“Indeed she is, sir; and a pretty story there is about it, too. Miss Busk knows it all,” said Mrs. Cronan.
“I have it in confidence, ma'am, from Jemima Davis,—Lady Dorothea's second maid; but I don't think it a fit subject for public conversation.”
“And ain't we in committee here?” chimed in Bodkin; “have we any secrets from each other?” The racy laugh of the old fellow, as he threw a knowing glance around the table, rather disconcerted the company. “Let's hear about Henderson's daughter.”
“The story is soon told, sir. Lady Dorothea detected her endeavoring to draw young Martin into a private marriage. The artful creature, by some means or other, had obtained such an insight into the young man's difficulties that she actually terrorized over his weak mind. She discovered, too, it is suspected, something rather more than indiscretions on his part.”
A long low whistle from the priest seemed to impart a kind of gratified surprise at this announcement.
“He had got into a habit of signing his name, they say; and whether he signed it to something he had no right to, or signed another name by mistake—”
“Oh, for shame,” broke in Bodkin; “that wouldn't be one bit like a Martin.”
“Perhaps you are acquainted with all the circumstances better than myself, sir?” said Miss Busk, bristling up with anger. “Maybe you 've heard how the Henderson girl was turned away out of the French duke's family,—how she was found in correspondence with the leaders of the mob in Paris? Maybe, sir, you are aware that she has some mysterious hold over her father, and he dares not gainsay one word she says?”
“I don't know one word of it; and if it wasn't thought rude, I'd say I don't believe it, either,” said Bodkin, stoutly.
“I believe the worst that could be said of her,” said Mrs. Clinch.