“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 to what she should do, the door suddenly opened, and a man in a mediaeval costume rushed out, tugging after him a large bloodhound, whose glaring eyeballs and frothy mouth betokened intense passion. Passing hurriedly forward, Mary beheld Lady Dorothea bending over the fainting figure of a short little man, who lay on the floor; while her uncle, tottering under a costume he could barely carry, was trying to sprinkle water over him from an urn three feet in height.
“Mr. Crow has fainted,—mere fright, nothing more!” said Lady Dorothea. “In stepping backward from the canvas he unluckily trod upon Fang's paw, and the savage creature at once sprung on him. That stupid wretch, Regan, one of your favorites, Miss Martin, never pulled him off till he had torn poor Mr. Crow's coat, clean in two.”.
“Egad, if I had n't smashed my sceptre over the dog's head the mischief wouldn't have stopped there; but he 's coming to. Are you better, Crow? How do you feel, man?”