"How are you, Scanlan?" said Martin, as the attorney came, bowing and smiling, forward to pay his respects. "My friend, Mr. Repton, wishes to make your acquaintance."

"I have the honor of being known to Mr. Repton, already, sir, if he has not forgotten me."

"Eh,--how? where?" cried the lawyer, sharply.

"In Reeves _versus_ Dockery, and another, sir, in Hilary, 24. It was _I_ supplied the instructions--"

"To be sure,--perfectly right. Maurice Scanlan; isn't that the name?

You did the thing well, sir; and if we failed, we retreated without dishonor."

"That was a grand shot you fired at the Bench, sir, when all was over,"

said Scanlan. "I don't suppose they ever got such a complete 'set down'

before."

"I forget it," said Repton, but with a bright twinkle of his eye, which more than contradicted his words.

"Then, sir, it's more than their Lordships ever will," said Scanlan.

"The Chief Baron it was," said he, addressing Martin, "that overruled every objection made by Counsellor Repton, and at last declared that he would n't hear any more citations whatsoever. 'But I have a stronger case still, my Lord,' says the Counsellor. 'I 'll not hear it, sir,'

said the Court. 'It is in Crewe and Fust, Term Reports, page 1,438.'

"'I don't care where it is, sir,' was the answer.

"'In a charge delivered by Lord Eldon--'

"'Oh, let us hear my Lord Eldon,' said Plumridge, the Puisne Judge, who was rather ashamed of the Chief Baron's severity. 'Let us hear my Lord Eldon.'

"'Here it is, my Lords,' said the Counsellor, opening the volume, and laying his hand upon the page,--'Crewe and Fust's Pleas of the Crown, page 1,438. My Lord Eldon says, "I may here observe the Courts of Law in Ireland are _generally_ wrong! The Court of Exchequer is _always_ wrong!"'"

Repton tried to smother his own delighted laugh at the reminiscence, but all in vain; it burst from him long and joyously; and as he shook Scanlan's hand, he said, "The incident loses nothing by your telling, sir; you have done it admirable justice."

"You make me very proud, indeed, Counsellor," said Scanlan, who really did look overjoyed at the speech.

"Have you any news for us, Scanlan?" said Martin, as they entered the library.

"Yes, sir; the Ministry is out."

"We know that already, man!"

"And the Marquis of Reckington comes here as Lord-Lieutenant."

"That we know also."

"Colonel Ma.s.singbred to be Chief Sec--"

"Moore Ma.s.singbred!" cried both, in a breath.

"Yes, sir; he that was a Treasury Lord."

"Are you quite sure of this, Scanlan?" asked Martin.

"I had it from Groves, sir, at the Castle, yesterday morning, who told me there would be an immediate dissolution, and showed me a list of Government candidates."

"You may talk them all over together, then," said Martin, "for I 'm heartily tired of politics this morning." And so saying, he left them.

CHAPTER XIX. A STUDIO

It is one of the most inestimable privileges of Art, that amidst all the cares and contentions of the world, amidst strife and war and carnage, its glorious realm is undisturbed, its peace unbroken, and its followers free to follow their own wayward fancies, without let or hindrance.

Your great practical intelligences, your men of committees and corn and railroads and ship-ca.n.a.ls, sneer at the fict.i.tious life--for so does it seem to them--of the mere painter or musician. They have a sort of pitying estimate for capacities only exercised upon the ideal, and look down with a very palpable contempt upon those whose world is a gallery or an orchestra. After all, this division of labor is a wise and happy provision, carrying with it many and varied benefits, and making of that strange edifice of mankind a far more pleasing and harmonious structure than we should otherwise have seen it. The imagination is to the actual, in the world of active life, what flowers are to nutritious herbs and roots. It is the influence that adorns, elevates, and embellishes existence. That such gifts have been confided to certain individuals is in itself a sufficient evidence, just as we see in the existence of flowers that pleasure has its place a.s.signed in the grand scheme of creation, and that the happiness which flows from gratified sense has not been denied us.

In that petty world which lived beneath the roof of Cro' Martin Castle, all the eager pa.s.sions and excitements of political intrigue were now at work. My lady was full of plans for future greatness; Repton was scheming and suggesting, and thwarting everybody in turn; and even Martin himself, engulfed in the "Maelstrom" of the crisis, was roused into a state of semi-preparation that amounted to a condition of almost fever. As for Ma.s.singbred, whatever he really did feel, his manner affected a most consummate indifference to all that went forward; nor did the mention of his father's appointment to high office elicit from him anything beyond a somewhat contemptuous opinion of the new party in power. While, therefore, secret counsels were held, letters read and written, conferences conducted in every room, one little s.p.a.ce was devoid of all these embarra.s.sments and anxieties, and that was an oval chamber, lighted from the top, and originally destined for a summer ball-room, but now appropriated to Mr. Crow's use for the completion of the Grand Historical, which had lately been transferred from Kilkieran to its place there.

The unlucky masterpiece was doomed to many a difficulty. The great events in prospect had totally banished all thought of "art" from Lady Dorothea's mind. The fall of a recent administration was a far more imminent circ.u.mstance than the abdication of a king a few centuries back. Martin, of course, had enough on his head, without the cares of mock royalty. Mary was overwhelmed with occupations. The floods and a threatened famine were casualties not to be overlooked; and she was absent every day from dawn to late night; while, to complete the list of defaulters, young Nelligan--the future Prince of Orange of the picture--was gone!

Men deplore their past youth, their bygone buoyancy of heart, their old loves and extinct friendships; but of all departed pleasures, there is a peculiar poignancy about one, and that is an artist's grief over a "lost sitter." You ladies and gentlemen whose thumbs have never closed on a palette, nor whose fingers have never felt the soft influence of varnish, may smile at such a sorrow, but take my word for it, it is a real and tangible affliction.

The waving locks, the n.o.ble brow; the deep square orbits, and the finely cut chin are but the subtle suggestions out of which inspirations are begotten, and poetic visions nurtured. The graceful bearing and the n.o.ble port, the tender melancholy or the buoyant gladness, have each in turn struck some chord of secret feeling in the artist's breast, revealing to him new ideas of beauty, and imparting that creative power which displays itself in new combinations.

Poor Simmy Crow was not a t.i.tian nor a Vand.y.k.e, but unhappily the sorrows of genius are very often experienced by those who are not gifted with its greatness; and the humble aspirant of excellence can catch every malady to which the triumphant in all the wild enthusiasm of his powers is exposed. He sat down before his canvas, as some general might before a fortified town which had resisted all his efforts of attack. He was depressed and discouraged.

The upper part of the young student's head was already half finished, and there was enough done to impart a kind of promise of success,--that glorious vista which opens itself so often in imagination to those whose world is but their own fancy. He half thought he could finish it from memory; but before he had proceeded many minutes, he laid down the brush in despair. It seemed like a fatality that something must always interpose to bar the road to success. One time it was sickness, then it was poverty; a disparaging criticism had even done it; and now, when none of these threatened, there arose a new impediment. "Ah! Simmy, Simmy," he exclaimed aloud, "you were born under an unkindly planet.

That's the secret of it all!"

"I confess I cannot concur in that opinion," said a low, soft voice behind him. He started up, and beheld Kate Henderson, who, leaning on the back of a chair, continued to gaze steadfastly at the canvas, perfectly regardless of his astonishment. "There is a great deal to admire in that picture!" said she, as though talking to herself.

Simmy crept stealthily back, and stationed himself behind her, as if to hear her remarks, while viewing the picture from the same point.

"You have grouped your figures admirably," continued she, now addressing him, "and your management of the light shows a study of Rembrandt."

"Very true, ma'am--miss, I mean. I have copied nearly all his great pieces."

"And the drapery--that robe of the King's--tells me that you have studied another great master of color--am I right, sir, in saying Paul Veronese?"

Simmy Crow's face glowed till it became crimson, while his eyes sparkled with intense delight.

"Oh, dear me!" he exclaimed, "is n't it too much happiness to hear this?

and only a minute ago I was in black despair!"

"Mine is very humble criticism, sir; but as I have seen good pictures--"

"Where? In the galleries abroad?" broke in Crow, hurriedly.

"All over Germany and Italy. I travelled with those who really cared for and understood art. But to come back to yours--that head is a n.o.ble study."

"And that's exactly what I'm grieving over,--he's gone."