your Ladyship, entreating forgiveness if he should have done anything to cause displeasure to the family.”

“What did he do? that is the question.”

“He carried a banner inscribed ‘Down with Monopoly!’”

“Mark him for eviction. I’ll have no half measures. Miss Martin has brought the estate to such a pass that we may draw the rents, but never aspire to the influence of our property. These people shall now know their real masters. Who is that knocking at the door? – Come in.”

And at this summons, uttered in a voice not peculiar for suavity, Mr. Henderson entered, bowing profoundly, and smoothing the few glossy hairs that streaked rather than covered his bald head. A momentary glance passed between the father and daughter; so fleeting, however, was it, that the most sharp-eyed observer could not have detected its meaning. Lady Dorothea was too deeply occupied with her own thoughts to waste a second’s consideration on either of them, and promptly said, —

“I want you, Henderson, to inform me who are the chief persons who have distinguished themselves in this outrageous insult to us in the borough.”

Mr. Henderson moved from one foot to the other, once more stroked down his hair, and seemed like a man suddenly called upon to enter on a very unpleasant and somewhat difficult task.

“Perhaps you don’t like the office, sir?” said she, hastily. “Perhaps your own principles are opposed to it?”

“Na, my Leddy,” said he, deferentially, “I ha’ nae principles but such as the family sanctions. It’s nae business o’ mine to profess poleetical opinions.”

“Very true, sir, – very just; you comprehend your station,” replied she, proudly. “And now to my demand. Who are the heads of this revolt? – for it is a revolt!”

“It’s nae sa much a revolt, my Leddy,” rejoined he, slowly and respectfully, “as the sure and certain consequence of what has been going on for years on the property. I did my best, by warning, and indeed by thwarting, so far as I could, these same changes. But I was not listened to. I foretold what it would all end in, this amelearating the condition of the small farmer – this raising the moral standard of the people, and a’ that. I foresaw that if they grew richer they ‘d grow sturdier; and if they learned to read, they’d begin to reflact. Ah, my leddy, a vara dangerous practice this same habit of reflection is, to folk who wear ragged clothes and dine on potatoes!”

“I apprehend that the peril is not felt so acutely in your own country, sir!”

“Vara true, my Leddy; your remark is vara just; but there’s this difference to be remembered: the Scotch are canny folk, and we do many a thing that might n’t be safe for others, but we take care never to do them ower much.”

“I don’t want your philosophizing, sir, about national characteristics. I conclude that you know – it is your duty to know – whence this spirit took its rise. I desire to be informed on this head, and also what measures you have to advise for its suppression.”

Another pause, longer and more embarrassing than the first, followed on this speech, and Mr. Henderson really seemed balancing within himself whether he would or not give evidence.

“Your reluctance has only to go a step further, Henderson, to impress me with the worst suspicions of yourself!” said Lady Dorothea, sternly.

“I ‘m vara sorry for it, my Leddy; I don’t deserve them,” was the calm reply.

Had Lady Dorothea been quick-sighted, she might have detected a glance which the daughter directed towards her father; but she had been more than quick-minded if she could have read its meaning, so strange was the expression it bore.

“In plain words, sir, do you know the offenders? and if so, how can we punish them?”

“Your Leddyship has them all there,” said he, pointing to the list on the table; “but there’s nae sa much to be done wi’ them, as the chief o’ the lot are men o’ mark and means, wi’ plenty o’ siller, and the sperit to spend it.”

“I hear of nothing but defaulters till a moment like this arrives, sir,” said her Ladyship, passionately. “The burden of every song is arrears of rent; and now I am told that the tenantry are so prosperous that they can afford to defy their landlord. Explain this, sir!”

Before Mr. Henderson had completed that hesitating process which with him was the prelude to an answer, the door opened, and Mary Martin entered. She was in a riding-dress, and bore the traces of the road on her splashed costume; but her features were paler than usual, and her lip quivered as she spoke.

“My dear aunt,” cried she, not seeming to notice that others were present, “I have come back at speed from Kyle’s Wood to learn if it be true – but it cannot be true – however the poor creatures there believe it – that they are to be discharged from work, and no more employment given at the quarries. You have n’t seen them, dear aunt – you haven’t beheld them, as I did this morning – standing panic-stricken around the scene of their once labor, not speaking, scarcely looking at each other, more like a shipwrecked crew upon an unknown shore than fathers and mothers beside their own homesteads!”

“It was I gave the order, Miss Martin,” said Lady Dorothea, proudly. “If these people prefer political agitation to an honest subsistence, let them pay the price of it.”

“But who says that they have done so?” replied Mary. “These poor creatures have not a single privilege to exercise; they have n’t a vote amongst them. The laws have forgotten them just as completely as human charity has.”

“If they have no votes to record, they have voices to outrage and insult their natural protectors. Henderson knows that the worst mobs in the borough were from this very district.”

“Let him give the names of those he alludes to. Let him tell me ten – five – ay, three, if he can, of Kyle’s Wood men who took any share in the disturbances. I am well aware that it is a locality where he enjoys little popularity himself; but at least he need not calumniate its people. Come, sir, who are these you speak of?”

Kate Henderson, who sat with bent-down head during this speech, contrived to steal a glance at the speaker so meaningful and so supplicating that Mary faltered, and as a deep blush covered her cheek, she hastily added: “But this is really not the question. This miserable contest has done us all harm; but let us not perpetuate its bitterness! We have been beaten in an election, but I don’t think we ought to be worsted in a struggle of generosity and good feeling. Come over, dear aunt, and see these poor creatures.”