“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.