A burst of passionate indignation rose to her lips, but she turned away without a word, and re-entered the wood in silence.
“Yes,” cried she, to herself, “it is, indeed, a new existence is opening before me; let me strive so to control my temper, that I may view it calmly and dispassionately, so that others may not suffer from the changes in my fortune.”
She no sooner reached the house than she despatched a note to Mr. Scanlan, requesting to see him as early as possible on the following morning. This done, she set herself to devise her plans for the future,—speculations, it must be owned, to which her own hopeful temperament gave a coloring that a colder spirit and more calculating mind had never bestowed on them.
CHAPTER XXVIII. HOW MR. SCANLAN GIVES SCOPE TO A GENEROUS IMPULSE
It is a remark of Wieland's, that although the life of man is measured by the term of fourscore years and ten, yet that his ideal existence or, as he calls it, his “unacted life,” meaning thereby his period of dreamy, projective, and forecasting existence, would occupy a far wider space. And he goes on to say that it is in this same imaginative longevity men differ the most from each other, the poet standing to the ungifted peasant in the ratio of centuries to years.
Mr. Maurice Scanlan would not appear a favorable subject by which to test this theory. If not endowed with any of the higher and greater qualities of intellect, he was equally removed from any deficiency on that score. The world called him “a clever fellow,” and the world is rarely in fault in such judgments. Where there is a question of the creative faculties, where it is the divine essence itself is the matter of decision, the world will occasionally be betrayed into mistakes, as fashion and a passing enthusiasm may mislead it; but where it is the practical and the real, the exercise of gifts by which men make themselves rich and powerful, then the world makes no blunders. She knows them as a mother knows her children. They are indeed the “World's own.”
We have come to these speculations by contemplating Mr. Scanlan as he sat with Mary Martin's open letter before him. The note was couched in polite terms, requesting Mr. Scanlan to favor the writer with a visit at his earliest convenience, if possible early on the following morning. Had it been a document of suspected authenticity, a forged acceptance, an interpolated article in a deed, a newly discovered codicil to a will, he could not have canvassed every syllable, scrutinized every letter, with more searching zeal. It was hurriedly written; there was, therefore, some emergency. It began, “Dear sir,” a style she had never employed before; the letter “D” was blotted, and seemed to have been originally destined for an “M,” as though she had commenced “Miss Martin requests,” etc., and then suddenly adopted the more familiar address. The tone of command by which he was habitually summoned to Cro' Martin was assuredly not there, and Maurice was not the man to undervalue the smallest particle of evidence.
“She has need of me,” cried he to himself; “she sees everything in a state of subversion and chaos around her, and looks to me as the man to restore order. The people are entreating her to stay law proceedings, to give them time, to employ them; the poorest are all importuning her with stories of their sufferings. She is powerless, and, what's worse, she does not know what it is to be powerless to help them. She'll struggle and fret and scheme, and plan fifty things, and when she has failed in them all, fall back upon Maurice Scanlan for advice and counsel.”
It was a grave question with Scanlan how far he would suffer her persecutions to proceed before he would come to her aid. “If I bring my succor too early, she may never believe the emergency was critical; if I delay it too long, she may abandon the field in despair, and set off to join her uncle.” These were the two propositions which he placed before himself for consideration. It was a case for very delicate management, great skill, and great patience, but it was well worth all the cost. “If I succeed,” said he to himself, “I'm a made man. Mary Martin Mrs. Scanlan, I 'm the agent for the whole estate, with Cro' Martin to live in, and all the property at my discretion. If I fail,—that is, if I fail without blundering,—I 'm just where I was. Well,” thought he, as he drove into the demesne, “I never thought I'd have such a chance as this. All gone, and she alone here by herself: none to advise, not one even to keep her company! I'd have given a thousand pounds down just for this opportunity, without counting all the advantages I have in my power from my present position, for I can do what I like with the estate,—give leases or break them. It will be four months at least before old Repton comes down here, and in that time I'll have finished whatever I want to do. And now to begin the game.” And with this he turned into the stable-yard, and descended from his gig. Many men would have been struck by the changed aspect of the place,—silence and desolation where before there were movement and bustle; but Scanlan only read in the altered appearances around the encouragement of his own ambitious hopes. The easy swagger in which the attorney indulged while moving about the stable-yard declined into a more becoming gait as he traversed the long corridors, and finally became actually respectful as he drew nigh the library, where he was informed Miss Martin awaited him, so powerful was the influence of old habit over the more vulgar instincts of his nature. He had intended to be very familiar and at his ease, and ere he turned the handle of the door his courage failed him.