The Martins Of Cro' Martin, Vol. I (of II). Lever Charles James
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?”
“I hope you are better, sir?” said Lady Dorothea, in an admirable blending of grand benevolence and condescension.
“Infinitely better; supremely happy, besides, to have become the object of your Ladyship’s kind inquiries,” said the little man, sitting up, and looking around with a very ghastly effort at urbanity and ease.
“I never knew Fang to bite any one,” said Mary.
“Does n’t she, by jingo!” exclaimed the artist, who with difficulty caught himself in time before he placed his hand on the supposed seat of his injuries.
“She shall be muzzled in future,” said Lady Dorothea, haughtily, repressing the familiar tone of the discussion.
“I think – indeed, I feel sure – I could get her in from memory, my Lady; she ‘s a very remarkable creature, and makes an impression on one.” As he uttered these words ruefully, he lifted from the floor the fragment of his coat-skirt, and gazed mournfully at it.
“I suppose we must suspend proceedings,” said Lady Dorothea; “though really it is a pity to lose the opportunity of Miss Martin’s presence, – an honor she so very rarely accords us.”
“I think after a few minutes or so, my Lady, I might feel equal,” said Mr. Crow, rising and retreating to a wall with a degree of caution that showed he entertained grave fears as to the state of his habiliments, – “I might feel equal, if not exactly to delineate Miss Martin’s Classic features, at least to throw in – ”
“I could n’t think of such a thing; I should be wretched at the idea of engaging your attention at such a moment,” said Mary, with a carelessness that contrasted strongly with her words; while she added, with earnestness, “Besides, I ‘m not sure I could spare the time.”
“You see, sir,” said her Ladyship to the artist, “you have to deal with a young lady whose occupations are like those of a Premier. The Duke of Wellington can vouchsafe a sitting for his portrait, but Miss Martin cannot spare the time for it.”
“Nay, Aunt Dorothy, if I were the Duke of Wellington I should do as he does. It is being Mary Martin, whose picture can have no interest for any one, enables me to follow the bent of my own wishes.”
“Humility is another of her perfections,” said Lady Dorothea, with a look that but too palpably expressed her feeling towards her niece.
As Mary was assisting her uncle to get rid of some of his superfluous draperies, neither of them overheard this remark; while Mr. Crow was too deeply impressed with his own calamities to pay any attention to it.
“Mr. Scanlan has been very anxious to see you, uncle,” whispered Mary in his ear. “He has something of importance to communicate about the borough.”
“Can’t you manage it yourself, Molly? Can’t you contrive somehow to spare me this annoyance?”
“But you really ought to hear what he has to say.”
“I perceive that Miss Martin has a secret of moment to Impart to you; pray let me not trouble the interview by my presence,” said Lady Dorothea. And she swept haughtily out of the room, throwing a most disdainful glance at her husband as she went.
“There, by George! you’ve secured me a pleasant afternoon, at all events!” said Martin, angrily, to his niece, as throwing off the last remnant of his regal costume, he rushed out, banging the door passionately behind him.
Mary sat down to compose her thoughts in quiet, for Mr. Crow had previously made his escape unobserved; and truly there was need of some repose for her agitated and wearied faculties. Her uncle’s dependence upon her for everything, and her aunt’s jealousy of the influence she had over him, placed her in a position of no common difficulty, and one of which every day seemed to increase the embarrassment. For a moment she thought she would have preferred a life of utter insignificance and obscurity; but as suddenly it occurred to her, “What had I been without these duties and these cares? For me there are few, if any, of the ties that bind other girls to their homes. I have neither mother nor sister; I have none of the resources which education suggests to others. My mind cannot soar above the realities that surround me, and seek for its enjoyments in the realms of fancy; but, perhaps, I can do better,” said she, proudly, “and make of these same every-day materials the poetry of an actual existence.” As she spoke, she threw open the window, and walked out upon the terrace over the sea. The fishermen’s boats were all standing out from shore, – a tiny fleet, whose hardy crews had done no discredit to the proudest three-decker. Though the heavy gale of the morning had gone down, it still blew fresh, and a long rolling swell thundered along in-shore, and sent a deep booming noise through many a rocky cavern. High above this deafening clamor, however, rose the hearty cheers of the fishermen as they detected Mary’s figure where she stood; and many a tattered rag of showy bunting was hoisted to do her honor. Never insensible to such demonstrations, Mary felt at the moment almost overpowered with emotion. But a moment back and she bewailed her isolation and friendlessness; and see, here were hundreds who would have resigned life in her behalf. Still, as the boats receded, the wind bore to her ears the welcome sounds; and as she heard them, her heart seemed to expand and swell with generous thoughts and good wishes, while along her cheeks heavy tears were rolling.
“What need have I of other friends than such as these?” cried she, passionately. “They understand me, and I them; and as for the great world, we are not made for each other!”
“My own sentiments to a ‘T,’ miss,” said a soft, mincing voice behind her; and Mary turned and beheld Mr. Crow. He had arrayed himself in a small velvet skull-cap and a blouse, and stood mixing the colors on his palette in perfect composure. “I ‘m afraid, Miss Martin, there ‘s an end of the great ‘Historical.’ Your uncle will scarcely be persuaded to put on the robes again, and it’s a downright pity. I was getting a look of weariness – imbecility I might call it – into his features that would have crowned the work.”
“I don’t think I ever knew what your subject was!” said she, half indolently.
“The Abdication of Charles V., Miss Martin,” said he, proudly. “This is the fourteenth time I have depicted it; and never, I am bound to say, with more favorable ‘studies.’ Your uncle is fine; my Lady gorgeous; I don’t say what I ‘d like of another lovely and gifted individual; but even down to that old rogue of a butler that would insist on taking snuff through the bars of his helmet, they were all grand, miss, – positively grand!” Seeing that she appeared to bestow some attention to him, Mr. Crow went on: “You see, miss, in the beginning of a great effort of this kind there is no progress made at all. The sitters keep staring at one another, each amused at some apparent absurdity in costume or attitude; and then, if you ask them to call up a look of love, hate, jealousy, or the like, it’s a grin you get, – a grin that would shame a hyena. By degrees, however, they grow used to the situation; they ‘tone down,’ as one might say, and learn to think less of themselves, and be more natural. It was sheer fatigue, downright exhaustion, and nothing else, was making your uncle so fine; and if he could have been kept on low diet, – I did n’t like to mention it, though I often wished it, – I ‘d have got a look of cadaverous madness into his face that would have astonished you.”
By this time Mr. Crow had approached his canvas, and was working away vigorously, the action of his brush appearing to stimulate his loquacity. Mary drew near to observe him, and insensibly felt attracted by that fascination which the progress of a picture invariably possesses.
“This