“I suppose we must conclude it is, for he says nothing to the contrary; and Mr. Repton writes me what he calls 'my instructions,' in a way that shows his own feeling of indignation about the whole business.”
Mary was silent; there was not a sentiment which could give pain that had not then its place in her heart. Commiseration, deep pity for the sorrows she was to witness unavailingly, wounded pride, insulted self-esteem,—all were there! And she turned away to hide the emotions which overcame her. For a moment the sense of self had the mastery, and she thought but of how she was to endure all this humiliation. “Am I,” said she to her own heart,—“am I to be insulted by the rivalry of Scotch stewards and gardeners, to be thrust from my place of power by some low-born creature, not even of the soil, but an alien?—to live here bereft of influence, representing nothing save the decay of our fortunes?” The torrent of her passion ran full and deep, and her bosom heaved in the agony of the moment. And then as suddenly came the reaction. “How small a share is mine in all this suffering, and how miserably selfish are even my sorrows! It is of others I should think!—of those who must leave hearth and home to seek out a new resting-place,—of the poor, who are to be friendless,—of the suffering, to whom no comfort is to come,—of the old, who are to die in distant lands,—and the young, whose hearts are never to warm to the affections of a native country!”
While affecting to arrange the papers in his pocket-book, Scanlan watched every passing shade of emotion in her face. Nor was it a study in which he was ignorant; the habits of his calling had made him a very subtle observer. Many a time had he framed his question to a witness by some passing expression of the features. More than once had he penetrated the heart through the eye! The elevation of sentiment had given its own character to her handsome face; and as she stood proudly erect, with arms folded on her breast, there was in her look and attitude all the calm dignity of an antique statue.
Scanlan interpreted truthfully what passed within her, and rightly judged that no small sentiment of condolence or sympathy would be appropriate to the occasion. Nor was he altogether unprovided for the emergency. He had seen a king's counsel warm up a jury to the boiling-point, and heard him pour forth, with all the seeming vehemence of an honest conviction, the wildest rhapsodies about desecrated hearths and blackened roof-trees,—talk of the spoiler and the seducer,—and even shed a tear “over the widow and the orphan!”
“What say you to all this, sir?” cried she. “Have you any counsel to give me,—any advice?”
“It is just what I have not, miss,” said he, despondingly; “and, indeed, it was uppermost in my heart this morning when I was writing my letter. What 's all I 'm suffering compared to what Miss Martin must feel?”
“What letter do you allude to?” asked she, suddenly.
“A letter I wrote to Mr. Repton, miss,” said he, with a deep sigh. “I told him plainly my mind about everything; and I said, 'If it 's for exterminating you are,—if you 're going to turn out families that were on the land for centuries, and drive away over the seas, God knows where, the poor people that thought the name of Martin a shield against all the hardships of life, all I have to say is, you must look elsewhere for help, since it is not Maurice Scanlan will aid you.'”
“You said all this, sir?” broke she in, eagerly.
“I did, miss. I told him I 'd hold the under-agency till he named some one to succeed me; but that I 'd not put my hand to one act or deed to distress the tenants. It 's giving up,” said I, “the best part of my means of support; it's surrendering what I reckoned on to make me independent. But a good conscience is better than money, miss; and if I must seek out a new country, I 'll go at least without the weight of a cruel wrong over me; and if I see one of our poor Western people beyond seas, I 'll not be ashamed to meet him!”