“Well, what then?”
“As to the dealing with Maurice Scanlan, sir,” said he, making a great effort. “There's the whole question in one word.”
“I don't see that there can be any grave obstacle against that. You know the property.”
“Every acre of it.”
“You know how you'd like your advance to be secured to you—on what part of the estate. The conditions, I am certain, might be fairly left in your own hands; I feel assured you'd not ask nor expect anything beyond what was equitable and just.”
“Mr. Massingbred, we might talk this way a twelvemonth, and never be a bit nearer our object than when we began,” said Scanlan, resolutely. “I want two things, and I won't take less than the two together. One is to be secured in the agency of the estate, under nobody's control whatever but the Martins themselves. No Mister Repton to say 'Do this, sign that, seal the other.' I 'll have nobody over me but him that owns the property.”
“Well, and the other condition?”
“The other—the other—” said Scanlan, growing very red—“the other, I suppose, will be made the great difficulty—at least, on my Lady's side. She 'll be bristling up about her uncle the Marquis, and her half-cousin the Duke, and she'll be throwing in my teeth who I am, and what I was, and all the rest of it, forgetting all the while where they 'll be if they reject my terms, and how much the most noble Viceroy will do for her when she has n't a roof over her head, and how many letters his Grace will write when she has n't a place to address them to,—not to say that the way they're treating the girl at this very moment shows how much they think of her as one of themselves, living with old Catty Broon, and cantering over the country without as much as a boy after her. Sure, if they were n't Pride itself, it's glad they might be that a—a—a respectable man, that is sure to be devoted to their own interests forever, and one that knows the estate well, and, moreover than that, that doesn't want to be going over to London,—no, nor even to Dublin,—that doesn't care a brass farthing for the castle and the lodge in the park,—that, in short, Mr. Massingbred, asks nothing for anybody, but is willing to trust to his industry and what he knows of life—There it is now,—there's my whole case,” said he, stammering, and growing more and more embarrassed. “I haven't a word to add to it, except this: that if they'd rather be ruined entirely, left without stick or stone, roof or rafter in the world, than take my offer, they 've nothing to blame but themselves and their own infernal pride!” And with this peroration, to deliver which cost him an effort like a small apoplexy, Maurice Scanlan sat down at the table, and crossed his arms on his breast like one prepared to await his verdict with a stout heart.
At last, and with the start of one who “suddenly bethought him of a precaution that ought not to be neglected,” he said,—“Of course, this is so far all between ourselves, for if I was to go up straight to my Lady, and say, 'I want to marry your niece,' I think I know what the answer would be.”
Although Massingbred had followed this rambling and incoherent effort at explanation with considerable attention, it was only by the very concluding words that he was quite certain of having comprehended its meaning. If we acknowledge that he felt almost astounded by the pretension, it is but fair to add that nothing in his manner or air betokened this feeling. Nay, he even by a slight gesture of the head invited the other to continue; and when the very abrupt conclusion did ensue, he sat patiently, as it were revolving the question in his own mind.